Fifty poems by Pascale Petit published by Seren in June 2010 “A dazzling and kaleidoscopic look at one of the greatest artists in the world, by Pascale Petit, who is a truly remarkable poet.” amazon.co.uk Reviews and other interesting links at the link below. |
The Wounded Deer I have a woman's face but I'm a little stag, because I had the balls to come this far into the forest, to where the trees are broken. The nine points of my antlers have battled with the nine arrows in my hide. I can hear the bone-saw in the ocean on the horizon. I emerged from the waters of the Hospital for Special Surgery. It had deep blue under-rooms. And once, when I opened my eyes too quickly after the graft, I could see right through all the glass ceilings, up to where lightning forked across the New York sky like the antlers of sky-deer, rain arrowing the herd. Small and dainty as I am I escaped into this canvas, where I look back at you in your steel corset, painting the last splash on my hoof. |
Remembrance of an Open Wound Whenever we make love, you say it's like fucking a crash - I bring the bus with me into the bedroom. There's a lull, like before the fire brigade arrives, flames licking the soles of our feet. Neither of us knows when the petrol tank will explode. You say I've decorated my house to recreate the accident - my skeleton wired with fireworks, my menagerie flinging air about. You look at me in my gold underwear - a crone of sixteen, who lost her virginity to a lightning bolt. I didn't expect love to feel like this - you holding me down with your knee, wrenching the steel rod from my charred body quickly, kindly, setting me free. |
What the Water Gave Me II The water opened into the vortex of my daughter's face. Her skin was a rippled mirror. She was wearing the bath around her like a dress of glistening scales. She was my fish-flower. I floated on her tongue like the word 'Mama'. |