Saturday, 26 September 2009
Negativity is bad for your health
Friday, 18 September 2009
Black and White - Peeping at the surface
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Sewing With My Grandmother
The crisp, clean piece of white cloth was handed to me with quiet reverence. I let it pass through my hands feeling its properties, the starched stiffness of a new project barely embarked on. Around the edges it was finished with lace trim much softer than the main fabric, delicate to the touch. The sensual rub of the lace pattern delicately dancing across my fingertips.
To one corner I noticed the transferred design boldly infringing on the stark perfection of the fabric. The bold blue lines seemed clumsy and intrusive against the elegance of the lace. Remembering my purpose I looked up to my grandmother.
Her face was lit half with amusement and half with impatience as she held out two rings in her hands waiting for me to take them. I took the white one first. The cold hard plastic was strange to the touch, its outer edge concave. I carefully placed the ring beneath the fabric meticulously lining it up so the transfer was in the centre.
I reached for the second ring. It was dusky peach in colour and completely unlike the first. It had the consistency of rubber, flopping comically in my hand. I noticed with some confusion that there was a small brass ring attached to its side glinting slightly in the sun filtering through the lacy net curtains.
I pushed the second ring over the first as I had been shown, trying to keep the material taut. It was messily done and I had to straighten it out before my grandmother noticed the imperfect ripples over the fabric. I lifted it to the light with my chubby childhood fingers marvelling at my success in the first task, which would one day enable me to create masterpieces like my grandmothers.
My hand dropped and I started to fidget on the sofa, the soft sheen navy fabric clinging to my legs in the warmth of the room. I fingered the space next to me where the large peacock stared back out at me through its fabric prison.
My stomach lurched as the lesson began.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Growing pains
Monday, 7 September 2009
Dickensian Boy
A smile thins his lips
momentarily disturbing the route
of a glinting spoon piled
with cereal.
A bowl balances the scene
jauntily held
in statement more than purpose.
He glides into the classroom
to an open desk
in simulated nonchalance,
discarding the bowl noiselessly
on the Formica surface.
An exhibit in a freak show
created to obscure
a mundane life.
Out of our time he floats among us
long enough
to assert his oddball brilliance
without a hint of irony
in his sunken eyes and glib persona.
He scries oratory delights on
crinkled scraps of paper tied together
with a blue shoelace.
He vanishes when not in our midst,
delving the depths of obscurity,
hands buried in patched pockets
of a gentleman’s blazer.
Hunched against the tide of modernity.
An over intellectualized ghost
of a personality hiding behind
his clever words and witty rhetoric.
This poem is based on a purely fictional character. Any resemblance to a person living or dead is coincidental and unintended!!