all screeching whispers? Very well then, in the gloom
we set about acquiring one another
urgently. But on a temporary basis
only as guests – just guests in one another’s senses.
But idiots to feel so safe you hold back nothing
because the bed of cold, electric linen
happens to be illicit…
To make love as well as that is ruinous.
Londoner, Parisian, someone should have warned us
that without permanent intentions
you have absolutely no protection
– If the act is clean, authentic, sumptuous,
the concurring deep love of the heart
follows the naked work, profoundly moved by it.
Rosemary Tonks became known in the 1970’s as the disappearing poet. She lived as a recluse for many years until her death in 2014. In her last known letter to a cousin she admitted feeling “boxed in and under the most frightful mental pressure”, a sad way for a writer to be remembered. Hopefully this will act as a reminder as to the sensual and vivid quality of her writing.