SOFIA

Through no fault of her own, she was chosen,
In fact, she was minding her own business
At the time,
Involved in cleaning her own house.

I suppose it was due to that selfish moment
Whilst not keeping company with her neighbours,
Or peering from behind curtains,
That it happened.

It didn't register at first,
Ordinary things never do;
A mindless glance at her wrinkled stockings
Caused just the right angle for her vision.
Even then, it was like looking at
A piece of tissue paper on a skating rink,
Marble-white being perfect camouflage.

And in that instant, she became aware of
What it was,
And what it meant.

Looking over her shoulder she bent down
To focus on such a delicate thing,
Not exactly light enough to be air,
And yet, not rooted to the earth.

But the illumination was too bright,
And the perfect feather
White and sacred,
Seamed to dance around her feet.

She heard the absent bird call out her name,
And in her heart she knew from whence it came.

Jane Sharp
2004

MITES AND OTHER BITING THINGS

Mummy-like I sleep atop my bed,
In sheet-shroud hemp, to save me from the mites,
Which creep inside my app' and feast the night
On flesh and fat,

And now retreated undenied,
They wait unseen, my sweet-oil limbs,
To tap my blood from top to toe,
While I in dream am numb to flow,

Maybe they sink into the nap of duvet, pillow,
Or some gap between the legs and wooden slats,
Which gather dust and harbour gnats,

And, once so fed they rest for days,
Before prepared to guzzle and gorge
The nectar of my honeyed veins,
Again the cause of so much pain,

So, whether these unsightly blotches
Come from micro-mite or other biting thing,
I hope this tight bound swaddling sack
Will keep me safe from next attack.

Jane Sharp 2004

HAIKU ON COCKTAIL HOUR

At Latino Bar
Beneath the October moon
We sipped fruit cocktails

Knowing that too soon
The bewitching hour would come
And splinter the spell

I had in my head
A tune which tinkled softly
Like Tibetan bells

Τα Χρώματα της αγάπης

Πάρε το χέρι μου
και οδήγησε με στην άκρη της νύχτας ,
εκεί όπου άρχισε η σπίθα της ζωής
και θα δούμε τα χρώματα
που βλέπουν μόνο οι τυφλοί .
Θα πάμε ένα ταξίδι ερωτικό
μέσα στο σκοτάδι,
και θα χορέψουμε
με τις κόρες του ουρανού .
Οι καρδιές μας θα γεμίσουν
με χρώματα από τα μάτια τους,
τα χρώματα της αγάπης.
Θα συναντήσουμε μέσα τους τις νότες των αστεριών ,
όλες τις ώρες θα κρατήσουμε τη νύχτα,
όλες τις ώρες θα είμαστε αγκαλιά για πάντα .



English translation - this is not a poem just a straight translation but it seems to work OK

Take my hand and lead me to the edge of night
Where began the flash of life
And we will see colours
Only seen by the blind,
We will go on an erotic journey
In between the dark,
And we will dance with
The daughters of the sky,
Our hearts will fill
With colours from their eyes,
The colours of love,
We will meet inside the notes of the stars,
All the hours we will hold the night,
All the hours we will be an embrace

Jane Sharp
August 2010

WOMAN GODDESS, FLOWER OF THE GODS

For my friend Jill, on her 60th Birthday

I met you when you were most vulnerable,
Held together by nature’s resin,
A pink peony, all fluffed up and fluttering
In the wind of catastrophe,
But you were saved
By an unmoveable resilience to change,
And bolstered by friendship,
Turning the past into a beautiful album
That you kept close enough to be a comfort,
Yet far enough away to remain untouched,

And you became the woman goddess that
Was not afraid to say:
This is how I feel,
This is who I am,
A multi-petalled peony with hidden nymphs,
Enjoying the fragrance of the sunshine,
Enjoying the magic of the moon,

And taking all those broken pieces of heart,
You glued them together again,
Not wanting to discard a lifetime of love,
Not wanting to throw away
Remembrances of heartache,
Knowing what a heart was for,

Unbridled you galloped through the meadow
Freeing yourself from life’s bonds
A flash of glass on a sun-lit mountain,
Shining at the edges like the afterglow of day
Knowing that your fingers touched the stars,

Now, serene and brightening our presence
You sit amongst friends, almost too many to count,
In celebration of being that child of the universe,
That you and we, know you are,
That goddess woman, who has traveled life’s journey,
And learned life’s secret lore,

And, like the nymphs of the peony,
Your mischief continues to delight the Gods,
Bringing them to the brink of laughter, the brink of tears,
Filling their hearts with wonder at your power,
As they hold and protect their irreplaceable flower

© Jane Sharp 2010

A CRETAN LOVE SONG

How nervously do dance the fingertips
While playing out our love on every string,
And to our hearts they bring, with rhythms soft,
A happiness that wefts aloft, and weaves
Such intricate harmonious chords that feed
Our bodies, till so stirred our blood becomes,
And so absorbed inside our loving, that
Nothing exists beyond the rush of now,
Except perhaps the whoosh of Angel’s wings,

And picking up the pace swift lyra bow
States loud intent to seal the instant of
Our falling, urgent so we don’t forget
The very moment, nor the place we met,
The sun so bright it blocks out every sound,
Every worldly gibe, until the shadows
On the damask hide in a shift of leaves,
That set cicadas rattling the olives,
Like a chorus of crones trying to sing.

Quietly in its last refrain it slows,
The melody now fixed, the bow content,
Each note recalled, reeled in, the work complete,
Its spell forever etched within our feet,
Magic perfume scents the air around, and,
We, ecstatic, whisper wine soaked kisses,
Listening to the pound of each others heart,
Hypnotized by song, not knowing the hour,
Only blue eyes: blue eyes and a longing.

Jane Sharp
9 July 2010

PHILOSOPHY

Stuff keeps dropping down the crack,
into a dark abyss of black
nothingness, where it rots and splits
in decay, leaving only bits
of matter, and images that haunt
the niche behind my eyes, and taunt
me with forms I recognize, but
cannot reach.

I have in mind the gap between
my boiler and my stove, which seems
to lay in wait for unsuspecting
prey, ready to gobble up each thing
that strays, unbalanced, from my grasp,
a noun in decline, where fast
it joins forms predestined to
become unknown.

It was a sausage, cooked and fat
that fell most recent down the crack,
over the edge and through the grid,
like a burial at sea it slid
into the deep, where now it finds
its rest, and what it leaves behind
is pure geometry,
thought, at its best.

Jane Sharp 8 March 94
Edited April 2010