joie de vivre?

Sunday afternoon, a basket of fruit.

A luncheon prepared,
with cherry red fingernails.
An orange, sliced.

Fernando Botero – Picnic, 1989

In the gentle breeze
he sleeps, contented
as the volcano burns.

Two glasses, she pours,

and then two more.

A rug, in the valley.

Bread, sliced.

As clouds drift overhead

he snores, contented

as the cigarette burns.

She drinks her juice,

eats a grape,

and then a fig.

Puts his plate aside.

Too much fruit

for two. Discontented

as the desire burns.

A baby, she says,

perhaps even two.

But he hears,

not a word.

When finally he wakes,

The volcano still burns.

And a fork. Left behind.

Mary couldn't stay another day longer.

 © the dishonest woman

Found, one red phone box

Found, one red phone box, immortalised.

© the dishonest woman

After posting a Bowie song on my blog this month, I was quite chuffed to come across this on my travels around London...

 

 

 

Who was Saskia van Uylenburg?

This unusual church in Sint Annaparochie, in Friesland the Netherlands, caught my eye recently; as did the quaint sculpture out front. The woman, Saskia van Uylenburg, seems disproportionally smaller than the man.

So who is Saskia? She was born in 1612, the daughter of a Frisian major. 

I can only uncover a little about her life - that she apparently married for love, to a painter  who was socially no match for the daughter of a patrician. She had four children but three died shortly after birth. The fourth, Titus, survived but Saskia died the year after he was born. She was aged 29, probably dying from tuberculosis. 

She was also the wife of Rembrandt van Rijn.

You know you're in love...

when you let someone go to sleep on your tail

Barefoot under Moonlight

Dancing 
barefoot on sand.
Fingers entwined,
I twirl
into your embrace.

You lie and

tell me I'm beautiful,

then laugh

at my jokes,

whisper into my ear.

Moonlight

 over still waters.

A bonfire

lights up the beach.

Your hair wet,

my sunburnt skin 

sore to touch.

Music plays out,

a familiar beat.

We share a beer.

© the dishonest woman

To scissor or not to scissor....

So I was workshopping a chapter this week and I have a scene where one of my characters breaks a strand of cotton with her teeth. She would have a pair of scissors, says someone from my Writer's Group. I'm not so convinced - nor others in the group. She would have had a little sewing kit, another insisted. But she's a baker's daughter in the 16th century, we debated. If it even existed, could she afford such a thing? So I go off and investigate.

From Nederlandse Proverbs

. 

And what do I discover? Bruegel yet again. There are a pair of scissors in his painting Nederlandse Proverbs (on the left hand side, under the awning):

On the left here, is a pair of 16th century scissors - which seem remarkably similar to those painted by Bruegel. So it seems that my character doesn't need to use her teeth after all...

Two quilts made with love

Two quilts, 

one brown, one green,

sit folded at the end of beds.

Quilts to snuggle under,

providing comfort

when it was needed.

Blankets have come and gone,

but these have always been,

always will be,

special.

And now I run my fingers 

over stitches.

Fine stitching 

made by your hands. 

I trace the edges of animals 

chosen to remind us 

of home. But really,

they remind us 

of you.

And of course I feel sad

for time has passed too quickly.

But just like these quilts,

each labelled 'made with love',

our memories remain

to keep us warm at night.

Reminding us of

so many happy times 

filled with love

and Joy.

for Aunty Joyce 

10th November 2017

This morning

6 this morning
biting,
cold winter has dawned at last,
minus
centigrade and brave
cats scratching to escape
outside
into the cold chill
of a biting
winter,
stretching icy fingers
©  A.

9 this morning 

biting,
cold students arrive at last,
minus
a couple running late
some scratching to escape
inside
a room with no tables
of a biting

annoyance,

writing on knees

© the dishonest woman.