Rosemary Dun, Poet, MC, Writer, Tutor

My Mother's Shoes

In dreams my mother
stretches her arms up
Then with ballet dancer pose,
she is Isadora Duncan dancing barefoot
across a luxurious lawn.

Or, she is sat in a fold-up chair
on a kiss-me-quick beach
as she dangles and swings one
high-heeled sandal
from the tip of her painted toes.
Dangle, click back. Dangle, click back.
As if reluctant to let go.

In front of mother's wardrobe mirror
I practice grown up;
pirouette and clip clop in red dancing shoes
my mother wore when American
G.I.s begged for more
as they walked her home past factory gates.

I stretch and point my own
ballet dancer toes:
then apply red lipstick
to my smiling face.

POETS IN LOVE

Part 1
Why Poets Make Great Lovers

He said: “We are poets,
and for us,
a single leaf is - autumn.”

Part 2
Why Poets Are Dangerous Lovers

You fall in love
because he reads
a beautiful poem
which is dedicated to you.
Only later do you
discover
that it's
one he’s had
knocking about for
ages, and that
he merely substituted
an old lover’s name
for yours.

(The inspiration for this poem is obvious. It may or may not be based on reality.)

Double Bass

This poem was inspired by an American musician with a gorgeous well-loved double bass. "She's my older woman," he said, as he stroked her curves.

Let me by your older curvy woman, baby
C'mon feel my comfortably cushioned bones
Pluck my strings, run your fingers all over my silky skin, baby
Turn and slap me with your deep down dirty tones,

I wanna vibrate to your virtuosity
I wanna be your double bass, baby
Take me up and down, slow then fast
In a musical master class
Cos I can tell from the way you play
That you love a curvy older woman's ass.

Let me be your older curvy woman, baby
Run your fingers up and down my silky skin
Make me hum with the dum dum dum
Of the music, baby, play all over me
Until I thrill to the skill of your man dexterity.

Run those big hands like they got plans, baby
Be the lover of my deep down dirty bluesy tones
Turn me, slap me, c'mon baby, feel my womanly moans.
We can thrum to the hum of lovers lost, lovers found
Lust sated, recreated, on the rebound.
Yeah baby, we can make such a glorious sound.
You make the scatological truly biological.

I want to strum with your fingers and thumb
Tingle your nerves with my natural reverb.
Just let me be that older curvy woman baby
And run those fingers up and down my silky skin.

Poet Breaks Chair, Not Heart

(not the real Labi Siffri - worse luck)

Labi Siffri came to stay,
ate my porridge, then tried out the
green
antique leather chair, over there.
And, as befits the
gentle Daddy Bear of poetry -
he was upset when it
stretched and groaned,
then finally snapped.
Underneath.

Labi Siffri touched
the inside of my arm
in the niche of my elbow.
Round and round the garden
like that big old Daddy Bear,
he teased and lingered,
then asked whether I too felt a tingle.
I said it felt more
like static electricity
to me.

Labi Siffri says he’s glad we met
has been all het up and had
a dream.
It wouldn’t take a brainy poet to know
it was
bound to have been obscene.
I could tell by his coy looks
and the way he kept thrusting
his books at me -
especially signed next to his
erotica
poetica.

Labi Siffri didn’t break my heart,
as I told him its already taken
by another American who
whispered lust,
made me promises,
spoke of us
then went back home to his
wife.

But I have a lasting reminder
of Labi - over there.
Evidenced by the broken
slats at the heart of my
chair
where he sat with
words too heavy to be borne.

Rapunzel

So, they kept me in my tower
at the top of those stairs -
Sleeping Beauty, Briar Rose,
rattler of chains.
I was pretty in waiting
my face black with cinders and with sugar cane.

If I was lucky,
they'd let me have a Lady of Shalott
mirror mirror on the wall
for me to peer and check that I could be
the fairest of them all.

If only I could get clean -
blonde
If only I could be good -
face as white as snow pitched
on a glass coffin.
If only I wasn't Jo with a temper
so fierce it burnt out dear Mama
and killed sweet sister Beth.

Then I could let that old wizened man
into my cell,
and he'd give me the power to spin
my hair into gold,
plait it as the strongest silkiest rope
to fashion my escape.

Rumpelstiltskin, thrice-said,
was how I surprised that incubus
sat upon my chest.

I named his horrible demon demands
named him, and nailed him
so that with a puff of smoke,
he disappeared.

And fire devoured the briars which
spun their prickly falsehoods around
my tower.
And I cut off the long hank of my
just-for-him hair with golden shears,
so that
no more would he climb,
prick my finger,
nor ravish me awake.

Instead, my howls which once
had filled my madwoman's attic
with despair,
announce the birth of my
daughter.

We hold hands and jump.

Pro-Life

There was a baby curled tight as a male
seahorse loops its tail around its young
who floated free, to be beached too soon

from a warm ocean of promises. A boy
who broke the hearts of fallen angels
and who reaches up a tiny boneless hand to mine.

Over a bed a machine beeps and traces
all the kings horses with sirens wailing
they glide by on the castors of a nightmare

stopped, silhouetted against a remembered hill;
his finger raises as if to point the way to the labyrinth
that leads to The Centre of The Earth.

And I see your eyes big as the star child
who turned in deep space to Strauss's waltz
as somewhere stranded on a white sheet

the skeleton of Arnie Sachnussen points the way.
So I kick hard in my amniotic sac to where the sun is born.

Sober

Without my familiar
colourbox set
of useless love affairs
and empty glasses
I am as transparent
and vulnerable
as a jelly fish all
washed up.

Saturday League Football on Durdham Downs

We crunch through toasty autumn leaves.
My Mum and me.
I hold her hand, and we stamp our feet.
She laughs, pulls off my woolly gloves then rubs
together my frozen ice-lolly cold fingers.

'Here comes your Dad,' she says.
And, with a clatter of studs across tarmac'd path
he's on the grass;
runs a few steps backwards, waves
And I'm amazed he doesn't fall over,
especially when Taff slaps him on the back.
'C'mon Chas.'
Then he's gone - running down the pitch,
leaving Mum and me to stand on the touchline.

The wind whips my legs red raw in their
long regulation grey socks.
And when I look up into Mum's smile,
warm as Heinz tomato soup on a tray
with crusty bread roll,
I could forgive her anything.

Down The Rec

He kicks the ball to Jamie, then runs over
to me.
'Hey!' he says, and thumps my arm.
'You gonna hang on?'
And, though I'm expected back,
it's time for tea, and Mum will shout,
and slap the backs of my legs for being late,
I say: 'Ok.'
'Great.'
Then off he runs for his kick about
with Jamie Wilshire and Stephen Quinn.

And, as I watch the sun getting lower
over the witches hat roundabout,
starlings gather round on trees.

Where's my mojo?

I seem to have lost my mojo.
I can't quite remember where.
I'm pretty sure I had it in 1998
I went upstairs to get it - you know,
the way you do.
If I remember rightly, I went up there with you
but when I got to the top,
I'd clean forgot
what
I was looking for

Someone else must have it.
Have you?
I'm pretty sure I had it in 1982
We drank Banana Daquiris, and Mai Tais
in San Francisco bars;
where they all loved my accent
'Hey, can you say that again?'
And I went home with the singer
in a cowboy Stetson hat.

I definitely had it then,
In fact, as I recall,
I had it 3 times in all
Hotter than a hot sweaty boogie on a
roller disco floor
'Ow! Get down boogie oogie oogie!'

Look, I know I had my mojo - I did!
It can't be far.
I had it in 1990 as we had urgent
standup sex up against the wall,
and a soft little mermaid with blonde
waves was formed, all
curled up as your seahorse eggs
swam for mine.

You must remember
You must remember

It was 1989 when we went
back to your room
and I was imbued with the smell
of you
and I didn't shower
the next morning as that would
have been
like leaving.

You must remember
We were punks, you and I
and I drew liner all round your eyes,
and lipstick on your lips so that
when we kissed
we both wore the same shade.
I know I had it then,
and when I hid your soft plaid

lumberjack shirt
so's I could wear it after you'd gone
and the smell of you could linger
on and on and on and ...

If I close my eyes I can smell
the taste of my lost mojo -
It's early morning toast,
a broken heart never mended, and a half empty
pack of Rothmans

Hell, I want my mojo back.
Have you seen it? Have you?

There was that time,
1985 it was, during Live Aid
and we sat all day on your roof
getting high as David Bowie
and Mick Jagger did their boy on boy
strutting stuff.
'Calling out around the world ...'

You must remember, we
couldn't get enough.
I wore my mojo out, so it got sore,
and the next day I walked home like
John Wayne,
minus his horse.

But my mojo was missing when
I shagged that 20 year old boy -
you know, the way you do.
And he cried and said:
'I thought you would teach me what to do'
so I said - me too - dooby doo.

Look, I definitely had my mojo
when I saw you and we went
to the back room of a dark club
and you said: 'Mmm. You taste so good'
I had it then, and that was just
last year.

So, if you should happen on my mojo,
if you've stolen it, please,
I've got a hot date tonight, its needed
really urgently.
I know I took it for granted
used it often with no thanks.
I'm like a cat without a tail
A neutered feline Manx
So If you know where I have left it,
I truly am bereft without it.

Have you seen my mojo lately?
if so, its wanted back here greatly.

Webcam Wham Bang

He could have let me go,
on that wet Seattle street.
We’d have had our memories of holiday
                       romance -
full of longings, and oh so,
                   bitter sweet.
We could have sent jokey emails knowing they’d
                   get less and less;
but no, we had to go
                      and do the dirty,
and embark on webcam sex.

Oh yes.
After he suggested I buy a Logitech
                                  webcam,
complete with Yahoo – that bit’s free;
it wasn’t long before we were peeking,
then going for a more lingering
                   look and a see.
Its virtual guilt-free furtive sex.
A cyber snog behind the bike sheds.
Its an – I’ll show you mine,
                if you’ll show me yours.
Its naughtiness enacted, all for you, behind closed doors.

I’ve spent a fortune in La Senza,
                   plundered Debenhams, Marks and Spencer
getting racey in my lacies and my satin
                                 underwear
I’m a dancing, prancing floozy, uninhibited -
                                  devil-may-care.

It’s a "Quick get your kit off and that webcam
set on zoom"
before your loved ones happen upon you -
in front of your computer - in your room.

Its seductive! And its free.
As with webcam you can be your very own
porn film wanton star,
With an audience of one, who’s adoring, and - more
importantly - afar.

You can always get the focus and the lighting
                             as you like it.
Be filmed from your best angle, brightly smiling,
                                        softly back lit.
You can make sure that you’re wearing new and
                                        sexy knickers
as you enact an intimate party game of lusty tarts and
                                               vicars.

Its not cheating, I just want to be his ultimate
sexual fantasy.

You see,
webcam luvin' is fantastic for us artists -
as we all live in our heads.
You never have to actually do it, nor suffer
used condoms round your bed.
There are no awkward following mornings,
nor turn over goodnight kiss.
You simply log off, you should try it.
Webcam naughtiness - it's bliss.

also see

webcam videos (www.ladyofshalott)

My Mother's Shoes

In dreams my mother
stretches her arms up
then, with ballet dancer poise,
and pointed toes,
she is Isadora Duncan dancing barefoot
across a luxurious lawn.

Or, she is sat in a fold-up chair
on a kiss-me-quick beach
as she dangles and swings one
peep-toed high heel shoe
from the tip of her painted toes.
Dangle, click back, dangle, click back,
as if reluctant to let go.

In front of my mother's wardrobe mirror
I practice grown up;
pirouette and clip clop in red dancing shoes
my mother wore when American
G.I.s begged for more
as they walked her home
past factory gates.

I stretch and point my own
ballet dancer toes:
then apply red lipstick
to my smiling
face.

Plumbing

If I was Sylvia Plath
I'd know how to plumb
The depths.
But I'm not.
So I'll have a bath
Instead.

Until You Do

There are monsters by my bed
growling
Because once upon a time I let
them in
and had two beautiful babies
that I picked up, one under each arm,
and fled
through the woods to a place
where stood ramshackle and
not very nice houses.
That would do.
That were better,
At least I could try and cover the cracks
and block up the holes where the monsters
poked their snouts through to snuffle
at the pretty babies.

But in time, the wolves turned up.
Huffing and puffing they threatened to blow
all the houses down
And one by one the houses did come down
but each time I built stronger,
and better houses.
One of straw, one of sticks, and finally one
of bricks
which had no gaps in the stripped floors
nor any holes in the skirting boards.

The babies grew into beautiful
yet watchful adults.
And one cloaked herself in fear to guard
against the monsters;
whilst the other stopped up her ears
and donned the best armour she could make
out of stories, and bravery.

But it was no good. The monsters still
lurked by the side of my wardrobe,
still came at night to tug at our
bedclothes and scratch at our dreams.
Until one day, I shone a torch on those
monsters which lurked.
I shone the beam on their lying hiding
hidey-hole.
And they went away.

Poets In Love

Part 1
Why Poets Make Great Lovers

He said: "We are poets
and for us,
a single leaf is
autumn."

Part 2
Why Poets Are Dangerous Lovers

You fall in love
because he reads you
a beautiful poem
which he wrote,
and is dedicated to you.
Only later do you
discover
that its an old
one he’s had
knocking about for
ages, and that
he substituted
a previous lover’s name
for yours.

Rosemary Dun

Happening

Work

Fun

Media

Poems

My Mother's Shoes

POETS IN LOVE

Double Bass

Poet Breaks Chair, Not Heart

Rapunzel

Pro-Life

Sober

Saturday League Football on Durdham Downs

Down The Rec

Where's my mojo?

Webcam Wham Bang

also see

My Mother's Shoes

Plumbing

Until You Do

Poets In Love