. the art & poetry of .
MARy CLARE De PENTHENY
MY poetry
A selection of my poetry is presented below.
I have published a book
' Looking Into The Abyss Over Tea and Cake',
which contains these and many more
examples of my written work alongside the paintings they are
associated with, as well as a more detailed account of my background and story
which ultimately informs the majority of my creative work.
At present it is only available by contacting me directly.
For now I hope you enjoy this
small offering!
THE EMPTY
CHAIR
Twelve golden chairs downstairs -
the last supper before lockdown.
Was someone already dead? Did they decline?
Whatever it was the air filled with sombre wine.
Visitors wore their favourite clothes,
pompous styled hairdos
all seemed anxious sharing six loos.
One gold, the others marble
nonetheless it did not relieve stress.
Each barely heard what the other was saying
some overtly praying.
They all ate and ate a seven-course meal
it was surreal but they could not appeal.
Instead they talked and gossiped
about the chair that was bare.
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
Sit up straight!
Elbows in!
Eat everything on your plate!
Discipline!
Speak properly, mouth closed,
around the dining room table.
Sat on a Persian rug I dreamt that it flew
to magical lands of eastern rule.
Beyond the long Georgian window
was the tallest tree.
I would have nightmares if it fell on me.
In the hallway glass cabinets stood,
one with guns and a wooden barrel from the First World War.
The other had twelve bore shotguns that stood proud and tall.
Dad would take them out, clean them
I was hypnotized watching him and
when quite young, he put this great heavy gun
on my shoulder teaching me where to look through to aim,
he would warn ‘beware the cartridge backfiring again!’
Or I could lose an eye!
Quietly sniggering with shock at the thought
gently loading, finally pulling the trigger…
We shot at pigeons together, later plucking their soft grey feathers.
YELLOW STREET
What happens down Yellow Street?
Butchers selling mouldy meat,
mad dogs panting in the yellow heat,
luscious ladies lingering.
Large breasted ones singing,
men dancing out of sight,
corridors, alleyways,
things happening on various days.
I don’t know, I’m not part of their play
what goes on beyond the pathway.
Opening after opening
doors sway, pink, yellow, white days
delicate edge of my raw paint,
tattered and fragile.
Coffee shops stained with whores,
curiosity peers and steers
what happens year after year.
No more fights
with beer and brawl
they still seem to fall
and get up shaking hard
as they sing along with the local bard
“for he’s a jolly good fellow”.
TOO LATE
Cold,
Help!
Dark branches, twisting, scratching.
Fickle thorns gently piercing
flickering tongue licking.
Hot!
Help!
Burning, melting, metal
cutting softly into flesh.
Air picks at autumn leaf skin.
Safe!
Don't help!
Hard, damp, slimy rock
relieved skin etching
a message.
Wind
blows it away.
Smoke rising from cracked remains
embroidering signals to
the whispering dance.
DESERT DREAM
DURING LOCKDOWN No. 1
After forty years in the desert
he leads her to water.
She sips, licks, parched lips
like a leopard waits
in isolation dreaming
of something so pure it gleams.
It was not snow in the early sun
but the radiance of her risen, loved one.
DESERT DREAM
DURING LOCKDOWN No. 2
Her long white robes flowed
across the elephant’s back
to the grains of sand below.
Linen silk spoke softly to her creamy skin.
There was no need to press her thighs,
the elephant’s body did not rise
like a horse or camel riding into battle.
His reassuring plod placed her into a narcosis nod.
He knew the way. Her love followed with open hands
philosophising on the grand beauty of each day.
Swaying, praying mammal
swung like a pendulum,
the woman wearing white, ticked
with intoxication, enjoying her groom’s explanation
about a previous incarceration.
The air was filled with heat and scent
that broke this torturous and ugly spell.
Vapours cleansed away the stain
of past hurts and physical pain.
The elephant took its rest -
the handsome man languidly lay
upon his lady’s breast.
MERMAID OF ZENNOR
AND ME
Breathing, sighing,
her long tail could not lie,
as it curled closely,
under a grotesque and glistening rock.
So much pleasure was this erotic new treasure
beneath her sea, the Mermaid of Zennor.
Such silvery flesh and near mini death
awakened by sweet salt singing and breath.
Anxious brows relaxed again,
shimmering fingers soothing my brain.
Her golden hairs electrocuted flesh, erect,
tingling beyond the usual cause and effect,
beyond all science, planets, and sea, beyond
being prince, beyond being me.
Such luminosity, wrapping itself freely aglow,
such delicate treasure I cannot fathom to know.
STILL LIFE
Still life is not a ghost
and in some ways lives the most,
placed carefully, even playfully
passion fruit sits creatively
with succulent seeds pouring sin
from a battered brown and wrinkly skin.
Some fruits are whole, others closed, open, old
flowing with festivity and colourful fertility.
Morality sealed tightly with abstinence
but all are framed now.
I place fingers around each fig,
cool velvety coats lean
towards each other, some
open, soft, pinky red.
A little grape, stands alone
and one other fig without a home.
To paint them is quite an experience
they neither move nor require
the usual passion from the flaming fire
and yet…
there is life in them just the same.
I can’t eat them now‘t would be a murderous shame!
HEAVENLY DANCE
Honeysuckle prism,
bitter berry prison,
shadowy temptation with
cherished adoration as we
played and danced to the
harps in a heavenly glade.
Ponies, angels, and devils were displayed.
Dark birds of prey did share their prayers
croaking, smoking, not singing; they stayed downstairs
and from Satan’s hold, recovering, shaking
protected, they were firm and bold
flapping black feathers from the fold.
Brides’ dresses like cranes flew in the dove-white sky
where clouds turned to gold, delighting the angels anew.
Sweetest, purest creatures glide slowly into the snow
Seraphim sing a song only they will know
as she cast their wings to the ice beneath the heath,
leaves like white sleeves wave them into heaven.
Snow shadows a plain, sweet old woman
cast aside, a first love, a true bride.
TO MY CHILDREN
A battered old hospital window hung,
small breeze blowing through cracks.
I lay glimpsing her bright blonde hair
as the sun shone in the warm, dry air.
Lizzie was full of zest when I got her dressed,
placing her gently on my tender breast.
Watching her grow was mysterious,
feeling deliriously happy changing her nappies,
impatient to see her walk, hear her talk,
interact more as we played together on Dartmoor,
the parks, toddler groups and in the sea.
Painting, cooking, creating, and reading lots of books,
singing merrily in the nook before bed.
One day, in the sitting room, alone
I called out to her dad. The midwife soon arrived.
Little Lottie flew out! There was no messing about!
Two hours and there she was, eyes wide as perfect as a china doll
with Lizzie softly touching her cheek
we sang Lottie into a very, deep sleep.
Lottie slept through the night within a few weeks.
A great observer learner who later loved puzzles
making potions of love with her own tears
placing them in a bottle, labelling all the
ingredients, she would give
this gift to me, as if to pray,
on St Valentines Day.
Lizzie read all the books in school! She was nobody’s fool
who played hard and fast, by the rules,
ending up with top class tools.
She loved her sister, and they had much fun -
when young.
Charlotte was sometimes called Lottie or Botticelli, Elizabeth, Lizzie, Lily
or Betty. A part of their character expressed,
just like choosing tights, hats, and pretty, sunflower dress.
Felicity arrived whilst I had the flu and in a sense was extra brand new,
born in the sac, sailors tales shared, ‘tis a sign of good luck and it certainly was!
Her head came in and out five times, like a nursery rhyme
before she decided to leave my womb!
It was exactly at noon and not a minute too soon.
Her beautiful face bright red and beaming,
Lily and Lottie screaming with excitement and giggles
their beautiful sister all full of wriggles,
a buoyant bundle of happiness,
our treasure to be loved and adored forever.
Felicity was like electricity full of eccentricity, fidgety,
often excited so people would become ignited and united
into her lovely, empathic light.
Singing would fill the room,
bright and fancy dressing with her sisters and friends,
never did end. Despite difficulties and some miseries,
they all remain close, profoundly.
Ten years on another was born, at home.
The handsome son, my only one,
his radiant blue eyes brighter than any sun,
a gift to behold with a personality so bold
it did not matter that he wasn’t as old as his sisters.
His siblings love him so much!
This rare and vibrant personality with gifts
incredible originality all admired.
His forgiving nature and heart so pure,
an example to us, year after year.
Four wonderful children all unique, gifted and kind,
are the loveliest of creatures you will ever find.
BIRDIES AND CHOCOLATE
Birdie chirps with fine finesse!
A delicate robin redbreast
watches me, cocking its tiny head
as the pigeon coos a little louder,
and the milkmaid sings on the farm
while the cows wait their turn in the barn.
Sun, sets off the waterfall with its solar panel
like magic unifying nature to humankind
air works its way through silken cobwebs
blowing beautifully with uniform brokenness,
forlorn and hanging limply in the breeze
as if to say, "help me please!"
Each delicate fine thread flutters,
separating itself from the whole.
Flies are trapped where no hungry spider
can feed - without purpose it takes its toll.
The waterfall engages my thoughts
in a polite and gentle manner
as the sun slips in and out.
Birds sing in chorus sweetly,
as sweet as the chocolate cake upon my plate.
GINGER WINE AND ME
Stones Ginger Wine and me
decline the usual cup of tea.
The green bottle does not fade with time.
The contents are always pleasant, sublime.
I carefully place it in my pocket
snuggled closely to the silver locket.
We walk steadily up slippery steps
canvas dangling from fingertips
jug tilts, we make it through
to the studio without a loo.
I sit before the magnificent easel
sipping sweet ginger diesel
to paint freely ….
Flaws and defences,
toil and trouble cover the canvas
with a lover's quarrel.
© 2021 Mary Clare de Pentheny
All Rights Reserved.