The Firebowl
My garden awakens;
buds and blossoms are peeking
the tender air hums and whirrs
with hungry bees that grapple
with fragile rims of
white comfrey bells.
Author: Beathag
Artist, poet, druid, Faversham-dweller.
The worst thing I think I have ever done
Here is my confession
of a memory I cannot shake
I ended lives
that were not mine to take
Conversations avec moi-même
When I am alone, sometimes
I speak to myself in French
and when I do, I’m new –
exotique
Wild Horses
I have been artist, singer, dancer
I have spun stories and held gatherings rapt
I have served wonder on platters
I have lived on the edges and spoken with the fungi
I have crowed bear-breasted at the moon
I have writhed with breathless passion
and have grieved with utter abandon
Swiss Cheese Plant
Bathed in window-light
jauntily proffering green hearts
on sticks
Sídhe
She is coming, can’t you hear her? Can’t you feel the tingle, the goose-pimples? She is gathering momentum, gushing over the black waters of the angry estuary, searing through the marshes, belly torn ragged by the dried winter grasses.
Read MoreThe Blind Photographer
He doesn’t see me
standing by his side,
each alone together.
I am entirely his;
now it’s everything else
he wants to capture
For the Love of Schiele
This is typical me. I decide I need to go deeper on a subject, and then I take a big tangent – go off-topic and get a bit lost there… For the sake of some drawing exercises, I copied a drawing by Egon Schiele. I had first been confronted by Schiele’s work as a schoolgirl […]
Read MoreLeaving Facebook
This poem needs a little introduction. I’m two weeks in to a 30-day Facebook fast. Having realised that I have no ability to focus on any task for longer than an hour without having to check Facebook (serving as a distraction or as avoidance of difficult, deep work that I need to do), I knew that I needed to tackle my addiction head on.
Read MoreReawakening my curiosity
I feel like I am awakening from some kind of creative stupor – a miasma of intellectual apathy that has been softly suffocating my creative curiosity. Granted, the poetry has flowed more generously for me, but I was floundering on what to do with my pencils and paints.
Read More