Poem: Frida’s Brow


Frida

Frida’s Brow

An uncomfortable recess

lay between past and present

mother and father

adoration and infidelity

 

Greater still was the chasm

Yawning

between agony and ecstasy

cleft in two

at the point of a metal rod

 

Even the paintings

methodically dissociated from themselves

“acid and tender”

shattered mirrors of  love and life bisected.

 

Only a sharp, thick, glossy bar of ebony

to unite warring factions

connect the dots

between a being of two minds

and two spirits.

 

A Poem for Women’s History Month

File:Queen Mary's Crown.png

Wee Elizabeth Learns to Count

My father was under the impression

that girls didn’t do math

couldn’t do math

shouldn’t do math,

but very young, and in spite of my gender,

I learned that one sickly son

was greater than the sum of two daughters

brimming with their father’s temper,

that a mother with divided loyalties

could easily be separated into two parts,

that each sworn love could be added,

subtracted,

one cancelling out another,

that both waistlines and egos

were subject to exponential expansion,

and that when asked to account for one’s

self,

it’s always preferable to keep the

remainder at one.

Poem: A Spot of Tea

File:Buffalo Pottery Argyle Teapot.jpgA Spot of Tea

Precisely four cups of water

luke warm

Kettle positioned in the centre of the element

set to high

Boiling only until the timer sounds

Hot the pot

Two bags in

Five more minutes on the timer

Exactitude in seemingly-random splashes of milk

in small spoons brimming with symmetrical cones of white sugar

Viscous, semi-liquid beams of honey

The fresh acid of lemon

A fan of circular biscuits

 

The rest of creation spins and twists

in fractal formation

A daily exercise in nihilism and chaos

But there is order to be found

in the teleology of dried leaves

and steam

warm cylinders of bone china

and terra cotta

cupped between eager palms

Cosmic nonsense set right

with careful doses of Darjeeling and Chai.

 

An Ode To Those Who Live By Their Pen (Poor Souls)

Poet Stuck In a Rut

 

My verse is like a greeting card,

With meter regulated,

Each verse a carefully-measured length,

All meaning strangulated.

 

I swear my fierce, undying love,

For better or for worse,

I pulverize my passion sweet

Into uninspired verse.

 

And to my rage, I grant no flair

For free-verse there’s no room.

Oh, only couplets can convey

My all-consuming doom.

 

The angst, the hate, the fits of joy

That burst forth from my mind

With help from lifeless, starchy odes

Conveniently left behind.

 

 

©️Amy Leask, 2020