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| Goodbye |
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| Poems
written by Jane Kingshill for
Out of The Deep |
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| And
Spring Again: Lucrece by Rembrandt (2) That moonshine should lend itself to spadework, lying flat as a doorstep, lusciously flake-white and that a few beads should break loose and burst out crying "Shed blood sucks up and not sends back the light" scintillates. Rubies they aren't though nothing random stitches them in reverse on ermined night. And pearls. Always this pearly pair in tandem, self and reflection caught on the instant, tight as between. For never was swan more silver, forever snatched from the snip-snap by grace of sing-song. Never flesh more lambent nor river in spate stretched over anemone rock more red than these snowflakes plying their painterly trade, tossed on to the doorstep, flying and dancing as swans do that feather our nests with their dying. |
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Private Only communicate if unfinished business bursts from your eyes and bloodies the paper. Bright for an instant’s fix wax makes the impress absolute. Cut above. Proud of it. All the white in the world won’t mask it or summer stop up with ripe pale grass or lace across or stitch together. Down on her knees the sea goes…Scrub and wipe Scrub and wipe… As if suds could or snow either, feather on feather cover where once no space between us was. So you won’t turn your half of smiling head to mine and I can’t see if you do because they’ve been here, done that, ground our bones to bread, dosh, gold, - the pavement’s alive with it. Fairy stuff that’s flown by morning. Hark to it groaning, mourning. Never enough. |
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| Retrospective Yes Knowing nothing of what it's like to be a woman in stays and long skirts and childbirth once a year that kills not only hurts I hold a candle in a tin holder and measure her winter world. A circle winds its way round like a ball of wool. As round as an orange, as big as a balloon at its tightest but softly like the first smudge of day which takes the morning star away before our warming one whips everything to its lightest. |
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| Uncandled
darkness is the giant shadow opposite. Drawn up and down and left and right lead pencilling our ancient logo in. And so it was for man but differently. Because he was as forked as a bird and flew before he could fly and walked without stint and listened to and was the Word. |
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| Post
feminist shall we put ourselves back again now? Untwist the ivory cage neatly add what went missing mend what was never completely pulled shut? |
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No.
There is too much rage |
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