Lilac Passing

It was the first summer she was allowed to go to the seaside by herself. She was working as a guide, so there were still rules and timetables to conform to, supervision and rebukes to endure. But the clothes were uncensored, the lipstick was hers to wield. She could laugh loudly and often, she could dance as if no one was looking. Her light no longer concealed by the well-meaning protective shade of her parents’ bushel.

One dazzling older man painted her portrait. He sprinkled praise as liberally as his colours.

‘You’re not quite ripe yet. Not yet at the peak of your beauty. Give it another two or three years and you will be truly unforgettable.’

So she waited for her irresistibility to commence. All year she lived in preparation for that delicious delirium, like the lilac bush in her parents’ garden at home. The green leaves so bland to casual onlookers, but she knew it was expectant, ready to burst one day into intoxicating flower.

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By the end of the summer, she’d met the sensible young man with a future ahead of him, the kind of man her parents had always craved. By the following summer she’d persuaded herself that this was her dream too. They got married, setting up a tiny home in a capital city that was much too expensive for them. She worked three jobs at once and still their money ran out mid-month, while he pursued studies which would carve out that promising, tantalising future. In her rush from night-time proofreading to early morning classes, from private lessons to the vegetable stalls at the marketplace, from cooking to cleaning to washing to bill paying and housewife-playing, she forgot to check for her bloom in the mirror.

She made a modest name for herself, a tiny bud in a scholastic tree of excellence. Invited to study abroad, she worked even harder: to fit in, to catch up, to keep up, to maintain the respect of those who funded her. There was no more room for housewifely contortions. Her marriage withered on the stalk. She sought refuge in the life of the intellect. She scraped, she scrabbled, scoured and swept, till she rebuilt a small nest fo herself in that new country, new language, new group of friends.

Then, one day, she looked up. She paused just long enough to catch a glimpse of the person in the mirror. The lilac bush had grown blowsy, the flowers curled up with frayed brown edges. The scent was now tinged with the onset of rot.

She’d blinked and the flowering was over.

This was written as an exercise at the Geneva Writers’ Group on Saturday morning. We were discussing metaphors taken from the natural world. Did I tell you what a wonderful bookish Saturday I had? Literary workshop in the morning, going to the theatre with my younger son in the afternoon and then a poetry reading in the evening. Days don’t get much more inspirational than that.

Autumn Clean

Remove-Makeup-Step-1For days I’ve caked my face with no make-up,

nor dried my hair with gusty blow.

I’ve not set forth in world’s jungle with bayonet lipstick,

I’ve let lianas grow.

I’ve invited light in, with a naked face.

Finished sentences, allowed time to think.

I’ve let children wander, rise above balloons of their fears,

and drift back with or without answers.

No urgency there.

I bask in the pleasure

of dayfall, dawn briskness.

Cooler temperatures make mountains clear

so inspiring

we always believe we can start afresh.

No Reflection

She had a way with mirrors

She tamed them with one look.

No periwinkled gape emerging, unplanned, confusing,

No fairytale abasement of princess lost and found.

She knew the score, the path, and scaling

Was her day job, to step on meek cadavers, to pursue, victorious.

Each face thought out,

Lip drawn in cupid perfection

With dervish undertones.

Eyes framed with agate offerings,

The brow? A work of art, unfurrowed and unhurried.

Regrets are someone else’s,

A sleight of mind, eclipse of hands,

And back we are, unwrinkled,

To smooth-held opinions and shifting granular sands.

Meanwhile, the portrait in the attic

Waxed crueller by the year.

Writing Exercise

This was a 5 minute writing exercise that I was set in a writing group, based on a photo prompt.  I’ve been unable to find this picture again, so you will have to take my word for it: it was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of a Cuban woman in white traditional dress, smoking a cigar, looking out of the window.  She is flashing an insolent smile straight at the camera.  Some makeshift flowerpots are teetering precariously on her windowsill.

The thyme is doing well this year.  Grown all over, in a hurry like a virgin about to be married, all ready to jump into the nearest pot.  Majoram, now that was a tricky one, hasn’t sprung the smallest green shoot. Rowdy waste of time. But who said aloe vera would never make it in a tin? Just bore’em and stuff’em, I always say.  Look at it now: it’s tall, it’s spiky, it sucks up my smoke like a greedy suitor.

Speaking of suitors, it’s nearly time for him to pass by again for the day.  He can’t keep away.  He thinks he’s so irresistable in his shuffling walk-by, with his fancy hat, his spit-polished shoes, his thin moustache. I’m sure he can dance and gaze into my eyes for days.  All he needs is a little feeding, watering, to grow into the man he could become. Do me proud, like my plants, every day.

This time there will be a pause in his shuffle.  This time he will look up. And learn to linger.

Wallflower

It is the swirl, ah, the twirl of laughter

blending hoops,

caressed, undressed with light fantastic,

small steps,

quick flicks.

We sway, away, tingling with burst of flight.

How trim, how sensual those Senegalese hips!

As the Bachata envelopes us in its languorous abandonment,

we rejoice in their envy-soaked grasp.

 

Drowned in cocktails and promise

of bloodened lips, how alone

she felt, past desire, amid the rhythms, the tropical beats.

Not young enough

or pretty enough

the sequins now scattered,

a face in the crowd, too much flesh in a sweat,

as she seeks to convey

all her love for the music,

and forget.

And forget.