Tuesday 27 December 2011

to mark the turn of the year

I am enjoying studying Wide Sargasso Sea with all  its complexities  but it leaves little time to write poetry. However, the creative side of my brain still ticks and as we move towards another year, this short poem is to mark the approach of 2012

As the New Year Approaches

Tonight I threw my dreams up
into the air, where they bounced
between the stars.
Later they will come down, meteorlike
to make sense of my chaos -
for I will cradle in my hands, a piece
of the galaxy,
as I go about my daily life.

Friday 2 December 2011

Article

Just written my first proper article which I intend to submit for a competition - let's see how it fares.
Just a quick vignette to keep the poet in me alive


ragged shadows float to the ground
as a dragon rips the clouds apart;
and in the silence
I go down to the sea to weep
for only there do my tears seem small.

First essay on Antigone submitted. Now immersed in Jean Rhys - colonialism, and national identity. The subject of naming is intriguing me. Maybe a poem in that.

Thursday 10 November 2011

another dark poem!

My younger daughter always questions me as to why I write such dark poems when I am a happy person! The answer is that sometimes they just happen! This one came when I saw my own shadow but felt it had its own form apart from me.


shadows bleed over my feet and into
my heart , as I walk the path home.

grey shapes seep around me
as fears  take form -
they accompany  me, face me,
below, in front,
in the cracked spaces.
I see them.
as they vanish,
reappearing  in different places
caught between the fading light .
Somewhere they are real,
 I could touch them,
suck them in and taste them
as they chill my veins.

A sudden light, a curtain opens
and they are gone; only I know
they are there - always behind me
they have strangled my own shadow
and taken its place,
inseparable,
engorging
me.

Wednesday 2 November 2011

interconnectedness

So I am now doing a taught Masters in English through the OU and loving it! Antigone and intertextuality , translation and diaspora here we come! But in my journey I am coming across such interesting connections and here is one I want to capture. In studying what Paz has to say about translation he illustrates with a poet whose  inherent experiences  bleed into the new text - he cites Wallace Stevens and his lines of poetry resonated with me immediately, Then I was looking at Twitter as is my wont at the moment and I followed a link to Christopher Reid, ex editor of Faber and Faber who has a new book coming out in February, In an article about him, his old tutor at Oxford said that he learned about Wallace Stevens from the young undergraduate Reid. Here is Reid's description of poets like Stevens - " they write about reality but in slightly fantasised and disguised terms. There was a metaphorical and allegorical inventiveness in them "
It is strange how someone else's words come to you just when you are seeking them - that is how I would describe my style and indeed I wish I had had them in my pocket when I was asked at the Poetry Library fair what kind of poetry I write! Fascinating connections!

Wednesday 19 October 2011

paris review

I should be working but got distracted reading a really good interview with Julian Barnes, now winner of the Booker Prize after being on the short list four times.

Julian Barnes, The Art of Fiction No. 165 Paris Review 2000


Worth a read as to what literature means to him and his attitude to writing.

Thursday 6 October 2011

National poetry day 2011

National Poetry Day today and I am so immersed in my first week of the Masters that I haven't written a poem for a while.
Let me offer  this one to mark the day.

The hands of the clock
melt , dripping down
into the pool of my tears
turning clear waters into inky dark.
Time disintegrates as I watch
the veil between two realities torn.
Yesterday, the hours were safe
minute by minute,  ticking
 invisibly  in our love.
But now, there is no time
no beating heart
regulating my soul.

I am studying the concept of intertextuality and wonder whether this thread of thought ties in with my favourite writer Virginia Woolf,  - her concept of streams of consciousness and her playing with the absolutes of Time in Orlando.

Sunday 25 September 2011

seeing in between the spaces

I have just read a paper on" influence" for the OU and I have a wry smile at the poem below. In this I give the merest of nods to Allen Ginsberg's brilliant poem "Howl," and also to the poems of a friend of mine who taught me to see the spaces between reality and unreality.



Do you dream of me?
Last night I dreamt, again, of you -
the kind of dream that shivers
between imagination and reality.
Maybe our dreams, tinged by the rose
of dawn, will embrace
 hovering in that magical space
 where we compose our  lives.

Where truth blends seamlessly
across boundaries, unlimited by reality;
where desire soars and hands reach out
unshackled from the cuffs of conscience;
where a thousand blind eyes watch the fire
 of passion igniting our  minds;
where sanity and madness combust
and silent voices shout aloud;
where angels fly unheralded
waiting to be seen
and oceans pause as the earth tilts
unexpectedly ;
where we conduct our own music
imprinting  notes on the dewy air
whose echoes are remembered
 in the morning;

maybe then we will wake and find, in our own unreality
reality.

Tuesday 20 September 2011

the latest poem

Recently I was at a party and watched two strangers in conversation - each one was puffed up
and trying to assert himself over the other - this is what I saw!



In that blue translucent dusklight
as the day dies into cool reflection,
surrounded by the hum of  quiet conversation
I watch as two egos face off
 in the dust beams.


I see their silver shadows rise to stand apart,
 faces hidden behind  polite society vizors.
They swirl huge, steel tipped swords
against thickly embossed shields,
 the ghostly metals crunching  
as sparks separate into airy dust.
Silent shouts drown each other out,
bending the airwaves, distorting thoughts
into fractured patterns

The drawingroom carpet soaks up the blood
disguising it in red and gold paisley;
 Soft  velvet curtains wrap around  their cries
smothering the battle in quiet civility.
The vacant faces of the guests
with painted doll smiles, unaware of
 the invisible struggle for supremacy
dancing above their heads.

Gradually, I see the silvery shadows dissipate
blown out by sudden, embarrassed laughter
and a jovial handshake.

And, just like the scent of the lilies
in the clear glass vase on the side table,
I remain a silent witness,
 nothing more than perfume.

Wednesday 10 August 2011

polyphonic style

Having achieved a 2:1 in my Open University Honours I am delighted! Now also I find I have a moment to write and continue my thought process on a new style of poetry where the reader has to choose to follow the interruptions asked by the asterix leading to additional information within the subject of the poem or to read it afterwards. My daughter's second year final piece was to create a beautiful tutu inspired by Swan Lake and she got her friend to dance in it for her. This led to the next poem, inspired by the idea of her friend dancing so elegantly in a public band stand for all to see, with ballet steps from the famous Swan Lake.

The Swan

Over today’s stage,
echoes of history in your feet, you dance.
Melting into movement your graceful body bends,
pointed feet tracing light patterns over the floor;
fine white feathers formfit your body
fragile frayed silk floating upon air.
Slender arms, like wings, embrace the sun.
Exquisitely, you dance,
a silent  illusion;
you become her - 
the swan.**


I stand, watching them film her
in the outdoor bandstand.
The park is full, yet at the centre, reflected in all eyes
this beautiful bright ballerina in flight. 

I turn to go, suddenly this dull, ordinary day
now, unforgettably,
extraordinary.



**Swan Lake is a ballet, op. 20, by Pyotr Tchaikovsky, composed 1875–1876. The scenario, initially in four acts, was fashioned from Russian folk tales.[1] it tells the story of Odette, a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer's curse.The ballet received its premiere on February 20 [O.S. March 4] 1877,[2][3] at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow as The Lake of the Swans



Thursday 9 June 2011

the debutante

I have been inspired by Manuel Puig's polyphonic style to try a multi narrative structure for a poem . I like the fact that there can be different perspectives and information dropped in, and the fact that the reader has to work out how he/ she is going to read the actual piece - does he follow the asterix when it appears, or does he choose to finish the whole poem and then read the info in the footnotes.This is what ,for me, made Kiss of the Spider Woman a work of art within itself, not just a novel. Lemarque wrote a paper which gave me the grounding for this theory of aesthetic appreciation being more than just belles lettres, text or content.Below is the first polyphonic piece I have written.

With light step she glides, waltzing
through high, chandelier-lit halls.
White chartreuse lace floats, cloudlike
beneath cascades of liquid gold satin;
pearl buttoned, swanlike gloves
cover slender arms, as
unadorned by jewels,
a simple posy of early buds
rests in one small hand.

Shining dark ringlets catch the light,
reflections of her soft, shy smile
of dreamlike anticipation.
In satin and lace she appears,
an illusion of sophistication, shimmering,
like chiffon caught on a breath;
for here, under the flickering half lights
amongst society's shadowlands
a ladychild seeks her future.




 Curator:
This is our finest example of an early Nineteenth century evening dress. 
The estimated date is circa 1820 made for a young society debutante. *
The material is gold satin, slightly torn and carefully darned; 
the lace is soiled from sweeping over the ground. This is detachable and would be washed and reattached.
 Donated to the museum by J. Thornton, in 2000
received with thanks


I watch the white preservation gloves
clinically hover over the garment;  the dress,
shabbly and lifeless on the wooden table
 yearns for her breath, her form,
her lightness of movement.
Harsh lights of the present,
but in the shadows, a gentle whisper;
she  turns her head, chin held high,
that same eager smile
on young rouged lips.

she glides by , magical, spirited,
beautiful in living gold and lace;
maybe, there, she met her future
as, standing here, I imagine
her past.


__________________________________________________________________________________
*Public assemblies were a way for young couples to meet a potential partner from outside their immediate
 social circle. One purchased a subscription for a series of balls (which included supper) or for the entire
 season.The Upper Rooms, designed by John Wood the younger, were opened in 1771. While the exterior was plain, the buildings were beautiful on the inside. Five enormous crystal chandeliers hung over the dancers in the ballroom, casting their golden candle light over the assembly. Tall ceilings provided air circulation and second story windows afforded privacy. Dances were prescribed by the master of ceremonies, who presided over the ball and who decided on which dances would be performed and in what order.  A gentleman could not reserve more than two dances with a lady for the evening, and when he did, it was understood that he was interested in her. If a lady reserved more than two dances with a gentleman, she was considered “fast.”
 http://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2008/10/13/dancing-in-regency-bath-upper-assembly-rooms/

Thursday 26 May 2011

time to write

I see the last time I posted was March - the reason for this was that I was finishing my Honours OU - handed in my last paper on Tuesday and now have space in my head to think about other literary avenues! This last paper was to evaluate and judge two books for a literary prize   - ie what are the criteria by which we judge literature? I came down in favour of a philosphically instumental approach;  an aesthetic value to style; flirting with the boundaries of both popular and elite ( my pet criteria combining Virginia Woolf's attitude with my own!); a desire for escapism and for the author to show that he drew on the weight of literary tradition. That is how I would judge literature! So let us see what the experts think when I get my result! My plan for this month is now to enter a competition on Keats, Shelley, Mary Shelley and Lord Byron - an essay of 3000 words. So I am currently off researching the interesting and innovative Mary Shelley who is known principally for her novel Frankinstein,  arguably the first in the science fiction genre, but who suffered sadness and insecurity in her relationship with P Shelley . It seems to me this group  resemble the Bloomsbury set in their open realtionships but also in their commitment to literature, study, philosophy and dedication to learning. More anon.......

Friday 11 March 2011

march! and my poem "Cold Nourishment"

Somehow my real job got in the way recently! It takes a clear space to find time to write and with doing the open uni degree, which I love, and working at my business I have not had a moment. I don't really have one now either but I thought I would mention another small obsession that I have at the moment - I have discovered the "beat " poets of 1960's USA particularly Allen Ginsberg and his poem "Howl". It is an extremely reactionary poem and one that falls between the genre of popular and high literature. I am in the process of writing a TMA argueing that it is indeed much higher than at first one would think. It is built on an inherent scaffolding of high literature for all that it appeals to the "mass culture" (Dwight Macdonald's classification of popular literature) Urban art at its most interesting so to keep apace I am now posting one of my earlier darker urban poems called:

Cold Nourishment.

Stuttering down in life’s grimy gutters,
drug ridden, punch drunk, grey;
no escape from the darkest depths
of this treacherous river of life.

The underbellies of our glass cities
masticate on the poor -
throw them a rope of intestines
to close the cavernous gap
between them and the privileged populations,
who discard them like wasted food.
On the plate of life, hunger and sated stomachs
lie side by side, succulent sweets beside cold savouries,
undesirable, congealed;

How can the rich lay this on their tastebuds
while children’s tongues swell with thirst?


Tuesday 15 February 2011

fragmentation

I said a while ago that I had been thinking about fragmentation ala Picasso and indeed the Nigerian poet Christopher Okigbo who carred a picture of the Guernica with him as inspiration. The fact that a Nigerian poet could be so inspired by someone from a completely different race and culture high lights the multi national face of Modernism.Modernism pushed these boundaries so that they eventually blurred. Just in passing, traditional African poetry by the likes of Okigbo speaks a public language,even though they reference national cults and religion that can be obscure.But the initiates were the public for such poetry.
I am now reading Alan Ginsberg and O'Hara's American poetry - and this is public poetry in fragmented form. The poem "Howl" is meant to literally be howled out,  as a customer in my shop who knew Alan Ginsberg personally told me. How exciting to touch history through her  - it is these connections that add vital links in life.O'Hara talks about his everyday life in New York, non poetic subjects such as picking up a hamburger on the day that Billie Holiday died. But the atmosphere he creates through his own personal day to day collage is unique.I still struggle, being a traditiional "high" poetry reader to deal with the everyday non poetic subjcet matter and align myself with the New Critics of that time.
Collage comes from the French "collier"  - to glue and to this end I have been thinking about creating a collage of my own snipets of wordage and blending them together into a whole. This is what I will be working on next.
A comment for today
"Word of mouth and information passed
somehow no questions asked
today's egotism, manners forgotten
something in Denmark is still rotten!"

Tuesday 8 February 2011

the house

Houses have been personilised throughout literary history and the poem below is to deflect my own emotions onto the family house that is now empty.

the house lies quietly, waiting,
the polished wooden floor, cold,
missing the warmth of her footsteps;
the airy space of the hallway
empty, no welcoming arms
 to embrace

the house lies alone, listening,
voiceless clocks , silent  piano keys,
bare walls in cavernous rooms
catching only echoes
of forgotten family laughter

the house lies displaced , crying
tears on  rain washed windows;
autumn leaves lie stripped of colour,
grey mist muffles the call of rooks
and the silence remains unbroken

Thursday 27 January 2011

on the shoulders of others

"For masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of people , so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice”  - this quote from Woolf is incorpoarated in  the essay I am currently writing on tradition and how the 20th Century authors viewed tradition. By the turn of the 20th Century there was minimal  literary heritage for women writers causing Woolf to champion the rise in feminist issues. But what I have been thinking about further to this discussion is the progression of literature built upon its own shoulders. Taking Jane Eyre and Rebecca, we see Du Maurier rewriting the storyline and the deeper intellectual prepectives of Jane Eyre, creating what is generally seen as a popular fiction novel, as opposed to the "high" fiction of Bronte's novel. Many intertexts have subsequently circled around Rebecca, such as Susan Mills " Mrs de Winter" and Beauman's " Rebecca's Tale" and of course the films, of which the most famous would be Hitchcocks in 1940. I have joined the Du Maurier society - it is free and keeps the members up to date with current events and news  - http://www.dumaurier.org/ . Within these two parallel texts above, the houses themselves become personalised and raise many symbolic issues - the influence of the Gothic; the element of class politics; the psychoanalytical aspect of the third floor being equated to the mind (Bertha) and the fire at the end of each novel symbolising death, either of the guilt that Maxim and the unnamed second Mrs de Winter carry, or Rochester's secret first wife and his hopes of happiness.  It can also symbolise the death of English society as it was then and in fact, in the discussions broadcast on Radio 4 in 2003, this point of view is substantiated. Most of the women interestingly enough start to admire Rebecca's fight and independence, regardless of her sexual infidelities and disregard for marriage. Perhaps this is indicative of how marriage is viewed now. Women got the vote and the patriarchal stronghold on society was gradually dissolved. But returning to the topic of tradition for a final comment. Woolf broke all the boundaries  of gender, genre and time constrictions in her writings; it begs the question of whether there are any more literary traditions left for those of us in the 21st Century to break or do we build on the shoulders of the writers gone before us and re create traditions for our own followers? This is our challenge.

Friday 21 January 2011

self analysis of cameo

I think it always helps to put a piece in context and I was surprisingly pleased with this short vignette on Virginia Woolf which concludes my obsession with her as I move onto other thoughts.
The fact that she had to choose not between life and death but between life and madness, finally  choosing death is crucial. Filling her pockets to weigh herself down she walked into the river Ouse and drowned herself. The reference to Shakespeare might seem contrived but in actual fact her works were influenced greatly by the playwright  - her famous fictional Judith Shakespeare in "A Room of One's Own" and the reference to seeing him in "Orlando". The line, "I fell in love" refers to the question of heterosexual love that Woolf felt particularly for Vita Sackville West and the fascination of the Bloomsbury group with sexuality, dual gender etc. The actual word bisexual was not in common use until 1960's but the subject matter was being widely discussed.
I have referred to her timeless voice, which transcends the years - another very important theme to Woolf in the period in which she was writing. The subject of Time was being philosphically discussed and she entered the debate with her analogy of the time of the mind and the time of the clock. "The Lighthouse "crosses 10 years in one space; "Mrs Dalloway" is set in one day; and "Orlando" spans 300 years so she was playing about with the concept. In "The Lighthouse " time passes while the characters sleep - hence my mention of  sleep and the fact that Woolf 's ideas have  subliminally changed my own perceptions even as I sleep. Questions were being asked in every area of the Arts and the Impressionists, such as Picasso, were a huge influence on Woolf. Hence the idea of splashes of colour, introducing my next train of thought which will be on fragmentation. It afforded Woolf the chance to equate literary aesthetics to art.
Finally, the aloe, native to New Zealand and referenced in Katherine Mansfields famous short story, only blooms once in a hundred years - almost the time span between the time of Woolf's prolific writings and today.

cameo for VW


stones in her pockets
river of life, river of death,
parted waters now closing
Ophelia – like

i fell in love a little
for a while,
her voice, a timeless whisper
disturbing my sleep

splashes of thoughts
coloured my thinking;
and the aloe bloomed once
between then and now.

Monday 17 January 2011

A room of one's own

I have just finished re  - reading Virginia Woolf "A Room of One's Own" the seminal work by  first wave feminist writer Virginia Woolf , looking at Women in Fiction. Based on a lecture given to female students at Gerton College, Cambridge , and later expanded into a 6 part philosophical novelette on the subject, it was like sitting listening to the lecture myself. I had read it years ago but realise that it is true that a book is meant to come to you at a particular stage in your life where you are receptive. This is true when I read "A Room of One's Own". The analogies that she uses such as the invention of Shakespeare's fictional sister to prove that a woman could not have written his plays at that time; the closed doors of the library; and the famous taxicab blending the two minds of female and male into an androgynous mind are illuminating. She does eventually reject androgyny in favour of feminism and her arguments are strong. You have to have walked down Whitehall in the skirts of a woman before you can understand what it is to think and be a woman. The clothing was restrictive which also brings me to thinking about the conventions of dress nowadays. On the catwalks today androgyny is always present but as Woolf discovered that does boost the idea of male  intellectual superiority over the female who was forced in the interwar years to cross dress or become a "mannish lesbian". A woman should always be a woman and Woolf broke many literary traditions to champion this .

Saturday 15 January 2011

Sketch One

It was one of those early spring days in March when the sun shines a palpable light of freshness over everything The Botanic gardens. I sat on my usual bench commanding a view over the city. There was a small patch of warmth on the arm of the bench under my hand.
An hour to myself. But what was an hour? The philosophers say that time passes as a stream of consciousness in between the spaces and that our lives are created by  moments crystallised in time. Is that right? Look at that small snowdrop over there For months now it has been growing under the soil, unknown , unseen by us, and then for one moment of glory we see it flourish and pass. Is that what we are like? Time passing while we sleep and breath and our lives simply  moments of blossom?

“What is it Tom?”  The small boy was hunkered over, his baggy cord trousers wrinkled above his red wellies and his blue dinosaur hoodie too big over his waistband. He was holding a stick and stayed motionless looking at the path. His mother came up, a slim pretty blond girl dressed simply in jeans and a beige belted raincoat. “What have you got? “ She bent over. The little boy prodded something with his stick and the worm wriggled and then was still, camouflaged against the stony path.
“It’s a wriggly worm, she said. “Shall we save it Tommy?”. She put her hand on his, and together they hooked the worm over the stick and carefully and slowly carried it over to the flower bed. “There we are, our good deed for the day. Come on then.” She held out her hand and the two of them moved on, the small boy running to keep up.

An elderly couple plodded past, he bent over slightly with a walking stick and she still light on her feet but slow.  A daily walk , in step with each other all of their lives. They were dressed in muted shades but their eyes were still quick. They knew the names of the trees and flowers and stopped occasionally to notice a new foliage or to comment on a birdsong . A lithe jogger pounded past, plugged into his music, oblivious of his surroundings. Just a daily exercise routine for him.


Snapshots shared with others, marked on the memory of another. Tom may not remember the wriggly worm incident but I will. As a reflector then do I define that moment in his life as real? I was still musing on this when I heard the clock strike. An hour had passed. I picked up my satchel and walked quickly towards the wrought iron gates of the gardens back to work.

a surrealist picture

I have to admit to becoming hooked on Virginia Woolf on whom I am writing my essay for honours OU. I have been reading several papers on her from the archives, about her contribution to feminism, her arguments about gender, sexuality and androdyny and of the relative "streams of time" which was the topic of much debate in the early 1900s. Russell's  idea of streams of consiousness became important to Woolf in Orando but up until then she had been experimenting, ala her rival Katherine Mansfield , with the idea of the "moment in time" being crystalised in short stories. This latter was the literary equivalent of Impressionism and I started to think about art and literature. I had a picture in my mind that was surrealistic so wrote it down in words - it is not a great formulaic piece but more an experiment of a different type of writing than my norm. Here it is;


float into your mind’s arena
where fish swim in the mist
and no boundaries exist.
curl round the figures of your thoughts
 follow their footprints in the air
in faith they lead straight and fair

here a voiceless woman sings
her notes freezing into glistening icicles;
here a thirsty child drowns
in the flowing tears of a unicorn;
here the golden bracelet round a wrist
brands a tattoo of unity
and the black and white shadows
melt into the sky’s muted canvass.
 here it is that truth dances
like dust caught in stained glass
rays of light
intangible reflections of reality

yet  here we stand with feet of clay
unable to escape the quicksand
and  make the silence sing.

Thursday 13 January 2011

A New Biography

Virginia Woolf exploded the genre of biography when she wrote Orlando published in 1928 changing man into woman and spanning 400 years of history in one character’s lifetime. Woolf  was an expert on the subject of biography and with Orlando, challenged her own father’s life work – ( Stephen Leslies the Dictionary of National Biography) She wrote a paper, the New Biography 1927 and now nearly 100 years later I heard of someone who is using another medium to record the lives of the women in her life, in quilt.
The two ideas  merged together in my head last night  and the outcome was this poem, written to commemorate Deb’s 21st century stitched visual biography


 A new biography 2011



unlike Woolf who changed man into woman
revolutionary writing on the pages of a book,
she will take thread and stitch their names
weaving into life’s quilted fabric
the bloodline of her family

her manuscript, a quilt; her pen , a needle
her words, stitches ; a
material memoir crafted for  today ‘s
preservation

 great grandmother to granddaughter
six generations, named in silk
flowing down the cover
umbilically linked by thread

within each panel,  a life
perhaps a quilted  vignette,
a representing symbol, a corner of
a delicate woven christening robe


her mother, herself, her sister
 and in the heartbeat of the central  womb
her two daughters, side by side
equally loved


i thought white vaguery
but she sees life’s vibrant colours
the hot red touches of Africa
city chic colours of European living
the English Rose of the older daughter
the geometric designs of the artistic younger
perhaps her own creator’s cool blue of serenity,

at the bottom  white panels of innocence
just names , symbols yet to be traced
unfinished stories still to be stitched.
the incompleteness of balancing generations.

Later , the artist  will sleep, cradled among mothers of mothers

Wednesday 12 January 2011

Jilted

I wrote this poem last year and this is what prompted the ironic title of my blog - "The Happy Poet" since my now 15 year old thinks it's too dark!

perhaps i can turn myself inside out
like a ragdoll ripped open at the seams
stuffing spilling out in white confetti clumps
over the red carpet.

perhaps my eyes will become still,
button eyes, wooden, unsighted
no longer watching out for a future
that will never happen

i will hold this doll in my arms
wrapped in a mocking hug
the strands of  coarse woollen hair woven through mine
one motionless body tacked to another

later he will find her
the torn, twisted body discarded on the floor
limbs disjointed,
a joker's grin slashed across her one eyed face

but he will never find me

The Hostess

small pink roses swarm over delicate china
blooming in painted clusters
spreading onto lips
as they lift the teacups to drink

sunshine shifts through  chintz curtains
catching the lace trims of  tablecloths;
inconsequential chatter murmurs at the edges
as the clock chimes a civilised hour

their eyes meet over the rims but
caught between the shortbread
and the scones, flavoured with etiquette,
their voices melt  into vapour

she lifts the teapot lid
and quietly stirs six words into
the hot aromatic liquid
 “I don’t love you any more”