Cyanide & Cherries, with cake!

Greetings everyone! Today, I am turning 26 (feels like 96, if you ask me!), and to celebrate, my book, “Colour Me In Cyanide & Cherries” will be on a huge discount for a week. If you wanted to grab a copy, now is the best time! Clicking on the photo leads you there.

 

Third year in a row, I would like to, on this day of my birth, leave you with some poetry to read. Read it out loud and let it echo through whatever  season, time of day or night you are, in hope that all the good lives we are not yet living do not crack our bones with their weight!

Autobiographical by Erica Jong

The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears
as husband, lover
analyst & muse,
as father, son
& maybe even God
& surely death.All this is true.The man you turn to
in the dark
is many men.This is an open secret
women share
& yet agree to hide
as if
they might then
hide it from themselves.

I will not hide.

I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor’s name is Love.

* * *

The Sadness of the Moon

Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed,
Lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty amid
The tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed,
Caressing with an abstracted hand the curve of her breast.

Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover, for hours
She lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —
Haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by
Uncurling indolently in the blue air like flowers.

When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,
Out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,
Some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart —

Catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute, all
Fiery and iridescent like an opal’s sphere,
And hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.

— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

 

Hope you enjoy your weekend! Feel free to connect with me on Facebook or Goodreads, too!