The Glass House

 

Winter has sucked the landscape

back to black and white

but in the glass house

the world is plump and curved,

full of juice and spectrums.

 

We sit on the edge

of the savage garden

where tropical flowers

shred the light with their teeth.

The steamy scent

of sap and green life

soaks through our coats

and makes us sweat.

 

In here, nothing is subtle.

Hungry proboscis leer

and lick the balmy air.

Colours pulse, drip and dazzle.

Petals do not drift or whisper,

they drop onto the dirt

with a succulent thud:

He loves me, he loves me not.

 

Later I will remember

the liquid names of plants

that kill with sweetness:

Nepenthes, Pinguicula, Saracenia.

I will think of those gentle Latin nouns

turning into sensuous verbs

and I will think of him,

his shy soapstone fingers

turning into claws.

◄ Audio recordings of me reading my poems for 'Poetcasting'

'The Big weekend' ►

Comments

<Deleted User> (7904)

Mon 22nd Mar 2010 21:36

The thing I love about this poem, and the others in your profile, is the sense of the aliveness of the natural world, the way it provides a sort of counterpoint and an echo to the actions of the human characters.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 13th Jan 2010 21:47

This is great,Gaia. Frances' comments are spot on. Totally fabulous are 'tropical flowers shred the light with their teeth' and 'drop into the dirt with a succulent thud' and many more

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Frances Macaulay Forde

Wed 13th Jan 2010 03:43

Yes - another very successfull poem - strongly visual, threatening and contrasting. I enjoy the drama and conflict you manage to include in so few words.
Well done you!

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