Rain Songs, Wind Pipes and Epitaphs
Rustic tea-pot, you play
French music on verandas
while old men whistle-
the crow caws
on skeletal branches and
the cats skull is too small
for cinnamon eyes.
I put too much sugar in
my cup and it sticks to
the end like words
on a dead mans grave -
My epitaph will read
'Not today’
as if I am a strong willed woman
But lemonade lips and
velvet only appeal to an
ingénue -
in the corridor taking in
the penumbra of people -
French music still plays
mellifluous melodies and
the dulcet drippings of
your voice.
This is nothing but rain songs
and wind pipes -
Native American spiritual
Shamanic sounds to seduce
me into feeding
you.
stallion hoofed and
starry-eyed,
declining dinner with Baphomet
offerings.
This is:
Rue de la Victoire
Flightless Bird in Stormy Weather
I often think about how much
I love you
and that odour that lingers
once heavy doors shut;
they leave this drastic sense
of nostalgia and opiate
infusions that get tangled
in the mess of my head.
There are chills and horrors
in the spines of infants
that strangle the shadows
of sharp hands -
The mirage of sunshine appetites
clouded by the shield of
phantasmagoric shape-shifters.
I am -
statements posed as question marks
lingering on the edge of
mountain tops;
you are, cloudy.
she is, ghostly.
I am -
again questioning the existence
of man and those
kaleidoscopic flashings
in my skull.
Mad woman, always
and daring, never -
I often think of your
shadow and his
shoulder blades sticking
into those infant spines:
I often think of the debris
left behind by she-storms
and the inability to
congratulate reflections
on the attainment of
adoration
'There's magic in dusty corners
and there's life in this shell’
she says, shrinking
Feed Me, Drink Me
‘The Reclining Female Nude’
my body; an art, a showcase,
a display of cosmic crevices
and an encyclopaedia of faces -
torn pages from my spine
papyrus lungs and coffin
breath;
your words run dry like the
rivers in my veins and
I take Neruda from your arms
spilling romance onto
the foundation of our
souls -
'there was something about
you earlier...’
and there is something
about you
now
as pavements crack beneath
brittle bones;
as apocalyptic trumpets
sound for the end of
our forever
there is something
in entwined fingers
and the way sleepy
eyes
leave you thirsty;
sip from my
collarbones-
let my skin be
your cup.
Sharmila Rahman is a 24 year old, sometimes-poet from Cork. Her work tries to convey the female psyche through a prism of metaphors and emotions; focusing on the themes of love, femininity and the self.