First Date

You collected me in your Datsun
Purple, I think.
Tape player on the dashboard 
playing Dire Straits 
as we drove to the Ekka.

Dagwood dogs and sample bags
You carried my favourites,
cherry ripe and freddo.
Walking around sideshow alley
we held hands.

You won a goldfish
after scooping it out of a tank.
We had to carry it around, 
swimming in a plastic bag
filled with water 
knot in the top.

The fish came with us 
on the ferris wheel.
We took turns holding it 
while eating strawberry ice-creams
and watching the fireworks.

When I got home
I put it in the tank 
with my sister’s fish
but it grew a lump on its head 
and died a few weeks later.

© the dishonest woman  

She grew wings

Hieronymus Bosch

She left, not by morning train, but grew wings and flew away. At first one tree fell, and then another, until all around her the forest came down. The mist lifted and at long last, she could see for miles. What had once seemed so beautiful, revealed in the light. Thorns not flowers that tore at flesh, and fruits that tasted bitter. Her wings faltered as she took flight, causing her to stumble. But eventually she soared. High above, she took one last look at the scene below, a cruel and heartless wasteland. Before her wings carried her, far far away.

© the dishonest woman 

Botero's Broken Hearts

Botero

The trapeze rope hung between them, their hands holding on tightly.

Once again, she would allow it to carry her high above

while down below, he pulled against it with all his weight.

The dog meanwhile, sat patiently, watching and waiting. Loving her.

She looked at him but said not a word, sweat building on her brow.

In the stalls, the excited crowd were silent, hushed in anticipation.

The familiar touch of the rope, coarse against her fingertips.

She knew what she had to do, only this time she would do it alone.

He mouthed the words, the same he had whispered many times,

as she lay with him, encased in his arms, her cheek brushing his.

But now, as he stared into her eyes, he knew without a doubt,

when she returned back down again, she would no longer be his.

She ascended up into the circus tent, where the lights shone brightly.

He watched intently as her green tights disappeared from view.

Far from his reach, only now did he realise, just how much he hurt her.

Tears did fall, first a few and then many. The rope slipping away.

Her fall was swift, though she tried her best to hold on, her cry filled the air.

A few in the crowd screamed out in horror, others covered their eyes.

He tried in vain to grab onto the rope, to save her from the ground.

Loving her. Only the dog knew, just how many hearts broke that day.

© the dishonest woman 

Brussels Sprouts at Dawn

She suggested vegetarian at ten paces, so I wrestled a carrot out of the ground to ward off her swinging brussels sprout stalks, I was unprepared for the swede, a tricky manoeuvre which shelled peas couldn't appease; celeriac for coeliac, barley for the rest, we settled down to cornbread and beer; her mother said it would end badly, but we didn't care.

by Anon.

At 6 months

cold nose, ears flapping, warm heart

© the dishonest woman 

When the trapeze artist fell

Botero

Taking to the high wire,

no net below
she forgot the crowds
the showman, watching.
Much was at stake.

In him, she trusted, 
to be there when
her arms outstretched, 
he would catch her.
Stop her from falling.

Believing his words 
'I will be there'
She ascended the ladder, 
grabbed the bar, 
and took flight.

Her trust ill-placed, 
words but careless banter.
She reached out,
and there was nothing,
but hard ground below.

© The dishonest woman

I follow you

Through the snow, I follow you

© the dishonest woman

The Angry Bull

Botero, Angry Bull 1995

Valentina was a restless soul

Seeking out adventure and excitement

She enjoyed the thrill of the chase

playing cat-and-mouse

being pursued

desired

But he took her by surprise

She hadn't counted on such an angry bull

driven on by the relentless pursuit

to leave her nowhere to go

naked and breathless

cornered

Thrown about and into the air

Valentia came down to land upon his back

and although he bucked and reared 

she gripped his horn tightly

refusing to surrender

enraged

And so the angry bull stopped

impressed by her spirit and tenacity

to allow Valentia to sit upright

astride his muscular flank

no longer restless

tamed

© the dishonest woman

Erasmus and a grotesque old woman

I came across Quentin Matsys (or Massys) because of his painting A Grotesque Old Woman (also known as The Ugly Duchess).

Born in 1466, there are a number of interesting details about Matsys. With an interest in 16th-century artists from Flanders, I have been researching the Guild of Saint Luke and the Antwerp School of Artists. Matsys was a founding member of the Antwerp School. 

But his background is equally as intriguing - Legend has it that Massys gave up a career as a blacksmith to woo his wife. Apparently, she found painting to be a more romantic profession. Alas, another source says that the real reason was due to sickness and he was simply too weak to work at the smithy. I'm going to stick to the original story as I think he looks like a romantic soul. Whatever the reason, he was a very successful painter during his lifetime. 

The Ugly Duchess (c. 1513) National Gallery, London

As for the grotesque old woman: 

There are a number of symbols indicating a desire to return to her younger days. She wears the aristocratic horned headdress of her youth, but out of fashion at the time of the painting. In her right hand she holds a red flower - a symbol of engagement so perhaps she is trying to attract a suitor. Sadly for the woman, it has been described as a bud that will 'likely never blossom'.

There is a possible literary influence of Erasmus's essay In Praise of Folly (1511). This satirizes women who 'still play the coquette', 'cannot tear themselves away from their mirrors' and 'do not hesitate to exhibit their repulsive withered breasts'.

Oh dear, Erasmus - such an unkind remark does not bode well, especially as it was International Women's Day yesterday.

One snowy day

Snowed overnight and now, white flakes dance in the air.
The ground pristine, like marzipan on a Christmas cake.
Rays of sunlight burst through, causing ice to glitter.

Silent and still, barely a sound, 
just the whisper of birds, the rustling of leaves.

We traipse over a snow covered field to
venture into the forest, transformed by
a carpet of lush thick flakes.
You run off ahead, leaving me behind,
the branches above creaking under

the weight of an uninvited burden.

Our footsteps leave a trail behind,

deep impressions that spoil the perfection.

Bitter cold wind, to burn my cheeks.

Fingertips numb and painful, toes stiff.

Crisp fresh snow that crunches underfoot.

I quicken my pace, hoping to warm up,

under two coats, a scarf, an extra pair of gloves, 
a Russian hat. Yet still, I'm cold. So very cold.

With your thick coat, you don't even notice

the ice particles attaching to your fur.

Bounding over snow-covered logs, you

chase the birds retreating in the hedges,

and sniff out new scents the chill has released.
I pick you up and see ice clumped in patches
between the hair on your paws.

Eventually, we return home to

sit by the fire. Slowly peeling away layers, 
warming ourselves with hot chocolate and biscuits.

Wishing for another day of snowball fights,

closed schools and stranded cars.

© the dishonest woman