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"It is only in appearance that time is a river. It is rather a vast landscape and it is the eye of the beholder that moves." -Thornton Wilder, “God how we get our fingers in each other's clay." - Ray Bradbury, her tundra lies shunned, In Between Days, Instinct two owl, mapped, shapes shifting, soft touch, the loving landscape
I feel the last two lines of this one set the whole piece ablaze.
There’s a link to more through her name.
Well played Geraldine. nods
Breaking her fast – Geraldine Clarkson
after Rosemary Tonks
My spirit broke her fast on you,
rubbed morsels to numb lips
that day we met; sipped at glances
shared at sundown, that first day.
When we stumbled into private smiles,
she nibbled them like haws
till juice dribbled on my chin.
When you called me by a pet-name
of my own, she savoured its aroma,
tongued its vowels; made it me.
Your accidental touch made her crest mountains
to cool her craving; shun tundra
where you were not.
And when our shapes pressed one against the other—
bonding in a public place—
not even the milk moon, streaming,
could slake the cracking Africa of her desire.
You only kissed me once —and that
in fond farewell—but my spirit
grapples manfully with the memory, still;
takes it bloody to a corner, pulps
its gristle in her teeth; finds the quick.
Great piece!
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Isn’t it? I’m glad you agree nanaoyz.
Esme smiling upon the Cloud
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You and your pervy poetry 😛
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It’s the only reason you visit. That and the free cake.
-Esme shoving a custard pie in his face upon the Cloud
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I enjoyed reading this 😊
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I’m really pleased to hear that Poetpas. – beams a smile back his way
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I love ‘You only kissed me once – and that in fond farewell’. Really got me, that.
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The whole tale sits within it.
Esme nodding upon the Cloud
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That’s how it is. At one point one woman could walk in to a room, touch my arm, walk out and I would think of nothing else all day.
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There’s something quite unique in that kind of thinking.
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Well Esme, we out in the long lost colonies of America, use the “Trump Method” when we grab “. . . the cracking Africa of her desire”.
Sure there may be lawsuits but our “. . . spirit grapples manfully with the memory”!
Cheers from Tubularsock
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I see there’s no pussyfooting about when it comes to poem reviews with you Tubular.
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Gritty perversion that brings more than just a smile.
Good stuff Esme. 💕
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Well they only brushed accidently bodily and shared a somewhat chaste goodbye kiss, so I’m not sure it’s that perverted Val laughs a lot. Then again, it’s the imagination that goes along with it all isn’t it. And on her part there was more to it all in that arena it seems. nods
“that brings more than just a smile.” – Oh yes? What more? Something a bit pervy I hope.
Glad you enjoyed it Val, thank you for the visit.
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… home to perversity since 1647? Pray, what happened then?
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Esme was born in this dimension of course.
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The Africa of one’s desire. This is perfect.
The fiber optics of my desire, also good. Is poetry supposed to broaden one’s mind?
(My mind is, unfortunately, shot; nevertheless, the occasional synapse gives me pleasure, particularly in the void between neurons, where magic is said to occur)
Has Esme recovered after falling off the top balcony of a 7-story building? (I was so sad to hear)
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“Is poetry supposed to broaden one’s mind?” – Broaden, lengthen, slipped over a pie dish and crimped, then slowly fed through a mangle whose rollers are made from African Blackwood.
Thank you for the enquiry regarding my bones and tendons dear Prospero, recovery is slow and involves much in the way of shouting ribald curses and most language gets a tad fruity, however the awareness that things could have been much worse lingers and distracts some. I really must learn to bounce better.
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I was so sad to hear that you had fallen off the Eiffel Tower and hurt your calcaneal tendon–but not surprised: high places are the Achilles heel of those who live in clouds, n’est ce pas?
And for those who must know: Esme, as a baby, was held by one heel and dipped to an inkwell by a merchant banker. All of Esme was blue-black, imagine that, save her heel. (True story).
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It’s true, all of it. Here’s the footage Rosie took of esme’s inglorious dscent;
“All of Esme was blue-black, imagine that, save her heel” – after some extensive scrubbing I’ve now faded to a rather fetching shade of purple though.
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I love the brutality of that clip. Much better than Last Year at Marienbad.
Purple is good.
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This is definitely unique writing. ‘Cracking Africa.’ ‘… my spirit grapples manfully’ and this from a woman. One day I’ll share some of my passion poetry with you – it’s somewhere lost on my blog 😉 Until then, dear esme, I know you will carry on ❤
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Yes, it’s got teeth. – nods.
I’d love to read some of your passion poetry Bela, get the spade out eh? – laughs
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❤ ❤ ❤
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Me too!
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Fine work, intense. Dangerous desire. Just when we thought we were in control of our life. I recommend snacking.
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Yes indeed. I second that (e) motion Hariod. – smiles
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The fortunate well placed final word — quick — tumbled the key for me: the undead’s word for the living. By gosh by golly, I read it again for that singular — quick — and cascaded along each delicate and indelicate allusion/alliteration. A fine and exhausting romp indeed ❤ and :-), esme!
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Gifts the two of them sir — a heart and a smile, and accepted warmly upon the Cloud they are too. – smiles – I’m pleased you enjoyed it. So much poetry just sits on the page, I need my favourites to grab me by the fast ankle before I walk away.
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So much happening on the cloud;)
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It’s a bit haphazard round these parts, ‘stuff’ all over the show, as you can see from my categories – laughs – I try to keep it in hand, but sometimes it’s fun to let loose too. Huge appreciation for all the time taken at the Cloud Elena, thank you again. ❤
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