The Poetry Bus: Feet Up in the Back with Pure Fiction

Lazy, lazy lazy!

Yes, it's Poetry Bus day, with Pure Fiction. The challenge was transformation, so what else but my best friend Max Factor. In an old poem which has been posted before, confounded Douglas Dunn and never quite got there yet for me. However, on the plus side it's got a bit of the requisite recurrence.

So apologies for pulling one out of the lost rucksack; for fresh work and all the other passengers, go here http://fictionalfictionwriter.blogspot.com/2010/09/bus-is-now-taking-passengers.html


If You Were To Watch Her

If you were to watch her, this is what you’d see:
first, she goes to the mirror with the best light,
not the kindest, and checks for smears on it.
Then she washes her face and hands,
dries them, applies the spot solution she makes herself,
(don’t ask, it involves bleach, to her shame).
Next, moisturiser, running out, which is a shame
as it’s expensive but the reduction she can see
in visible lines, the evening of skin tone in candle-light,
the minimising of gaping pores means it
must be worth it. A king’s ransom in her hands,
she dots the lotion carefully over herself.

First layer, foundation, again blended by herself,
just one shade lighter, surely no shame
in that, for it’s what people see
not what you are that counts. In the right light,
evening light, she could almost be … rise above it
a small voice counsels, but still out go her hands
to reach for the concealer, and those hands
stretch the blue-black skin beneath an eye and she herself
the artist now, paints on oblivion from shame
until her face becomes canvas and all you can see,
all you can see at last, is two eyes and light
and that, she thinks, that, is it.

So now, careful as an icon gilder, she can layer onto it
the colour she does want, and her nerveless hands
select the blusher first, blended by herself
to recreate the delicate flush of a petty shame,
minor blasphemy or risen hem, steps back and can see
it’s done it’s job. Eye shadow next, sparkling light
painted onto lids, then kohl to contrast dark with light,
to hypnotise and mystify, mascara finishes it,
dust loose powder over all, setting, and now her hands
finally choose the deepest red, old-blood-red, herself
Snow White now, alabaster skin she dreams, ebony hair, lips of shame
Red. Finally, she can let our eyes see.

For should we see her harsh in morning light
bare, before, then just as if it were the apple in her own hands
bit with own mouth, she’d cover, hide, exile herself, burn with shame.