Rhiannon Dance: Type II

swimming-pool-photo-by-bomobob

 

Everyone at the hotel
has Diabetes.
The men are turgid pate,
women floppy fleshed and flapping.

The Diabetes may not
have been diagnosed,
but lurks in sugary
crimson slides.

Blood struggles to extremities,
clotting and clarty in tubes
destroyed by years of
beige abuse.

Everyone at the hotel
has Diabetes.
Waxen grey happiness,
sweet fate.

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Rhiannon Dance: Save the Bees Anthology

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I’m excited to announce that my first collection of poetry is now available to purchase through Amazon. I spent a few days going through my notebooks, which dated back to 2001 and picking out some of my favourite poems. The common theme that ran through them was the environment and how it shapes our feeling and perspective on the world.

Growing up in Wales was all druids, enchanted forests, coasts, fields, horses, birds, worms and stone. London is a feisty gargoyle, coughing up her cancerous, sooty lung. These were all themes I had unconsciously focused on throughout my fourteen years of poetry writing.

I hope if you decide to buy a copy that you’ll find as much excitement in reading them as I did in exploring their language and writing.

Link to buy: http://amzn.to/TlbXBe

Rhiannon Dance: Necrophagy I

 

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Singed tips of a wormed mass
fester beneath thatch and flake,
a face turns to dust as a thousand
electrifying ants crawl.

Arm raised to heaven and bereft
of any feeling; the monthly terror,
pulling at eye sockets and nerve endings
locusts and crickets festival.

Cricket bat racquet hand reaches uncertainly
for a link to cry for help,
useless digits blunder and surrender to
a swarm of wasps in my head.

Sylvia Plath: Ariel

Dark_Room_by_ikiz[1]

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! – The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks –

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air –
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel –
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.