Warming her pearls Posted on 30th July, 2014 by Clare Flourish under culture 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 Share this:TwitterFacebookEmailPinterestLike this:Like Loading... Related
Applause here from the front row ! A new tradition, maybe? It’s a really cool poem, Clare … and somehow I know or met Carol Ann Duffy (or merely recognize the name). I come from a family of poets, in which I once came downstairs to find E.L. Doctorow giving my Aunt Olivia a foot massage as Adrienne Rich (I think?) recited by the fireplace. It was a strangely crazy and wonderful place to grow up.
Indeed Crazy and wonderful.
More Carol Ann Duffy. Well, sharing a poem as a blog post is fine, especially if I am away with less time for blogging, as until 9 August.
May we always (metaphorically speaking) be away until the 9th of August … unless it’s something bad, in which case, ignore that.