Tag Archives: observations

Silent Day

That there were no birds on this

Christmas Day was strange enough—

no roving bands of coal-tits

committing rapine on my plants; no

robins with their proud strut; no

blackbirds with their

profound sense of ownership; no

starlings mobbing up then

splitting to squatter noisily;

no rooks or crows; no

libidinous pigeons pouting on

rooftops; merely a few

far-away gulls

skriving the swift wind—but

what was strangest was the

immense silence.

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Desdemona in the Playground

Portia just farted and is

red-faced but to be fair our

Director put us through a

hard workout as he sees

“Othello” in a school playground with

Othello as the immigrant kid.

 

Does that mean we are all

child brides? “Let’s move on”.

So I am hanging upside-down on the

monkey-bars, my skirt over my face,

showing my knickers to Iago and

God knows who else.

 

He takes me aside after the rehearsal:

“Your hair…” “Oh do you want it

up or down? Top knot or perhaps a

ponytail?” “No!” he whispers, “No,

down there!” Oh, so

I am to be a child again?

 

Not a woman,

not an actress,

not a person but

just a doll with

no genitalia in the

theatre of ideas?

A Mother and a Daughter

As she was going she

went back to those

childhood woods where she

could hide for hours and

be naughty but you

resented your absence from a

world where you

weren’t conceived or

even imagined.

Anaesthesia

We so anaesthetize dying that

family and friends may as well be at a

pre-Funeral, unable to touch and

talk, reminisce and laugh through

what might be pain but may

also be love’s last kiss,

abolishing last words

famous or not.

An Easterly

The wind gets to you the way

other weathers won’t,

smiting your face with

unexpected blusters, the blows

turning your cheeks red,

chasing you round corners

as though each gust was

after you personally and

each grain of grit

aimed perfectly at the

centre of your eye.

Salted

footprints2

The snow recuses itself from the grass, but

retains my sole, though my

thoughts are salted with

such impurities the snow

should surely melt.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

The Flotsam Trail of Memory

I love because I love—

there is no other reason, and

reasoning cannot

undo love, with all its

tethers and tendrils, its

flotsam trail of memory

from faded photograph via

forgotten pleasures to the

cold text with its cursor

blinking in time with my heart

in a dark, emptied house.

GIF

Do you know you are a GIF in
someone’s Performance Art? The
gold in your blue uniform glittering in
old sun, your hot-pants emphasising your
long dark legs, your
silver batons never quite
twirled above your
shy smile.

But then we are all a GIF in
someone’s mind, some moment
burnt, looped in the soul, some
mannerism eternally annoying, some
gesture that caught in the throat, a
split second when the mask slipped, and
your face cracked open with a
shy smile.

White Noise

Each flake absorbs one

microdecibel of sound

squeezing the air silent

all the botheration

compressed by coldness into

white noise released

distortedly in the

sharp crunch of a

well-shod foot.

 

Milly Schmidt

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