My blood evacuates
sliding through the pores of my skin, red pearls
the atoms inside spun out, glittering,
to kiss pure darkness, to taste light
after the cornucopia had crescendo-ed in the western corner
and hedonist hawks* flew into the sun
packs of she wolves convened under the moon
sung of solace so superb
echoed across my mauve dreamscape
Queen Lunar turned her face
but not her back
blew out the stars, so my sleep walk
would be unhindered by the spikes of their sparkles
no diamond points to prick my feet
to bleed my mark on destiny pre-named
Zena Edwards©
* somebody who favours the use of military force in the implementing of foreign policy rather than diplomatic solutions
Monday, 11 October 2010
Friday, 6 August 2010
sleeping
i do not feel beautiful while you sleep
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good
i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them
whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning
I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good
i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them
whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning
I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too
Bebé del Carnaval
I was at Burgess Park last weekend a the Latin festival - Carnaval del Pueblo. I had my camera. My new camera bought because I had lost my voice for 5 solid weeks. I discovered how hungry the eyes are for food and how fickle they are - always searching for the next new scoop, the story that will curb the cravings. When I got home, they unfurled themselves to me like cheeky strippers, like lucky dips and silent constellations.
My first photo blog. Click pic for full effect.
My first photo blog. Click pic for full effect.
Her hair is the earth, brown, deep
rich with mineral, a forest
of brand new thought
wind whipped into an ice cream quiff
she nips the familiar arm that cradles her
with gummy jaws, so sensitive, tasting
salt and tracings of some body spray
pursing lips that would speak purity
into jaded eyes that would break
tears imprisoning
any heart: shatter, tinkle - music
her own eyes focus on the resonance of voices
hears the emotion behind the guise of words -
she is that attuned
And one day her hair will fall the height of a great mountain
along her back, ripped from flexing, from wrestling
with the devil
cushioned by the fatty comfort of prayer
a woman's contours emanate
a softness, a gentleness
that cannot be hidden no matter how arduous
the game
because the woman that holds her
will not let her fall, holds herself
in a grip of a mirror gaze
remembering her own innocence
laced with vanilla and her mothers magnolia plants
this newness that tugs on her hair
to know its texture, wizened
with disappointments and loss , washed
laced with vanilla and her mothers magnolia plants
this newness that tugs on her hair
to know its texture, wizened
with disappointments and loss , washed
with accepting, forgiving,
another new beginning
hair meets hair
and the hum of the festival bumps on
hair meets hair
and the hum of the festival bumps on
Poem written by Zena Edwards copyright Aug 2010
Thursday, 7 January 2010
A photo of a girl
there is a photo of a girl
12, 13, slim wrists long neck
she walks wearing peach with blue flip flops
stepping with a familiarity over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at number 5
she seek protection from a gentle rain falling from the African sky
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
behind her, between the giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows
belligerent belches of acridity in to sky
when I put my ear close to the photo I can hear her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem in her step
it is the sound of every day people
who live with pipelines like tapeworms
sucking the placenta and excreting
toxic into the bloodstream of nation
the rivers are graveyards
the wetlands, thirsty for clean breath
the land is hemorrhaging
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
eye her as she walks by,
a generation numbed by the futility of existence
it is ironic that their most valuable asset becomes their Achilles heel
the idleness of youth fervent for action
dumps them in the hands of ak47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
of their masters - myopic mad men in business
all grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
greed at the price of a village
but then again everything has it’s price in the world
like this girl with the poetry in her step, the poisonous air
in her lungs is a currency
as is her mothers sludge garden and her fathers chest
face and shoulders burned in the last accident
the truth is a jealous but patient thing
it bide no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
there is only one fragrance that it harbours
time, the scent of time moves from freshness, to death
to rot, to the fertilization of new days
it is between the pages of a day in court
that a mystery of can be solved
why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with a knife of lies
how the spirits of the tortured and murdered
can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal greed
and how with the wondrous alchemy of nature
instead of the bitter bile rising to the mouth of the fisherman and the farmer
works songs will rise over the trees,
will dance with the fish along the creeks
will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
and how the poem of the girl in blue flip flops,
can be fetched from under the fattened rump of human disregard
and used to re-imagine the world
how she can close the umbrella with the yellow shell on it
and walk in the unpolluted rain falling from an African sky
12, 13, slim wrists long neck
she walks wearing peach with blue flip flops
stepping with a familiarity over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at number 5
she seek protection from a gentle rain falling from the African sky
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
behind her, between the giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows
belligerent belches of acridity in to sky
when I put my ear close to the photo I can hear her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem in her step
it is the sound of every day people
who live with pipelines like tapeworms
sucking the placenta and excreting
toxic into the bloodstream of nation
the rivers are graveyards
the wetlands, thirsty for clean breath
the land is hemorrhaging
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
eye her as she walks by,
a generation numbed by the futility of existence
it is ironic that their most valuable asset becomes their Achilles heel
the idleness of youth fervent for action
dumps them in the hands of ak47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
of their masters - myopic mad men in business
all grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
greed at the price of a village
but then again everything has it’s price in the world
like this girl with the poetry in her step, the poisonous air
in her lungs is a currency
as is her mothers sludge garden and her fathers chest
face and shoulders burned in the last accident
the truth is a jealous but patient thing
it bide no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
there is only one fragrance that it harbours
time, the scent of time moves from freshness, to death
to rot, to the fertilization of new days
it is between the pages of a day in court
that a mystery of can be solved
why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with a knife of lies
how the spirits of the tortured and murdered
can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal greed
and how with the wondrous alchemy of nature
instead of the bitter bile rising to the mouth of the fisherman and the farmer
works songs will rise over the trees,
will dance with the fish along the creeks
will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
and how the poem of the girl in blue flip flops,
can be fetched from under the fattened rump of human disregard
and used to re-imagine the world
how she can close the umbrella with the yellow shell on it
and walk in the unpolluted rain falling from an African sky
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