"shallot" poems
THE GENTLEMAN OF SHALLOT
Come Spring...
I paint my little room
all yellow
fill it with
daffodils & jonquils
drag in a giant
mirror
(left in the back yard)
so large
it takes up
all the wall
giving the illusion
of another room
as if my room
were now not so
small.
Sometime the trompe d'oeil
fools even me
& I walk into
the imaginary room.
'Ouch! '
my reflection shouts!
Come Spring...
...came you!
(totally unexpected)
& my playing with
perspective
hath you enthralled.
I'd catch you
catching your
reflection observing you
observing
the mirror couple
as they
mimiced us
watching our every
more
you thought it so
sensual
or could pretend to be
at a small ****
when it was only
us
again
&
again.
Bodies of flesh & blood
bodies of glass.
You breathe
upon the mirror
tracing our names
with a fingertip
fragile words
made of breath
'...this love...will last...! '
***
When we break
up
the mirror
stayed intact
except for a jagged
lightning crack
& now it was I
who watched
like a gentleman of Shallot
the couple
in the mirror
(the ghosts of
memory)
making love
bodies of flesh
& blood
bodies
of
glass.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
The way I expressed it didn’t fully
Make sense to my dearest
Who only likes men.
I’ve never prescribed to the scrutiny
Eyes of jocks eyeing us as they do p*rn.
I used to see red as a fad that
had past and a warning that I’m
Not desired;
Nor will be, no matter my try.
But I’m realizing now,
Want is deeper than thou who have
wanted me only in theory.
Fruity or trans, and the girlfriend
I have, each is queer and there’s something more in it:
Queers see women the same way
they view art pieces;
So I’ve always been Venus and Ophelia,
The Lady of Shallot— not some
acquiescent cool-girl
who’ll answer your questions of
p*bic hair and fair children.
Where a woman I knew
sees a woman as through
some man’s eyes focused on her bre*sts—
I cut a fringe for the change,
And remain soft in shape
For these are a lover’s desires:
Wear your identity on your sleeve,
In the curve of your arm, on the scent of your hair and upon the pendant at your neck.
Like the romantics do in literature;
After de-centering men,
You can finally be free.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 12:06 AM UTC
Bougainvilleas line the house, dedicated, stoic sentinels
Ivy has replaced mortar as the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling
The windows have no glass,
But the rain is kept at bay by the gossamer webs of kind spiders.
Inside there is no furniture – only paper tomes
She sits on a pile of high school textbooks
Her table, stacks of hard cover crime novels
Her bed, a nest of magazines
There is no fridge or pantry – she doesn’t eat
But she is not starving
She devours books, has become fat on them
A varied diet: science and science fiction,
Fantasy, history, politics, philosophy
And to nourish her soul – poetry.
She doesn’t remember her name
But it doesn’t matter
She is Beowulf, Boudicca, Odysseus
Dorian Grey, the Lady of Shallot,
She is both Hero and Leander
She never leaves,
But she knows that the world is turning
The sparrows in the gable tell her so
And she doesn’t need it, no
She smiles, cries, and falls in love over and over
With the turn of each page
Her fingers have transformed into ink stains
She has lived a thousand and one lives
She holds them all inside her
She makes them live, and they keep her alive -
This is a dream that I once had.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
May the moth not care,
Towards the light.
May the flower refuse to blossom,
In springtime.
May the rise of a full moon,
Not urge the wolf to howl.
May the smell of fresh blood,
Not make the lion prowl.
May the moon not,
Direct the tides.
May the Lady of Shallot,
Not look at the Knight.
May I not be afraid,
Of a long forgotten feel.
May the sight of you not rekindle,
The old fire, my hearts ordeal.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
drain full of peelings
broken plunger & unwashed dishes
drops sprinkle from the sky
yesterday hail
leached peas and golfballs cracked
hitting windows
perhaps reflection
back to the hills
to find freshness somehow
crusts too old to chew the grains
birds quiet in the autumnal wash
preparing for another outing of art
therapy.
ginger, shallot, chilli & chicken
rice later
something for the blood which
pumps & beats & never stops
till words release and a
semblance of peace arrives
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
She looks up to the mirrored glass
She sees a handsome horse and rider pass
She say, 'That man's gonna be my death
'Cause he's all I ever wanted in my life
And I know he doesn't know my name
And that all the girls are all the same to him
But still I've got to get out of this place
'Cause I don't think I can face another night
Where I'm half sick of shadows
And I can't see the sky
Everyone else can watch as the tide comes in
So why can't I?
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
Ophelia enters, playing the lute
to share a song that she wrote
about being sick to death of being good
but keeps hitting the wrong note.
The Lady of Shallot is mute.
She has been since she failed to float
but she etched her song into the wood
that made up her grave and her boat.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
forever floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
always floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM
"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.
The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot
from her facebook
friends.
She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.
The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.
A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh
for microwave.
She clicks Like.
Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real
world
the big bad world
that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.
She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"
What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!
A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"
"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.
"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."
the Youtube video
instructs her.
She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.
It's so hard to be
a fictional character
in a modern world
that's gone digital.
She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.
She falls asleep on the couch.
The cat perches on top of her head.
In her dream she is
forever floating...floating
"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"
It's always the same dream.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC