Las Vegas

 

Violation and depravity,

within isolation of this valley,

an extravagant medicine to take.

 

We pace the boulevard,

with no moral compass, neither

north or south in strip-sleazed haze.

 

Rolling violent dice

of drunken incomprehension,

morning sirens sing out my sin.

 

but the more I kneel before you,

the more you raise me to my feet

 

What happens with us, stays with us.

 

Inconsequential.

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

The Temptation of St. Anthony II

 

temmptation2

From Emperor to Vampire, then a journey to resting place of amoral monk.

Dwelling in ruined fort, living in a sin of retired idleness. Momentary desires

to follow the birds south, he spends his days tending a garden of lilies in the desert.

 

Anthony holds his poetess captive for too long without his hands, she now writhes

naked and tied to column of lost temple. Tresses burnt dark from exposure, tantalized

by a God that brings her an ambrosia of light that transforms her dishonour into beauty.

 

He kneels to pray, lifting his eyes to see diamonds that sparkle within cobwebbed clouds

of time. Lips thin as he repeats supplication to attain a separation of will from his saintliness.

He exists in immensity of memories that create an illustrious sun, slowly beating him ashen.

 

“I should have been tied to the column near to thine, face to face, under thy eyes.”*

 

No Queen of Sheba, Greek goddess or any other mirrored manifestation of Magdalene

can stir him from his solitude. Solemn palm stands proud, shading him from enticement.

Every supper, when he breaks bread, the serpent wrapped round it slides away to the sea.

 

Amongst pillow saturated by aroma of the palm, he is eased into sleep.  An owl’s wing

softly brushes his cheek, powdering his skin against succubus of lust, that swells in unrest

and desperation, clasping him in persuasion to give in and cry out together, never again.

 

“I feel my heart growing as the sea when she swells before the storm.” *

 

He dreams of faded flowers, fruits too ripe, which fall away into the thickness of the night.

Clinging to twilight bride’s back, she shows him stars that burn eternal and hold no limits.

Come morning, he remembers nothing. Only echo of memory, a thought – of distant remorse.

 

“All have passed. There remaineth me”*

 

*Gustave Flaubert – The Temptation of St. Anthony

©  Katypoetess 2015

Anthony and Katypatra

Katypatra

I arrive. Quickly turning bedroom from Rome into Alexandria.
Skin up, pop cork to dilute and delight blood with Bollinger.
Determined to mix up a confidence to conquer, my
Goddess summoning up a strip tease of your morality.

“The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet’s fool.”*

Coiling concubine – arabesque around your thighs to
nourish exotic fantasy. Arching precision that brushstrokes
sorcery onto chest and fever the soft hair below your belly.
Teasing out your sacred melancholy, never leaving each others gaze.

“There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.”*

Your angel, your nemesis – drip feeding you a decadence.
I’m watching your concentration, my inspiration a Sahara
of aspiration as you write. You listen only to your own thoughts,
I triumph in cruel comfort of living the low life with you.

“O! my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten”*.

Montage of limb upon limb, we snuggle idle – licking,
mewling as Persian kittens wrapped in each others paws.
Your kingdom falls into a Nile of our new found innocence,
equating to divine forever. Content and wonderfully misspent.

“Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows bent”.*

Keeping temple open – you compulsively worship through Sunday.
Seductive flush of an asp’s curse onto suburban empire.
Bequething a purulent wound, I scratch hieroglyphics on your back.
Your fallen one, juxtapose all shades of crimson and gold. I leave.

“He’s speaking now, or murmuring ‘Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”*

 

 
*Shakespeare – Antony and Cleopatra
©  Katypoetess 2014

Sonnet LXVI – I do not love you except because I love you

 

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda

Baptism

Magdalene Baptism

 

Drowning.

 

When love

cuts deep

with grieving,

one immersion

bleeds into

the next.

 

If she gave

herself

in forgiveness –

would her shadow

follow her?

 

She unconsciously

weaves threads

of the past

summoning shroud

of the future.

 

Touched twice

in the laver

submerged in her

saviour’s perdition.

 

Condemned to

cold isolation

wet and dripping

with desire

in the font

of being saved.

 

Saved. But not quite free.

 

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

Mary Magdalene at the Door of Simon the Pharisee

 

“WHY wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair?
Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, lips, and cheek.
Nay, not this house,—that banquet-house we seek;
See how they kiss and enter; come thou there.
This delicate day of love we two will share
Till at our ear love’s whispering night shall speak.
What, sweet one,—hold’st thou still the foolish freak?
Nay, when I kiss thy feet they’ll leave the stair.”
“Oh loose me! Seest thou not my Bridegroom’s face
That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss,
My hair, my tears He craves to-day:—and oh!
What words can tell what other day and place
Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His?
He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!”

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The Temptation of St Anthony

 

 

From Emperor to Vampire, journeying through to final place of amoral monk.

Dwelling in ruined fort, a habitual sin of retired idleness. Momentary contemplations

to follow the birds south, he spends his days tending a garden of lilies in the desert.

 

Holding his demon captive for too long without his hands, she now writhes naked

and tied to column of penitent temple. Tresses burnt dark from exposure, tantalized

by a God that brings her an ambrosia of light that transforms her dishonour into beauty.

 

He kneels to pray, lifting his eyes to see diamonds that sparkle within the cobwebs

of time. Lips thin as he repeats inability to attain a separation of will from his essence.

He exists in immensity of her shadows that create illustrious sun, that beats him ashen.

 

“I should have been tied to the column near to thine, replying to thy cries by my sighs.”*

 

No Queen of Sheba, Greek goddess or any other mirrored manifestation of Magdalene

can stir him from his solitude. Twisted palm stands proud, shading him from the abyss.

Every supper, when he breaks bread, the serpent wrapped round it slides away to the sea.

 

Amongst pillows saturated by aroma of the palm, buoyant bouquets of narcissi ease

him into sleep. An owl’s wing softly rubs his cheek, powdering his skin with omens of

death and lust, swelling in unrest to clasp each other and cry out together, never again.

 

“I feel my heart growing as the sea when she swells before the storm.” *

 

He dreams of faded flowers, fruits too ripe, which fall away into the thickness of the night.

Clinging to twilight bride’s back, she shows him stars that burn eternal and have no limits.

Come morning, he remembers nothing. Only echo of memory, a thought – of distant remorse.

 

“All have passed. There remaineth me”*

 

 

©  Katypoetess 2015

 

*Gustave Flaubert – The Temptation of St Anthony.

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve

 

Hearts heave a relief

of homecoming.

Anticipation smiles

on silent beds

of every young child.

Wreaths of activity

yearning for a peace

that never arrives.

 

Following evening star

in slipshod time

of glittered hope

and gifted uncertainty

that reflects

in each other’s eyes.

 

©  Katypoetess 2015

 

3002042

 

 

Unrequited

 

The head of a rose

dry and broken

like a soft word spoken

which was not heard.

 

The head of a rose

petals close together

intense love held forever

which was not seen.

 

The head of a rose

leaves are tattered

a life lies scattered

which was not known. 

 

 ©   Katypoetess 2015     

Empty Tomb

 

Magdalene Tomb V2

Swaying

a sweetness,

trespassing

salt-cracked hearts

that pass in prophecy.

 

Stumbling

upon angels,

awaiting

steadfast negligence

of tranquil demands.

 

Rolling

stony silence,

coveting

words that ache

to be born

into my arms.

 

Time ticks wanton.

 

©  Katypoetess 2015

 

Sonnet 1

 

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That she (Dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain,

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,

Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay:

Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows,

And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way.

Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:

“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”

 

Excerpt from Sonnet 1 – Philip Sidney

Not to be taken (lightly)

 

Dark, dangerous moods,

light, romantic notions,

she mixes his tempers,

tastes resulting potions.

 

He is potent and addictive

as an absinthe fountain,

without the silver tap

to gently control the flow.

 

waterhouse_the_sorceress_BMJ

 

 

Ecstasy

Ecstasy V2

His discipline
was her most
desired mercy.

He subdued
and elated her
simultaneously.

He affronted
her with exquisite
hedonism.

She kept him
with sacrilegious
possession.

Reminiscent
of a memory,
she was yet
to treasure.

In their intimacy
he humiliated her,
until she learnt
humility.

Unfounded –
they remained unfound.

In ecstasy.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

Benediction

 

He was her all black and blue

He was her every backward move

 

Bitten lips, sugar swollen tongues

unable to breathe, only to succumb

 

Wild-rose rush, indecorous release

bewildered by being hostage beneath

 

Afterwards, he whispers her to him:

“You are so loved,

you are so loved.”

 

© Katypoetess 2015

The Gentleman and the Gypsy

 

Hunting

 

Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches

scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,

trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.

 

Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –

pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,

skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.

 

Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek

need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,

wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.

 

Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,

tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads

sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daises to caravan of calling

 

He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,

“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying

to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”

 

Shooting

 

Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.

Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides

her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home

 

Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption

in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.

He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.

 

She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.

Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.

Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.

 

Slowly the revered curse of middle aged folly bears a gallant courtship

of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.

Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.

 

Fishing

 

Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.

Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.

Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.

 

Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,

but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into

caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daises once again.

 

In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,

he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine and their fortunes aligned

The circling raven caws an oath to them both – “So mote it be, so mote it be.”

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

 

 

Dumb Destiny

 

I cannot speak to you anymore.

Though over these clay hearted years,

we never really spoke at all.

 

So now it finally must end

as I am taken once again

by collared, artistic agenda.

 

I cut languid love loose

re-tie dumb, devoted knots

that only he will now render.

 

Forbidden of fruitful verse

which may wistfully introduce

play on words of mourning.

 

My pen breathing jealous

reluctantly moulds itself madly

into new, amorphic belonging.

 

So you remain not lost – yet never found.

Source material that floats as cirrus,

I cannot speak to you anymore.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

The Sun

 

When you show yourself to the woman you love,

you don’t know your fear is not fear, itself.

 

You have never been good,

but now you are so good,

 

who are you?  Is it the liquidity of her skin

that bathes the world for you,

 

or her face, captured like a she-lion

in your own flesh?

 

This summerbed is soft with ring upon ring

upon ring of wedding, the kind

 

that doesn’t clink upon contact, the kind

with no contract,

 

the kind in which the gold is only (only!) light.

Cloud covers and lifts,

 

and sleep and night and soon enough, love’s

big fire laughs at a terrible burn,

 

but only (only!) because pain absorbs excess

joy and you shouldn’t flaunt

 

your treasures in front of all day’s eyes.

 

Brenda Shaughnessy