Are you in, Mr Hardy?

Take my hand, you say, but walk on ahead,

taking huge strides with your long legs.
Besides, I like to dawdle, to wander away from the path.
Something catches my eye and for just a moment,
am distracted. When I turn back, you are gone. 

So I continue on, alone.

Hat pulled down, coat buttoned up, scarf wrapped tightly
around my neck, I trudge onward through damp leaves, 
shades of oranges and browns. The mist is like pea soup. 
I take a deep breath and fill my lungs, the air laced with moss,

and feel the ground underfoot. Mushy and soft, to sink into and

release the heady scent of mushrooms. And rotting earth.

Rain, no more than a gentle mist.

Too cold for flowers, just sneeuwklokjes*, a few ferns. 

And silence. I listen for your footsteps but hear none.

Then, a rustling. Through the leaves a squirrel darts, 
first between trees and then up a moss covered trunk. I watch 

and count, two, three... six, eight... a forest of squirrels.

I round the corner, search through the fog, still nothing... yet, 
the smell? A fire burns. Are you in, Mr Hardy?

© the dishonest woman

*snow drops

Farewell the Carnival

Botero 'El circo según'

The cops came and closed the carnival

so I tied back my hair and packed a bag.
Not one for long embraces, too easily
 filled with careless sentiments,

I said goodbye to the lion, 
the camel and the elephants.

With soft footsteps I passed the carousel, 
where ghosts now rode motionless horses,

while the gypsy woman wept in her trailer.

The clown was peaceful at last, 
propped up and snoring against the tent
his makeup smeared, sorrows drowned, a life spent.

With my bag over a shoulder, I didn't look back
as I headed out onto the road,
leaving behind much more than I was owed.

When you awoke, naked in your beauty, 
I was long since gone. Did you shed any tears?

Was it love? I was never going to stay.

As my back began to ache
 and the blisters on my heels burst,
I sat down on the roadside, amongst 
the weeds, dirt and discarded beer cans.
 Meanwhile the distance stretched on, 
leading to where? I had no clue. 

And then an image of you, 
smiling back at me, 
and I recalled, how your eyebrows rose 
when you laughed, the small hollow 
at the bottom of your spine.
You never once asked me to stay.

The next fair beckons, yet another trailer, 
another lover's charms.
But it is I that is weeping. 

For the calls are empty and meaningless, 
compared to laying in your arms,
compared to kissing you.

© the dishonest woman

If I be wrong

Botero, "La lecture"

She sits to read her favourite book,

pages filled with places she longs to visit,

flavours and scents that lace dreams,

footpaths to one day follow,

of that she is convinced. 

And people she will meet and share 

a meal, a story, a bottle of wine.

But the words begin to blur,

sentences swirling before her,

so she stops and looks away.

She knows the story by heart

lines etched into hopes and desires,

to be weaved through wistful thoughts.

Page 5 a chance meeting on a train,

chapter 2 they share a macaroon,

to holds hands and by page 86, a kiss.

How she hopes this will be the time 

he will realise how special the girl is.

She resorts to tearing out page 125 but

still the girl will break his heart in chapter 7.

Like a cobweb, her dreams are fragile

strands, delicate and flimsy, based on

flawed hopes and unforfilled promises,

made up of chance and prayers and

years of wishful fancy.

In time what has it amounted to?

but pages filled with the same 

characters, and places with names 

that don't exist on any map.

What if she got it all wrong. 

© the dishonest woman

Do not have the shoe beyond the foot

Bruegel, The Peasant Dance, 1567

"Do not have the shoe beyond (more than) the foot"

Lucian, Adagiorum opitome by Erasmus published by Joannis Lori in Antwerp in 1553

So for Bruegel's audience, the large oversizes shoes signified something about the peasants enjoying the festivities - live sumptuously beyond your means is to gratify your appetite without any regard for the future.

Interestingly the peasant in the painting are not poor. The male dancer at the front has a visible purse. His dancing partner has keys, suggesting she has property. A purse also hangs from her belt. Other peasants are celebrating, eating well and there is an abundance of food and drink. 

Erasmus also warned:

"not to be so lavish at festivals that we have nothing left for everyday expenses"

Gustav has no secrets

Botero, Melancholia, 1989

You can trust Gustav, his friends would say,
he has no secrets, no nothing to hide.
They all know his love of satin,
delicate silks, sheer chiffon, the finest lace.
He has been known to turn up to parties
in fetching frills and pearls,
off the shoulder silk, to complement his décolletage.
He is exacting in his appearance,
choosing earrings, a gold necklace and matching
bracelet. His finger nails painted and elegant,

though he refuses to wear high heels.
He tried it only once and stumbled, rather
ungracefully, down a flight of Berkeley stairs.

When the bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon
disappeared at the end of the evening,
no one suspected Gustav.
And when the crystal candleholders
were gone from the mantlepiece,
no one thought of Gustav.
The diamond necklace,
the collector's first edition,
even the antique hand mirror;

why, no one guessed Gustav.

Because, you see, Gustav has no secrets.

© the dishonest woman

Botero's Gardening Women

Botero, The Garners' Club, 1997

Mrs Garcia, from no 6 Seaview Crescent, grows roses 

that win rosettes at the annual fair. Only this year she came second.

Vivid reds, soft pink hues, delicate yellows and tiny white blossoms. 

Even one speckled with dashes of burgundy.

She gave one to each of the ladies in her gardening group. 

Except Gladys Winthrope.

Mavis Bridport lives alone in a bungalow at no 1.

She doesn't like roses and much prefers forget-me-nots. 

A far more amicable flower than the rose. Without thorns, you see. 

Now Gladys Winthrope, from nearby no 3. Well! She can grow anything.

Unlike poor Agnes Smithson and her dahlias. The less said 

the better. She won't be winning a rosette any time soon.

Agnes doesn't very much like gardening,

but there isn't a lot else going on in Seaview Crescent.

She tries but the soil is not very forgiving and her knees less so,

her feeble attempts are the talk of the street.

Especially that nosy Jane Harlow, always poking 

around her neighbours' gardens with a rake and fork.

Gladys has a secret. Farmer Downing brings her manure

when he stops by for tea and biscuits. And a tumble.

The others call it her magic touch. And it is, in a way,

she thinks with a smirk. She's not going to tell them otherwise.

Mrs Garcia, her rival in the rose competition, puts it down to luck. 

And it would have stayed that way...

Until Miss Harlow started poking around Gladys' roses.

She tried to stop her, of course, but Jane had already spotted 

the manure. And she told the others over coffee.

My! What a stir it caused. Poor Agnes spilt tea 

down the front of her pretty blue dress.

Mavis said Gladys should return her rosette immediately.

It was Mrs Garcia who asked the question.

Who's giving Gladys her fertiliser? It wasn't difficult to work out.

Not many farms near Seaview Crescent. Mavis wasn't at all impressed. 

She'd asked Farmer Downing but found him a grumpy so-and-so. 

Agnes had even offered him her famous apple pie. 

And so Gladys' secret (or two) was no more.

© the dishonest woman

Illusion

Shadows play tricks, making me believe what isn't there. It's all an illusion. A clever deception that disappears before the sun sets. Who's to know what was real and what was make believe. For shadows will always disappear, to only remain as fragments of distant memories. Left behind is the silence and fading recollections. So I drift away. And should the shadows return once again, what was once is no more, but lost and gone forever.

© the dishonest woman

Photograph by Ian Fyfe

Botero's Lovers

Botero 'Lovers' 1969

He dreams now, sleeping under a dusty pink bedspread,

in a bed, safe and warm.

Hours earlier he lost himself completely, 
succumbed to her loving embrace. 
Desires, strong and demanding, for her.

He recalls fingers brushing against his cheek, over his lips,
knowing, every line on his face.

Eventually they had fallen into a contented slumber,

side by side, encased in each other's arms. 
He nestled into her hair, to inhale her sweet aroma.
Tender, soft loins pressed against his.
Desires, insistent and all consuming, for him.
His hands rested lightly upon skin, luscious as velvet,
knowing, every curve of her body.

She rises early, sits on the edge of the bed,
places her slip over her head.
The feel of his touch lingers, fingertips rough yet gentle.
She longs to return to sheets, once so inviting, 
now crumbled and dishevelled.
Will he love me tomorrow, she wonders?
knowing, it will never be her bed.

In his dreams she still lies beside him,
the lingering scent of her perfume deceptive.
But the pillow is cold, just an impression left behind,
where her head once was. His arms now empty. 
Later, he finds a strand of hair, long and brown.
Will she love me tomorrow, he wonders?
knowing, she will never be his.

© the dishonest woman

Bruegel's hatchet

In Bruegel's painting Peasant Dance a hatchet can be seen on the sign hanging in front of the inn. Harmless enough, one would think - surely a hatchet is only signifying a trade?

Bruegel, Peasant Dance, 1567

But Rabelais tells us otherwise: It signifies a certain instrument used for cutting down and splitting timber. It also signifies - at least it did of old - a female frequently, soundly, and unceremoniously laid on her back. In fact every good fellow called the girl who gave him his pleasures my hatchet. (Gargantua and Pantagruel p 445)

This is not the only time Bruegel included a hatchet in his work:

Bruegel, Seven Deadly Sins -  Sloth

In Bruegel's Seven Deadly Sins series, numerous hatchets can be found. In Sloth, a hatchet hangs from a sign hanging about an inn. Inside people are drinking and a couple can be found in bed.

In Gluttony, the hatchet appears on the sign:

Bruegel, Seven Deadly Sins - Gluttony

And in Patience, a hatchet hangs from a sign, while underneath in the tavern is a prostitute with her customers and some dancing devils.

Bruegel, Patience