I read, and I sometimes write about what I think about what I read. A satisfying superfluosity.
I can be bribed with books and nachos.
And, for those who might be interested, the name of this blog is a convoluted take on “Warming Her Pearls” by Carol Ann Duffy. Desire and Desire and Desire and who knows what roots where and why.
Warming Her Pearls
for Judith Radstone
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I´ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She´s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit´s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head…. Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does…. And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
Carol Ann Duffy (b. 1955), from: Selling Manhattan (Anvil Press Poetry 1987)
Edit 2009: A friend, who currently shall remain nameless who now has moved to WordPress, made the header for me. She is very talented, and deserves books, coffee and cookies. I have this far managed one out of three.
Also: I cannot stay in the Attic any longer because I am afraid of heights.