Punctured gasps of bog cotton in the marsh by the stream
only he knew the way through. He liked his knowledge.
He had the gardeners dowse selected plants on the hour,
every hour, calibrating which were the last to droop.
He admired cacti for their instinct, their endurance,
liked the sweat of his greenhouse, the heat forced to its limit.
He logged what could survive, beyond the open mouths
of orchids. He knew all their Latin names.
As a boy, he’d snipped the heads off lilies, now
he wanted beauty, found comfort in the red wounds of roses.
One task he retained; no one was allowed to shoo the birds
from the lawn. He hung his catapult from a hook.
His blooms won prizes. His soil, rich. Bone meal rich.
Katrina Naomi, from " The Girl with the Cactus Handshake" (Templar Poetry 2009)
Charlotte Bronte´s Corset
I´m sorry Charlotte for this disservice.
Of course, your corset is discoloured,
these padded cups no longer coral pink.
Strips of whale plunge the depths
of your bodice, the slightly rusty metal strip
grips from breastbone to wasp-waist.
I feel like a tabloid reporter, sniffing around
the armholes of your life.
.........................I once wore a corset
in my late teens, black PVC over a black skirt,
fishnets and suede stilettos. I didn’t know
a lot of things then, hardly knew who I was,
had barely heard of you. So what gives
me the right to go searching through
your smalls, to lay out your stays
in the library?
.........................I don´t have so many scruples,
can´t be tight laced. I need to breathe
the length of my lungs. And I do know
I´ve made your tiny body so much larger
than in life. Forgive me, my waist
is so very different to yours.