Poetry and Photography

By Jacqueline Rose. Main: @jerkeline

[rose-poetography]

Ululate at the top of my lungs Down by the water Before the sun Cold white grasp of winters morning Prideful shoulders stiff and straight Crunching back Feeling fate Biting wind the day is yawning Fury tears my breast asunder None too soon Distant thunder Black clouds bode a grave forewarning Rain fall steady, water sheeting Heart exposed Grimly beating White caps whip and crash in mourning Teeth, hair, nails and grey blue skin Ice burnt air Hot within Sunrise spears the sky with dawning Smoke on high from final pyre Laying deep No longer tired The cold white grasp of winters morning

[rose-poetography]

A garden is a wonderfully healing thing to have. Verdant earth, sweat flowing down my back Bare feet on the warm brick pathway Alyssum in the shade of the lime tree Scents of tomato and onion, basil and lavender and rosemary on my hands, and us, hand in hand. Sweet summer peas swelling on the vine Flowing water and wind chimes, In the shade of the lime tree Bare sweat down my back Rosemary on my hand and your hand Peas swelling on the vine Flowing water And wind chimes Rosemary on your hand Under the lime tree Hand in hand Bare Sweating Swelling Flowing And wind chimes. And wind chimes. And wind chimes. And wind chimes. and healing. in the shade of the lime tree. hand in hand.

[rose-poetography]

I am the kind of woman who keeps flowers in a vase on the windowsill, who cuts them herself. I blow kisses to myself in the mirror I cry into the morning and dream. I keep myself in a vase on the windowsill. I gaze outside at the morning and dream, and cut myself down, and cry into the mirror. I blow kisses to the morning and keep dreams in a vase on the windowsill. I smell the flowers as I walk I keep a mirror of myself and cry for her. I am the kind of woman who keeps flowers in a vase on the windowsill I cry, and dream. I gaze out at the morning and blow kisses to myself in the mirror.

[rose-poetography]

Scraped empty tin can Cheap, thin polyester jacket thin polyester jacket See the sun rise through. Weigh light on my hands Body, warm on my skin warm on my skin Turn like we're used to. Meet where it began Smoke, butterfly sing butterfly sing Before all withdrew.

[rose-poetography]

Black coffee and cast aluminium like my mother and I Cheap wine in the mouth like spoilt grapes, cheap friends, burnt glass Spring is fiery red, it comes at the end of autumn and we skip winter altogether. Can anybody cook? Cook me up some eggs? Two eggs, and burnt toast, butter, and black coffee in cast aluminium like my mother, and the end of autumn. The sauce needs fresh cracked black pepper, and cracks in the glass on the side, and cheap white wine spoiling in the mouth. Music on the TV, paintings on the floor, soft couch and a cigarette We skip winter altogether. Spring is fiery red Fresh black coffee from cast aluminium, Autumn is gone, The grapes have spoiled for good and we’ve skipped winter altogether. But spring is fiery red and we’ll be alright.

[rose-poetography]

For all the lives we've lived before and all the people loved and lost, for all the times that we were sure would come for which we'll pay the cost. The cost, of course, of living well or living poorly, either way the cheque will come, and it will tell the tally at the end of day. What price too steep to pay for love? Is love not worth a penny spent? Is living and the joy thereof not worth a taste of discontent? So pay the charge and don't assess the balance of these daily trades, find comfort in all life's distress for it does pay us back in spades.

[rose-poetography]

Time, or perhaps age, has revealed to me that paranoia is not only defined as the fear that everyone is out to get me, but also the fear that no one is out for me at all.

[rose-poetography]

Misery layed upon misery like paint over paint over paint over paint over paper over plaster settled and cracked, peeling back to the fear beneath the fear of a child. Desiccated flecks of old pain crumble beneath a steel spring bed frame, white and eggshell and straw yellow and teal and paisley and white, the walls weep tears long dried and forgotten. It's all falling apart, please cover it up a fresh coat will do, just enough to hold on. Maybe red this time.

[rose-poetography]

Sometimes you just need to feed the ducks. Scream and cry but stay alive, go outside, and feed the ducks. See native bees, and moss on trees, at times like these go feed the ducks. With tears in eyes, meet dragonflies and fishy fry and feed the ducks. So stay alive, my sweet don't die, just go outside and feed the ducks.

[rose-poetography]

Static space time curve bring me back upon myself taste my own medicine taste the air as then as now. These lessons I've had before no need to learn them again really, honest. Just look back, it's all still there, around the bend as then as now. Bring me back upon myself so I don't have to do this so I can watch the sun rise as then as now.

[rose-poetography]

Ten years gone, and ten more in the chamber If only I'd the courage then I wish to have now. A decade without, then another Never to be the woman who was written Never to be now If only. A decade, I'm choking on myself. You're telling me This is the good outcome? This is what's right? Ten more years. I guess I'll take it.

[rose-poetography]

Shadow cast breathing, striving

To be whole, pushing, building

Itself in form, straining, growing

Yet powerful, real, physical

Strength and shape, bold, stretched

Thin through time, steady, balanced

On hands and face, sharp, contrasting

With curve of leg, elegant, agile

Swift of wit, mindful, brightness

Pressing forward, in, out

Of the need, pulls, constructs

The self.

[rose-poetography]

I want to be something.

The air, the wind in your hair

the breath in your lungs

Water, fresh and clear

cleansing as it runs

The ground beneath your feet

stable, consistent

The sun in the sky

relentless, persistent.

I want to be something

other than me,

I want to be something

that you need.

[rose-poetography]

But return we shall,

ever and ever,

To that well of death

To sip at dark waters,

To satiate our thirst

For blood

For flesh

For bitter taste of vacant nullity

and drown ourselves in vicious ecstasy,

So they who follow may drink their fill

and return anew the ceaseless will.

[rose-poetography]

I get lost in the betweens. Between books, between shows, between projects Between houses, between places Between Tuesday and Thursday Between two and ten degrees C Between loves Between losses. I doubt I can move on from the unstable constant, The changeless fundamental between, But I keep moving. I keep moving.

[rose-poetography]

We all share the same sky, but this piece is mine. Sirens and church bells ricocheting down, share warnings of complacency. Construction next door grinds and drills and hammers into my skull sharing my concentration, attention. Boxed in, sharing space with concrete and chipboard and lino. Three hundred dollars per week to share. I feel cramped, cramped in, I'm cramping up. But here in my kitchen, feeding my family, there’s standing room for two and I'll share with you my piece of sky.

[rose-poetography]

Autumn is my favourite season and yellow is my favourite colour. The world wears it better than I do.