June dreaming

It’s June, and I’m dreaming of roses –
roses that murmur
in all shades of pink,
from the whispers of kisses
to the bright brazen hussies
that hang over the path.

There are roses here
for all of your dreams:

the striped ones,
that trumpet
a thousand big tops,
tatty but tempting,

or that pure white wildling
escaped from the hedgerow
that carries me homeward,

or, buxom and wholesome,
the rambler that climbs,
and blushes and nods
as you enter the gate

or the red one that carries
the rich smell of wine,
and the softness of lipstick,
the warmth of a dress,
the gloss of a nail. .

I could drown here, you know,
I could drown in this garden, that’s
heavy with petals heavy with rain.

It’s June.
and I’m drowning in roses.

Dreaming for the solstice with earthweal.


Oh but her hair
smells of roses

she brings summer
into the kitchen with her

leaves a trail of sunshine
on the staircase

birdsong spills
out of the bathroom

but roses
always roses

their soft petals
their sharp thorns

Lillian is hosting at dVerse tonight. She’s inspiring us with artwork by Catrin Welz-Stein.


This is my response to Louis MacNeice’s poem Snow. It’s for Brendan over at Real Toads who asks us to respond to a poem that inspired us. 


You came in, and suddenly
the room was full of roses,
as if you were the tipping point
that made it all make sense.

Inside, trapped warmth, rich scent,
and all those roses crawling up the walls,
across the curtains, and the glass vase
swelling on the wooden table,

one petal on the shiny surface, fallen.
Outside, winter,all lines and angles, woodcut.
The world turns in analogue, infinitesimal.,
but we see the moment when the load shifts.

World is evolution.

I’m struggling here. This room too
soft and fragrant. I could sink,
but there is something urgent
out there, beyond the glass.

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes—
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands—
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Rose Quadrille – for DVerse

I wore a rose
High at my throat
Loving to catch
The scent of it
From time to time

And then you tore
It from me, as
If I’d stolen it
And crushed it
With your angry feet

And now the scent
Sickens me.


Bjorn is tending the bar at the poets’ pub tonight and is asking for quadrilles with the word “rose” in them.

You should take a look at what’s happening over there.

NaPoWriMo 8 – flowers. Number 2.

The Rose

A rose is almost human –
I mean, we’ve made it so –
An endless metaphor
For skin, for lips, for secrets.
A breast is a rose, and a mouth,
And a baby’s hand
Is a rose unfurling.

The colours of the rose are human
And the language of the rose is love –
Love pure, love passionate, love undying –
Even as the petals brown and splay
They offer up their scent.

You can get drunk on roses
An excess
Of perfume, and of love.