Wednesday, 15 March 2017

Diana Perry

Diana Perry's writing is a lot like leather and lace. There's this unbelievable soft tender side to her pieces as well as a little bit of an edged flare. You'll find yourself on a journey of self discovery with regards to the pieces below – it's most certainly nourishment for the soul.

Diana's book Deep Blue Heart is now available for purchase on Amazon right here. And, once you've bought her book give her a follow on Instagram.

Seasons

It used to be
that I would find you
in all the soft spots of life
and in the seconds
between the cracks of
thunder and lightning
and silence.

I loved you, and I loved you
for all the wrong reasons.
Memories of memories folded,
and hidden in the creases of time.

It's hell, I told you,
it's its own kind of hell
to choose the wrong thing
on purpose and with a smile
on your lips.

And it's winter and then spring
and winter again and it's been
years, it's been years since then,
but your name remains heavy
like lead on the tip of tongue.

You are no one now,
but what you used to be
to me moves against me in the dark.

There's something beyond cathartic about time and seasons. How regardless of our exposure to the elements there resides both heartache and bliss in stolen quarterly moments -- surrounded by an infinite amount of truth that is intensely relentless. In life decisions are never easy to make especially when they are contending with issues of the heart. Can you imagine making a wrong decision with regards to something and know that you are actually making the wrong one instead of exposing yourself to the right one. That type of self-sabotage is a path that will most certainly cause pain beyond compare.

I especially enjoyed:

It used to be
that I would find you
in all the soft spots of life
and in the seconds
between the cracks of
thunder and lightning
and silence.

Sigh! Heartbreak moments of what could have been ensconced in a doubt so profound it leaves you reeling from a potential love that is snuffed out.

Rush

It's rotten
but it's become
a rushed and
red-cheeked
morning routine.

I don't love you,
And I don't read you.”

My frayed letters
sniffed and read,
kicked and stashed
under your bed.

Pretentious
and pretty,
little back
satin thongs.

Descriptive words are essential to my imagination as they allow me to linger on certain images that have made a strong impact.

My frayed letters
sniffed and read,
kicked and stashed
under your bed.

I started to imagine these fabric letters that have once been stitched to form perfectly shaped sharp edged letters. Have you ever cut an inch into a tearable fabric and ripped it the rest of the way to make strips? That is how I see these letters – even the fabric doesn't allude me – I can see it clearly all the sharp edged letters are now feathered almost softened pieces of lines that have surrendered.

Deep blue something

Why were we never together?
I could have woken up
every morning next to you,
every hurried early hour, spent
touching in the darkness, tracing
the tattoos on your chest.

I never knew you, but
I loved you -
all sea-brine and beauty,
all feather and down.
The bluest ocean between my
fingers, and your beating heart
below.

So many books and movies came to mind with this poem. I started to think about couples that had tried to make it work but never quite fit. The first movie that came to mind was the English patient – in lieu of the sea brine I thought of the heat and sand offered by an endless desert and instead of circling a tattoo the Suprasternal is the focus of fingers that want to glide and sensually explore. I also thought about Little Women – I was always of the opinion that Louis May Alcott should have wed Jo Marsh & Laurie Laurence although she found love with Professor Bear it was heartbreaking when Jo rejected poor Laurie.

Women

Some women
don't
won't
can't – let me
be.

They only wish
they could hate
me, begging
for acceptance
with scissors drawn
behind their backs.

French-tipped morons.
Doe-eye nightmares.
They stare me down
their exterior
beautiful, a poser
a painting,
the inside
uncomfortable
and twitchy,
I can feel
the dissonance
from across a room.

I am a mother,
a wife, a writer.
Aloof

and not fluent
in the language
of envy,
there's only so low
I will go.

Let's face it – as women we have the potential to be extreme bitches to one another instead of comfort each other. We should genuinely learn to support each other as we are the givers of life and must in some capacity show compassion.  I would have to admit my favourite part of the poem:

I am a mother,
a wife, a writer.
Aloof


I love this part because it shows as women how many hats we have to sport in today's society. I remember one year the Friday before mother's day some morning show listed all of the jobs mothers do on a daily basis: well there's the obvious cooking or cleaning, we've had to become counsellors at times when our children have arrived home from a horrible day at school I could go on forever with different examples. We are an infinite pool of support for our children so that they know when they age what took into raising them into decent human beings.