Self-Portrait at 38 BY JENNIFER TONGE

There are lots of ways in which I can relate to the speaker of this poem who thinks that Courbet ‘might capture’ her. I’d like to think he’d paint me as ‘L’origine du Monde’:A scandalous gift for someone important to keep hidden behind a green curtain.

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An unused portion of ‘L’origine du Monde’ by Gustav Courbet

Hair still Titian,
but Botticelli’s grip has loosened—

not now Rubenesque,
and probably never;

Ingres approaches,
but Courbet might capture me.

Could I be surreal?
It seems almost likely—

bells in my ears
and fortresses under;

cones have been set on my eyes.
My spring is gone

and summer’s upon me,
rude in its ripening.

I’m espaliered, strung wide and tied,
pinioned, and thus can I fly.

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Flashback Friday

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It was a year ago today and I don’t think I can remember any day where I have woken up with such excitement to see someone. As days go, it was pretty perfect. There was you, me, a bit of Shakespeare and whole lot of night…

If I could take back all the misery I have caused for one more night like this I would because when I was with you, you only made me happy.

Are You Still There?

 

 

Love Letters

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Write me a letter
20 years ago,
It will sound like this.
My name will be etched forever onto your
Fading paper heart,
Then folded carefully into envelopes,
The ‘I love yous’ rolling out across the decades
As you count down every day, hour, minute, second
Until they find me
Still waiting,
Prettier than I once was,
Older than I was then,
Outside Geography
For your delivery.