YellowFlower Part 2

Welcome to a new page on my website – YellowFlower Part 2.
This page will continue the aims of YellowFlower Part 1. In addition, many of the poems will be accompanied by the artwork of Teesside Fine Artist Dianne Bowell. A more comprehensive range of Dianne’s work can be found at. Her exhibition “Broken Down” is currently being shown at the Python Gallery in Middlesbrough.
artwork by Dianne Bowell
artwork by Dianne Bowell
Titles: 1. Heart Trilogy (a. Loving Heart, b. What Lips my Lips Have Kissed by Edna St. Vincent Millay, c. Elizabeth Barrett Browning: You Have Questions to Answer). 2. Click. 3. Roberta Joan Anderson and the Vapour Trail. 4.6:20am. 5. Manifest. 6. Natures Snake 7. Howls and Whispers. 8. The Bone Carrier


“It came o’er me like the sweet sound,
that breathes upon a bank of violets,
stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
’tis not as sweet now as it was before”
From Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

——— ♥♥♥ ———

8. The Bone Carrier
I sit alone
listening to the absence of life,
held in a grip of semi-hibernation.
I see you time and time again
through defeated indignation,
carrying your cold white bones; proud of your height
that walked with carefree intelligence.
The hooded robe
that floats in pools about your feet,
of ghostly beauty and fathomless eyes.
I name every bleach bare bone you carry,
so that one day I can piece you together.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

artwork by Dianne Bowell
artwork by Dianne Bowell
7. Howls and Whispers
If love is the ultimate joke
on which our universe turns,
then memory of love is the cruel mistress.
We are haunted by the punch line of former lovers,
as we make our emasculated crawl into the mine shaft,
like Shakespeare’s messenger
enduring the flirtatious wrath of Egypt’s last Ptolemy.
The stumbling, humbling final act. A path
pitted with regret and phials of perfumed misfortune,
of poisoned tongues and bloody reckoning.
What is stronger than death? Not love.
When death owns the whole stony earth,
the sensuous rivers, all of space,
and is stronger than hope.
Even our last breath is his,
our last howl or whisper, is his.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
6. Natures snake
I believe in beginnings,
not endings.
Endings deceive you as to their nature.
They lie in wait,
as eager as ink,
waiting for words,
not yet on the page.
Natures snake,
patrolling the margin
of your senses.
The earthquake telephone call,
the inequity of silence,
the tears for lost Edens.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
5. Manifest

((adj. clear and obvious. verb (of a ghost) appear))

I saw it happen,
or I didn’t.
Behold an open door
and we are immediately seduced by the possibility of what lies beyond.
Liberation or the disappointment of a mirror world,
the flirtation that leads to adultery or
roads not taken, people not born.
Not long after his death
I saw my father in an empty train carriage. Manifest.
A flick of the peripheral vision.
I saw it happen,
or I didn’t.
The door closed and history remained the same.
This can’t be laid at the page of the writer’s imagination.
It happens to many.
Was he in an intermediate state of being?
How many are tricks of the light?
How many are connected?
How many are in the state they purport to be.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
Artwork by Dianne Bowell
Artwork by Dianne Bowell
4. 6:20am
6:20 aah yes 6:20am,
the waking hour:
380 shapeless minutes after midnight,
Here they come, a bleeding trail of  bone white curves and straights,
running deep into the colours of my pillow;
the synergetic six, the troubled two, their empty cipher in tow.
My numerical bete noir.
I prepare myself for wakefulness,
the familiar morning curse,
released at the swish of the curtain rail.
A new page.
A dark portrait,
a rectangular sky swimming in ink.
The warm musty tang of morning in my mouth.
My heart opens and closes like the red blooms
that cling to my outside wall.
The synergetic six; the leader of the pack,
 whispers in my ear, and sure enough,
as predictable as time itself,
at the invitation of my outstretched hand,
his beautiful innocent face emerges in portrait light,
partially hidden by bone white numerical shapes that spell
Love is a shadow in the heart,
inhabited by a cry…
or is it the silent scream of a perfect O.
Oh merciless moon,
once a lovers present, once a pale yellow lantern of remorse,
once a shower of mixed blessings.
You have identified a time for madness and nailed to my cross.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

joni mitchell

 3Roberta Joan Anderson and the
Vapour Trail.
You lived for language,
not pressed flowers inside scented pages.
The limb of the cherry blossom tree
your window on the world.
Reckless brazen in the play of your changing traffic lights
A vapour trail beautiful and true, suddenly
without warning swallowed by the sky.
An artist “derailed by circumstance”,
and I’m left with an aching why
and my head above the beach tar
staring at the incoming tide.
There is no comprehending
just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
and the lips you can get,
and still feel so alone.
I am the coward slinking down the hall
for another restless night.
I seek refuge behind your words Roberta
you and your rhythmically complex life,
your songs of skaters chasing dreams down frozen rivers,
white lines on the freeway, vapour trails and false alarms,
send me waves of comfort lapping over me.
For you are in my blood Roberta,
in my blood.
* words in italics from Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter and Coyote by Joni Mitchell

——— ♥♥♥ ———

2. Click
Click…finger poised, hovering…and
Click you’re swimming in the lowest common denominator link bate and
Click you’re diving into inconspicuous consumption and
Click you’re immersed in hastily abandoned underwear and
Click you’re cast in marble by doomed slaves and
Click you’re a monument to naked ambition.
Oh click…oh click…oh click


1. Heart Trilogy (a, b & c)
artwork by Dianne Bowell
artwork by Dianne Bowell
 (a) Loving Heart
The exploration and the exhilaration,
of boundaries and passion…
The soft give,
the healing of pillow talk.
Barbarity tamed, chaos subdued.
It was love,
like the mathematician and their symbols,
like the poet and their phrases.
A rapture shared,
each breath like ancient silk
clinging to skin

——— ♥♥♥ ———

artwork by Dianne Bowell
artwork by Dianne Bowell
(b) What lips my lips have kissed
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
under my head ’til morning; but the rain
is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
upon the glass and listen for reply,
and in my heart their sits a quiet pain,
for unremembered lads that not again
will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
yet knows its boughs more silent that before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
a little while, that in me sings no more.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

artwork by Dianne Bowell
artwork by Dianne Bowell
(c) Elizabeth Barrett Browning: you have questions to answer
Seduced into your world, gladly,
assignations and trysts,
stolen kisses and silken beds:
how do I love thee? let me count the ways.
To the poets we turn,
foraging Browning’s pages,
leafing with eager fingers
where lovers part, where lovers meet
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height.
Careless lovers,
navigating a carefree path,
across a careless world,  oh careless heart,
I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need
by sun and candlelight,
blissfully unaware of what fate awaits.
So cruelly you kissed me,
your lips of cold blue steel,
left me screaming in silence
at cankerous lines,
blurred into shameful shadows before my eyes.

——— ♥♥♥ ———

Artists Gallery

joni mitchell

edna st vincent millay 2


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s