A selection of my poetry is presented below.
Plans are afoot to publish a book which will contain 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.
For now I hope you enjoy this
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.
The sun cuts a large crack in the scalding sky
wild orange burns through.
Green foliage curves perfectly around us
on top of a precipice.
He was flirting,
I was alone.
Our surroundings bleak
charcoal coated my wounds.
“Are you a model?” he said
“do I look like one?” I answered.
His friend gave me a cigarette
to calm me down.
I wandered into the pit to smoke
hopeless, bloody hopeless pit,
then his beautiful face appeared like a ghost
beneath the perfect wave of grey.
God pull me up!
I ran forward as though on stilts.
A fire welcomes me from the inglenook.
Shaking off the flames
I drink gin and champagne
in the Blue Hotel.
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,
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”.
MERMAID OF ZENNOR
her long tail could not lie,
as it curled closely, weaving inside out
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 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
there is life in them just the same.
I can’t eat them now‘t would be a murderous shame!
In their bubble
of air and trouble.
Tall, thin, fat
life is simply not like that!
Quirky is as quirky does
be like you and not like us!
Lovable, odd, weird habits
not like nuns or white rabbits!
Can a quirk wear a skirt?
Wash their clothes and walk on dirt?
Short with tall, tall with small
wriggling around before the ball.
Tranny dresses, gay dresses,
trouser dresses, head dresses
chocolate dresses, sweetie dresses
no dresses - goth dresses up.
Girls hold hands
dragging eerie man
banging heads with a frying pan.
Quirky is lovable, quirky is weird
quirky the man with the purple beard.
Purple thoughts entwine with wine
quirky mind with pretty thing,
pretty thing that cannot sting.
Quirky musician, quirky shades
singing to his pretty maid.
Quirky is as quirky does
relaxed and free from any fuzz.
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 -
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.
PRINCE DU SANG
Silken tapestries weaving
precariously, with exotic
soiree whilst gutters spill
bare bellies bloating with air.
Foul smells mouthing from
their cake-free* holes
as corruption slithers around
decadent Marie! (Antoinette).
Poor little Prince Louis
paid the price for his mother's iniquity -
father executed, brother dead -
Louis Charles next in line.
His delicate features
like a moth that
flaps its wings
for normal things.
Rumour had it
a mute took his place -
muted dark being!
Tattered clown toy
groping in his own
royal, shitty earth
from sun rise to sun set
eclipsed black blankness,
solemnity and solitude.
Till the sweeper comes
till the reaper comes
shame has no name.
Angelic voiceless creature
are you happier in death?
Is the rain I feel,
your tears falling on my head?
*Cake - referring to the phrase in French
translated into English 'let them eat cake' erroneously
attributed to Marie Antoinette but which may have been
written by Rousseau,
when Marie Antoinette was but a child.
The older anecdote 'why don't they eat meat' was the
response of Emperor Hui of Jinin Xizho Tongjian
when told his subjects did not have rice.
Marie Antoinette's missing son is here
© 2021 Mary Clare de Pentheny
All Rights Reserved.