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The Last Bee

The last bee of the summer stung me:
I swelled and cursed and ached.
The last bee ever to sting stung me:
Though my own stupid mistake.

Sunning on the grass, asprawl,
I rolled onto the bumbling bug:
Stung through no choice at all,
It died annoyed: no grave was dug.

The last bee ever to wield a sting;
In fact, the last, the final bee,
Left its spear in my fleshy flank,
Which I discarded impassively.

The last sting stung and the last bee dying,
The last victim recovered and the last hive drying:
So finished the summer, so dissolved the swarms;
So stopped the honey, so cooled the warmth.

2012 02 23 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

Pink and purple wolves

The pink and purple wolves
that bay for the weirdest blood
are out in packs tonight.

Stirred by sparkles and spurred by bling,
driven by drinks with berries,
they stalk on predatory toes
and sneer at the fluorescent moon.

They clink and giggle and shriek,
yet move almost unseen;
blurring into the background scene
giggling visual noise.

If they strike, and cut dead some lamb
out wandering oblivious,
she may wither and die; may stay at home;
or may catch their spangled, bejewelled virus.

The pink and purple wolves,
beautiful, but not too close,
bay for social dominance;
squeal and tumble,
bite and hiss;
dance until the dawn reveals
polyester pelts
and plastic ornaments.

2012 02 22 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

stumbled

As though unstructured, as though momentum abates,
I flail and puzzle over what to do next;
What shall I make happen, now I’ve made so much?
What direction should I push things to make more sense
of the baffling injustices, of the goals unattained,
of the futility of raging, railing against the rain.

I’m sitting with the dilemma of where to turn my mind
Now I’ve ticked through my list of things to do or understand,
Where should I point my eyes and energies
how best to use the time fallen in my hands.

I spill my mind, it scatters outwards, I regather:
I reorder and recollect what I had planned to do.

There’s so much to be mad about, there’s so much to taste
So much to act and shout against, so much to learn, embrace,
That when time ripens and swells I stumble —
I’m overwhelmed with the excitement of potential, I am humbled.

A world of work and of savoury sensations; more!
A world to fight with and against and in favour of and for;
A world incredible, a world beautiful, a world white and green and blue
A world disappointing, a world frustrating, a world aggravating: true,
So as I stumble I kiss the ground, I gather up my spilling mind,
I right myself, regroup my brain, and run to meet what I will find.

2012 02 21 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

Heroics 2

Heroes lost to all, heroes lost to me:
I’ll never be a cowboy, cow-crossing the restless prairie.
I’ll never be an alchemist or adviser in the court,
These are roles forever gone, these are arts no longer sought.

I won’t find myself a blacksmith, a falconer or lord,
There are no pirates to pursue or Vikings to maraud
I’ll never be a conjurer or a travelling salesman,
My children won’t know the pride of a herald-crested clan.

No more heroes left to follow, only my wit and brains,
Figure out my fate myself, with errors and with pains.
Heroes lost to all, and especially to me:
What a curse to have to forge one’s very own destiny.

2012 02 18 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

Unwoken

Carried from the car,
Soft and loosely dangling,
Lost in trusting sleep.

Go warm and easy,
Deep into the dreaming world
And wake tomorrow.

2012 02 17 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

On heroics (in two moods)

I.
What glory they have known, what triumph:
What marvellous figures have gone before.
I am worshipful, I am humbled;
I am inspired to seek, chase, glory more.
I will scale the lofty heights!
I will seek the stars divine!
These preceding heroes will welcome me
When I claim the victory that shall be mine!

II.
These fools: what vanity is man;
Made of dust, to dust belongs,
That it should claim these pointless wins
And boast with tinny, hollow songs.
What stupidity, what arrogance,
What laughable clumsy flaunting
These so-called victors are suited to nothing
But my scathing grunts and taunting.

2012 02 16 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

The Teaser

There is a book just out of reach
I badly want to read:
A want nibbled a little at lunch
Has, tasted, become a need.

I’ve perched it on my work desk edge:
A teasing reward for later
And now I’m hungry for its words;
Its feel of cover, its scent of paper.

I know that shortly I’ll succumb,
And dive back into its wordy glory;
But for now I’m enjoying the agony
Of the temptation of a story.

2012 02 15 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

Weaving

Mother, see the life I’ve woven:
I used only the finest, lushest strands.
Filaments of platinum, gold and diamond,
threads of silks from mysterious lands.

Mother, see how spectacular it is:
see how it reflects the light?
See how glorious my life must be,
how I have triumphed with my weaving bright?

Daughter, it is a beautiful life:
Its colours are clear and beyond compare.
It has such cost, it has such weight;
a life to be treasured, to need such care.

Daughter, be careful not to stain it;
guard it closely, be on constant watch:
Such pains you’ve taken, it would be tragic,
to lose your glittering, expensive swatch.

Mother, see the life I’ve woven,
see how it outshines your own?
I could show you how to weave such a life,
if you want one with a finer tone?

Daughter, no: I want the life I’ve woven.
Your life makes deflections of dancing light:
But I wove mine from light itself,
and, old as it is, it glows quietly bright.

2012 02 14 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

Carpe diem or whatever

I walked barefoot and a scorpion bit me:
I panicked and found myself without first aid.
As I lay in the dust, freaked out and weepy,
I resorted to cheap philosophy for my final day.

I reflected on the issue of money v. time;
I realised children are the future;
I rued leaving dishes covered in grime;
I regretted calling my sister a moocher.

I wished I had visited Paris and Spain,
I wished I written that book I had planned,
I wished I had danced more in the rain,
I wished I had lived with more loving hands.

I rued every day not spent in heady love,
I mourned all the opportunities missed,
I regretted the petty squabbles I could not rise above,
And wept for the lovers I had never kissed.

My fingers tingled: I braced for my fate;
I thought of my loved ones, my family, my friends;
Then a passing groundskeeper said "they’re not deadly, mate:
It’ll hurt for a bit, but it’s not quite the end."

I sat up, covered with dust and with sticks,
He grinned and went on his confident way;
I’d fallen for one of fate’s oldest tricks,
And now, life reaffirmed, went on with my day.

Carpe diem, and all that, and so I should;
My life-lease renewed; my apathy gone.
My priorities are shaken up, well and good;
But later — right now, there’s good TV on.

2012 02 11 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink

The Living Frost

Every day When my Mum came home,
my father hugged her tightly,
with fierce and loving, binding arms,
he repeated the ritual nightly.

"Must you? I haven’t even changed."
She would protest, after a weary while
He insisted, and would hold her steady,
Until she finally laughed and smiled.

"The thaw!" He smiled, kissing her cheek,
"I bring you the thaw of the day."
He only released her when she was grinning,
"The thaw to keep the frost at bay."

"Be on guard against the living frost,
that silently creeps over the weary soul;
obligation’s grind will slowly chill,
and the living frost will freeze you whole."

"The living frost sets in so quiet
you hardly notice the creaking cold,
but once it comes, it settles hard,
it takes a strong, insidious hold."

"So let me bring you the afternoon thaw,
and let me melt hard duty’s chill,
let me preserve your springtime soul,
and the glowing sunlight of your will."

He loved away the living frost,
and melted it with laughter’s beam,
He kept away the living frost,
and so Mum’s soul stayed always green.

2012 02 10 bethini poetry Comments (0) Permalink