kvenna ráð

Love 14

kvennarad — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 05:03:47 +0000

The loving wing that beats against
the beloved air gives us
an inkling of angels.

The muscle-memory of love.

Love 13: Wild at home

kvennarad — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 05:13:18 +0000

Tainted Love is playing on iTunes – we sing into imaginary fist-mics, skanking, our voices getting louder, our grins wider, eye to decadent, rock-and-roll-as-a-lifestyle eye.

Love 12: She smiled

kvennarad — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 03:57:45 +0000

when he said: with you
there’s always honey on my spoon.

Love 11: Libertarias viejas

kvennarad — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 05:36:35 +0000

My last comrade from ’36, I grip your hand
and hear you whisper Revolución.
I know you meant to say amor,
but it will do.

Love 10: iLife (can you say ‘sublime’?)

kvennarad — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 05:31:00 +0000

In a night as thick as the slaughter of firstborn
a girl limps home from a wedding party,
brews a cup of heartsease tea, kindles her Kindle,
and reads about love.

Beside the everyday there are other ghosts, madwomen, lovers, pains, cruelties, tyrants, dreams, manners, mothers, storms, moorlands, mountains, escapes, hearts, tears, flowers, deaths, legends, lives. Why guard her own?

Love 9: Calibri and Perpetua

kvennarad — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 05:16:22 +0000

We were (true, we are still) Calibri and Perpetua,
on different pages, but still finding marriage,
brought to bear on words, stillness of the ink,
dazzle of the paper.

If they kept soup, not bucks, in banks

kvennarad — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 06:22:10 +0000

If they kept soup, not bucks, in banks
you could make deposits in the summer
– maybe borrow beer or lemonade elsewhere –
then watch your savings grow, and make withdrawals
in the winter when you needed warmth and food.

The Chairman’s bonus could be a bowl of Scotch Broth or a pan of lobscouse. Meanwhile some folk might open money-kitchens for the homeless.

[PS. It’s called your butt because that’s where the billygoat aims]

Love 8: The accident

kvennarad — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 05:03:39 +0000

I saw the people clustered round you.
Let me through, I said, I’m a heart specialist.
Then I knelt and whispered – Trust me, I’m a lover.

Love 7: An anarchist in love

kvennarad — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 04:56:26 +0000

I carry your bags every day.
Thank you comrade, you say,
whilst in my head I turn
the social value of my work
into a bunch of roses.

Love 6: Dryad

kvennarad — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 04:58:20 +0000

The wedding of a stone to a dove,
a woman to a tree,
the lying wind’s whispers to the new day…

I fell for the copper-beech, for the dark and bitter leaves, for the old, grey bark, and for the stories.