Her Secret

This secret of ours. Shall we throw it to the wind?

And follow the trail, to where it all began.

I could not bear it if time were to stop here and no one knew,

What a moon eats that makes it so full.

Shall I tell or will you?

Or should we build another maze,

Intricate enough only for whispers.

Keep quiet! Don't breathe

So our faces grow red.

Red eyes could mean so many things.

Laugh suddenly, its mine to spend as I choose

For you I can spare some at midnight.

And sadness what of it?

Except when we try to catch a second but its too quick for us.

Fill Time up, and take a sip, roll it on your tongue,

words flow from her, even when Time is bitter.

Secrets are meant to be told on summer days she said

But winter came so suddenly, lasted too long.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Inspired by Christina Rossetti's(Fascinating, Beautiful, Manic Depressive Victorian Poet) poem "Winter:My Secret". Here's a link to her secret...

http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=2981

Image after image inside image...

First; "Lines":

She runs on my television screen - while two neat black lines
Follow her, precisely hiding what we must ignore.

Simple mathematics in a glass building shows that it would be easy
For us to imagine her without breasts. A woman without a vagina.

Hideous but in better taste, after all the news does come at dinner time.

How bad can we feel when neat lines divide her body and numb our pain.

No she wasn't born with those lines, and when the boots were kicking her those lines
Did not exist, the boots weren't dented. They only came later for easy money and to protect
Our drawing room conscience from hurting too much.

Second; "Cameras"

Mute stone men, catching the moment on cheap phone cameras
Like reciting the story of her humiliation to a blind man - except he can clearly see the things he wishes to.
City street full of them - drowning out her scream in their manic silence as they watch.
After she was dragged down, the cameras decide on an encore.

Third; "The Voice"

Remorseless speech, though certainly apologetic about the damage to cars and shops.
"Unfortunate" incident, "undivided" we shall always remain. Inquiries. Justice. Woman - who?
Nudity is a bad thing for our children to see back home.
Men on the other hand can strip who they choose - anger is best let out.

We shine much like our country. Moving onto other news. Sell me the camera again. Move on to someones success.

Fourth; "Image"

Slow it down to a walk, so I may forget that there was an image this evening of a half woman
running for help into nobodies arms.


-A peaceful protest on a street of guwahati (assam) turned violent. an adivasi woman was stripped naked, chased after, kicked repeatedly on her breasts and vagina and paraded down the street.This news played over and over again with a caption on the top right of the screen saying "Shame", while Assam's chief minister was heard in the background calling the incident "unfortunate" and still saying that "they remain undivided". i don't know the woman's name - the journalists reporting the incident did not think it necessary to say.

Night City

We decided after we'd finished doing what we did best, A walk. Late, long walk. And this is what we found...

...The night is born of another light. Bastard city. More exotic in its loneliness.

What is it about the night that we have feared so long?

Like intruding upon someone else's set - dogs disapprove, while some
have had better experiences with us. Blue tents, lit up on an empty road, huddled.
We stop to look, eavesdrop on two people snoring. But how lit up - like a gypsy abode.

We arrived at the palace of god, to find him locked up in a cage, giving the housekeeping a piece of his mind.
Cold night, cold floor as our foreheads pay in obeisance for a midnight snack and congratulations.

On further contemplation we discover that the night is feared because there are people out there taking care of us. Like ghosts they appear and we know this fear of not belonging, of hiding in the darkest spot.

Then from no where a two wheeled chariot appears, riders seeking to be heroes for one night - even a token would take them off towards the moon, if only we had something to say like "Help!"

Men dressed in secrets walk past us as though making for home. Would dinner await them? Or even a careless gesture to say welcome. I think they must have dreams in the songs floating above us.

We who belong to pavements of early morning, while they spill laughter on these streets without any concern for the price.

At the station where half-men-women leave at an unearthly hour. Escaping to a newer dream. Lipstick just a little smudged on the right side of the upper-lip. Mirrors could help but why must they try?

Coffee, and fake food numb us. We are the spotlight. Alone and happy, still have what we started with. Time flew on and again another familiar city takes over these figures. And we all go back - circus like into our tricycles of morning, noon and night...

Untitled (or Orgasm)

In a simple revealing way I love you.

Still as dust suspended in the sun - waiting to leave the room.

I know your message will come for me

In the morning, like tea and newspapers.

Sending me further into the blur of blankets.

Then when it really shall be you when I awake,

Euphoric I will be a cat purring...

(In the vacuums under the sheets, spaces for you to fill, things no one says; you do.

I want to make dedications at this point. Give a glorious speech to no one in particular.

Stretch it - forever isn't elastic enough. Can poetry be in sound and the time it takes for us to get there? Little stories unfolding in a big world, winter mornings spent dancing to music that makes little sense amidst all things sensible? Or a book on a shelf, waiting to be read...)

...This could be a simple thing if I knew how to be honest.

Longing For Greece; Yesterday

"Blue Window's Woman" by Braddy Romero Ricalde

In a silent way we're all flowing On medium wave. At times electrocuted with sausages frying in oil Music comes to us, slowly from far away. Not as strong as the sound of writing In front of a window, into which the blueness of the ocean is reflected. And the sun will be over us when we go for walks all by ourselves. Or even on picnics by the sea.

Can we remain unchanged? Can nothing ever hurry us? That we remain patient forever about the things life will bring. Gifts of pain, or sorrow, even gifts of stars and morning We may forget living here now, today will sink in some distant horizon. But the sight, of songs, of insanity and childhood and conversation will stay in our minds.

Clay Song

Idol maker...

Sculpt me into many bodies,

in love and despair, I will speak to you in my clay voice.

When you've finished these patterns you're making on my hand

I will touch you on the deepest night and bring you a gift of tranquility.

Your desires are new like the smell of my thirst quenched in the first rains

Your fears I know, when the flood-gates open and I hold on to nothing - that slipping away feeling.

I shall belong to the earth you stand on when you're tired of running

Pick me from my stillness and let me be the birth of an idea.

Walk in fields where I live cared for by the sweat of women and songs

of children when they first understand the beauty of freedom.

Imagine me in twilight, when all is lost, and you have to let me go

Throw me to ether and I shall travel through many stories once more.

Follow the voice of the dust storm then, and when it tires of raving and ranting

I shall be there as Morning.

Take this clay and start again,

to make me.

Dancers

You always led, and she followed,
That is how you taught her to dance.

She believed you when you said,
her life was important - in silence and perfect china, she'd find meaning.

She tried her best to make you smile,
you felt like a "man" and she believed that was all that mattered.

Then one day you left her. Her feet don't know how to move, oblivious that they once had chosen their own maps. She shakes with every step, unsure, laughed at, alone and apologetic.

What do you have to say for yourself?

Looking...

"Objects in Drawers"

by Nick Bantock

Manchild,

I look for you hurriedly in the many faces of the city

random faces tucked behind windows.

"Objects in drawers" in an artist's mind. I sift through them all, wishing i'd find that,

which i had seen only yesterday, but now, oh how it has disappeared like one which is

kept away carefully and never found again.

"If Only We Didn't Have To Go"

At this place where loves are lost and found,
I claimed yours.

The wind carries your restrain
As if you were never here but at a sheperd's hut
Where I walked only yesterday.

And Remorse is a pattern I'm beginning to draw, for
keeping this time too long
would only be
Like painting a perfect sky, blue.

Don't speak of it then because words
will only wrong all the rights of this quiet equation
Silence will do; if you don't know how then
Listen to the mountains say nothing...