6 March 2010

For Leonhart

I made a smudged interpretation of a fuchsia,
Muddied onto the page in Ireland,
Where dogs are named for the wrong star,

I find my way by fuchsia-bush Satnav,
The crushed petals plotting a map;
Second stigma from Tufnell Park
And straight on till Hampstead.
The map is now well-trodden,
Releasing rotting perfumes
Just as Ronald releases nausea when
The flowers are beneath his foot.

Phew, she said whilst drowning,
No longer playing the heroine
Of an exhausting gothic melodrama.
She had peaked, but now prefers
To float as a mannequinned martyr.
She chassées into futile cha chas
Down the sewaged moat,
Making her red gown wilt.

Wash, dry, rustle taffeta,
And silk shot with scarlet,
Vining, veining, blotting blood
That scabs with fine flesh tissues.
Expose those billowing bloomers,
A shade darker than the tutu,
And dangle tiny ballet slippers,
Quiver, caught in gentle gusts.

Grown beneath my smudged interpretation
Is the greatest compliment I ever had;
A copy of my flower, stuck with



Ma said...

Did you do two pictures then? The other one's in the kitchen. And its beautiful.

anna said...

It's a bit rubbish ACTUALLY, but I thought I'd make it into POETRY. A nd do you remember that old runty dog called Orion?
The other picture was done by Nick, remember? He was jealous of my mad art skills, and attempted to recreate my masterpiece. He almost-succeeded/not-quite-failed.

Ma said...

I do remember Orion - that was a v nice holiday despite traipsing round Dublin for light sabres.....