Five Poems by B. Pargeter

 

From my emerging collection: Psychopomp 

 

In the dye of the black

  

Angry deep, slow and ancient to the keep 

Where men sleep and wrap the sun in lengths of fear 

And bring me cockles with bowels full of blood,  

that haven’t any need for the sun. 

And you will not run or call or cry 

As the caws of the creature stir in the dye of the black

 

 

Scarlette

  

Silver spun mistress, scarlet with bells, so heavy and cast in tin plates 

Opaline streets, showered in heat, shimmering with all the moisture of the air 

I haven’t held a hand so red that Solaris himself has kissed your palm himself and made the dents and creases with his own glass, carved a lifetime of fates 

Look at the pearls and opals now Scarlette, take your pick of the stones 

You will never own such a gem unless your eyes glimmer with cavernous delight, gaped into the watery summit of the earth, silver and blue, silver and blue

  

 

Aureate

 

Aureate beauty wilting in the summer air 

On fair and gentle sun rays catch  

The eye of wanton passers-by, 

to grieve a single wanton touch, 

My love is not gentle thing  

Nor warm and blissful in blooming haze 

But bent and taken far away with my elusive moonlight gaze

 

 

 Hræfn

  

Hræfn, old Odin’s bird, brigand with a spy eye, look now and see 

The lock master has forgot his key and thrown away the night wreath at his door 

Oh, look now and see more! There is a chance of prey with souls abroad, for us old, stale birds 

Beneath the door, unpecking the floor, at boot of rusty Odin, we chore, we chore. 

A plucked soul pecked free from limbs, from eyes, from mind and picked and torn and ravaged in the air with dust, with death, with peace. 

Lonely body, laid on stone, the kissing cold the only blight that dampens skin with every touch 

Now look again, and see anew, a home where birds abandoned, flurry flock lifted in the blue

 

 

 Daphne

 

No laurel likeness will be mine when I am dead 

Nor twisting blooms entrap my back 

I’ve seen the very path our Daphne fled 

Its foul land, laid waste by fiery temper  

Let me rot, corpse and bone, flowers to be my only cruel tempter 

As I am and always will be fainter than bluest, bluebells in ancient forest splendour.

 

 

B. Pargeter - is a performing arts student, from Herefordshire. They say, "I often find myself painting a picture of the natural and classical world in my poetry, as I was lucky in my childhood to often be on walks with my family, exploring the Malverns. I would always lend an eager ear to tales of nymphs, dryads, and spirits. My poetry is my emotional conduit; I find acceptance through it. I am 20, but I've had both an eventful but somewhat isolating life so far; my poetry has been my touchstone through tough times and good times."