A Frivolous Blog

Not that yours truly's blog is usually like oh-so-serious but still, she has yet to degenerate into pure frivolous blogging. But in her defense, she must first proclaim that these are 2 NEW tops that she is quite happy with. Moreover, she is on 2 days leave to laze around. So forgive her giving into the whim of showing off her tops.

Lacra - White V-Neck with Embroidery (the material is fantastic!)

Black Embroidered Top (note the whole length of ribbons behind!

Now think of all the ribbons from *Starry. *nod solemnly*)

Too bad yours truly can't take better pixel pic since I don't own a digital cam, but trust me, the embroidery and fabric are great.

Yes, seriously. The 2 tops are great buys, at least, I think so.

And who are you to say otherwise?

Besides, like I care what you think. *laconic*

Every Gal's Wish

"Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love."
~ King Solomon

***

Hopelessly Loved

To love and be loved in return
A most wondrous gift

To love and not be loved
A most tragic fate

To be loved and not love
A most fortunate luck

To be the less loving
A fate so fortunate
Yet so tragic

For only in reciprocation
Lies the wondrous
Gift

Of you
Of me
Of us

But

If a choice
Was forced
Upon

Me

Then

Dear lord

Let me be loved
More than I deserve

Let me be
Hopelessly loved

Let me be
The less loving

Always.

Kel. 19 June 2005.

:::

Next Topic: Hopeless

Needs of a Woman

Response by: *Wallflower

:::

Mrs. Beast

These myths going round, these legends, fairytales,
I'll put them straight; so when you stare
into my face - Helen's face, Cleopatra's,
Queen of Sheba's, Juliet's - then, deeper,
gaze into my eyes - Nefertiti's, Mona Lisa's,
Garbo's eyes - think again. The Little Mermaid slit
her shining, silver tail in two, rubbed salt
into that stinking wound, got up and smiled, waltzed,
all for a Prince, a pretty boy, a charming one
who'd dump her in the end, chuck her, throw her overboard.

I could have told her - look, love, I should know,
they're bastards when they're Princes.
What you want to do is find yourself a Beast. The sex
is better. Myself, I came to the House of the Beast
no longer a girl, knowing my own mind,
my own gold stashed in the bank,
my own black horse at the gates
ready to carry me off at one wrong word,
one false move, one dirty look.

But the Beast fell to his knees at the door
to kiss my glove with his mongrel lips - good -
showed by the tears in his bloodshot eyes
that he knew he was blessed - better -
didn't try to conceal his erection,
size of a mule's - best. And the Beast
watched me open, decant and quaff
a bottle of Chateau Margaux '54,
the year of my birth, before he lifted a paw.

I'll tell you more. Stripped of his muslin shirt
and his corduroys, he steamed in his pelt,
ugly as sin. He had the grunts, the groans, the yelps,
the breath of a goat. I had the language, girls.
The lady says Do this. Harder. The lady says
Do that. Faster. The lady says That's not where I meant.
it last it all made sense. The pig in my bed
was invited. And if his snout and trotters fouled
my damask sheets, why, then, he'd wash them. Twice.

Meantime, here was his horrid leather tongue
to scour in between my toes. Here
were his hooked and yellowy claws to pick my nose,
if I wanted that. Or to scratch my back
till it bled. Here was his bullock's head
to sing off-key all night where I couldn't hear.
Here was a bit of him like a horse, a ram,
an ape, a wolf, a dog, a donkey, dragon, dinosaur.


Need I say more? On my Poker nights, the Beast
kept out of sight. We were a hard school, tough as fuck,
all of us beautiful and rich - the Woman
who married a Minotaur, Goldilocks, the Bride
of the Bearded Lesbian, Frau Yellow Dwarf, et Moi.
I watched those wonderful women shuffle and deal -
Five and Seven Card Stud, Sidewinder, Hold 'Em, Draw -
I watched them bet and raise and call. One night,
a head-to-head between Frau Yellow Dwarf and Bearded's
Bride was over the biggest pot I'd seen in my puff.

The Frau had the Queen of Clubs on the baize
and Bearded the Queen of Spades. Final card. Queen each.
Frau Yellow raised. Bearded raised. Goldilocks' eyes
were glued to the pot as though porridge bubbled there.
The Minotaur's wife lit a stinking cheroot. Me,
I noticed the Frau's hand shook as she placed her chips.

Bearded raised her a final time, then stared,
stared so hard you felt your dress would melt
if she blinked. I held my breath. Frau Yellow
swallowed hard, then called. Sure enough, Bearded flipped
her Aces over; diamonds, hearts, the pubic Ace of Spades.

And that was a lesson learnt by all of us -
the drop-dead gorgeous Bride of the Bearded Lesbian didn't
bluff.


But behind each player stood a line of ghosts
unable to win. Eve. Ashputtel. Marilyn Monroe.
Rapunzel slashing wildly at her hair.
Bessie Smith unloved and down and out.
Bluebeard's wives, Henry VIII's, Snow White
cursing the day she left the seven dwarfs, Diana,
Princess of Wales. The sheepish Beast came in
with a tray of schnapps at the end of the game
and we stood for the toast - Fay Wray -
then tossed our fiery drinks to the back of our crimson
throats.

Bad girls. Serious ladies. Mourning our dead.

So I was hard on the Beast, win or lose,

when I got upstairs, those tragic girls dancing in my head,

turfing him out of bed; standing alone

on the balcony, the night so cold I could taste the stars

on the tip of my tongue. And I made a prayer -

thumbing my pearls, the tears of Mary, one by one,

like a rosary - words for the lost, the captive beautiful,

the wives, those less fortunate than we.

The moon was a hand-mirror breathed on by a Queen.

My breath was a chiffon scarf for an elegant ghost.

I turned to go back inside. Bring me the Beast for the night.

Bring me the wine-cellar key. Let the less-loving one be me.


~ Carol Ann Duffy (in The World' Wife, 1999)


next topic: The Less-Loving One


PS: *Wallflower, glad that you picked this poem. My fav from "The World's Wife". *grin*

Unending Love

Without warning
as a whirlwind
swoops on an oak
Love shakes my heart
~ Sappho

Seriously, *Starry's answer to unending love is ahem...quite personal so to speak. Yours truly is almost *embarassed to put it here. but hey, she might take the blog down, so for the sake of future *blackmail material, here it is:

I find myself in a relationship, loving you more than you would care for me. Call this a misconception, perhaps? But the aching heart that feels empty without you, and the dreams and daydreams of you and the times we had together, not forgetting the tingle of my skin where you used to touch me with such tenderness, and at every possible moment my act of reading and re-reading your writings to me, endlessly... these obsessions, my love, are cataclysmic of my inner actions never for any single soul and they prove my worth of love. If the physical proof you require, shall we compare tears shed? For the eye's dew speaks true of what is really in the heart. And with this measure, it is once again me who loves you more.

This unending love, that poets and romantics and idealists speak of -- I know it to be true for I cannot comprehend how this heart can be presented so whole and unconditional to you to be taken away and presented for another. This gift freely and eagerly given and used as you please as long as you are it's master and keeper.

I have given you a gift so precious. Do you really treasure it as much as you should?

Yet, it is obvious that I love you more than you for me and the logical truth then reveals that you love me less than I for you. This is the evil reality of human relationships, that it can not exist in an equilibrium.

I recall the day when we still were each our own. Then you'd slay dragons at the risk of your very life because you claim that it'd be meaningless without my favour. And as a knight most honourable, you'd stake your pride merely for this damsel's smile and blush. I was the prize of your calculated actions.

I believe you love me, but my love was in part a conquest too, wasn't it?

While you still sing me your love in your knightly ways and charms sweep me off my feet, and while your lips show homage of affections both through words and deed most effectively, how can this mere damsel resist the heady spell you've cast for the moment? When the bed is left cold on your side and your voice now a distant echo in the mind I can only long for you in a most painful and torturous manner.

Your assurance of everlasting love I need, convincingly and to be taken by the hand or mind to visually see forevermore. Your assurance, if you even tried was futile and even more certain am I that you love me less.

Slowly but surely, your ignorant ways of the needs of a woman will fail you to convince me of your verbal promise of love. Slowly but surely, I will eventually love you less. Soon, nothing, as pain can numb the self.

Wasn't it a pity, that we started out being so sure of evermore but it became a temporary, fleeting feeling to now, nothing?

.::.

Next topic: the Needs of a Woman

Love is a game

between a man & a woman?

A Different Type of Love Poem

Topic: Reborn Rebirth Restart
Response by: *Wallflower

Evolution

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.
Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.
Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in a newer day
And the night of death was past.
Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And, oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled
In the first faint dawn of speech.
Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.
I was thewed like an Auruch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.
I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.
Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west and east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof
We fought and clawed and tore,
And check by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.
I carved that fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush were gone.
And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet -
Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?
God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
We sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that it shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.
Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.
-- Langdon Smith

Next topic: Unending Love

Personally, yours truly think we should leave this topic to *Starry. What do you think, *Wallflower?

Blog Game Reloaded Reloaded - In the Name of Misery

Misery is Arthur Den
Not realizing his down to the last 2 minutes of life on earth

Misery is Catherine Earnshaw
For living in the wrong time

Misery is Othello
For not trusting where he should

Misery is Winston Smith
For his freedom has a price

Misery is Margaret
Trying to face down Granny Weatherwax

Misery is Havisham
For wallowing in self pity in a yellowing dress

Not knowing
Not accepting
Not trusting
Not believing
Not having company

In misery
We live
We grow
We die

Seasons come
And
Seasons go

Flowers die
And
Flowers bloom.

Kel. 6 June 2005.

***
Opps, yours truly missed out the Scribbler's response to Absurd World. Even though to be honest, I was expecting something more existential in essence. *grin* Anyway, here's my reply.

Next topic: Reborn Rebirth Restart