National Poetry Month

[brigdh]

Warming Her Pearls Carol Ann Duffy
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head.... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does.... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.

Comments

[stardragonca.livejournal.com]

If you haven't, read 'Mrs Schofield's GCSE' sometime when you get a chance to.

[aonekosama.livejournal.com]

Oh. Thank you for posting this! It's not often that a poem makes me see such vivid images as this one does, and I enjoy it immensely when that happens. And this one brings forth not only images, but touches and scents and sounds, too... *is happy*

[lady-ganesh.livejournal.com]

That's amazing.

[wordsofastory.livejournal.com]

Thanks!

[wordsofastory.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad you liked it!

[wordsofastory.livejournal.com]

Hmmm, never heard of it. I'll have to look it up!