When I had poems published in The Peacock Journal, I was asked to add a short definition of ‘beauty’ to accompany the poems. Here are the three definitions.
Beauty 1 - Still On a hill above Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic. Winter's leafy waste still carpeting the empty woods. Snowy patches still on the elbows of the Ore Mountains, fending off East Germany. Still colourful the grand Victorian spa hotels in the narrow valley below where mineral-drenched spring waters quench tourists. Above, private jets ferrying rich Russians, beautified, molded bodies. Still luminous moss on the grave stones in Hrbitovni cemetery where three still figures squat, hidden in hoods. Under a leaning yellow willow tree, a Czech woman in a red coat sits still, staring into her Sixties, long black hair like the fine, forlorn branches tickled by cold March fingers. Two boys walk past, just cubs testing strength, elbowing and flicking each other; never still with never-men giggles. Beauty 2 - Refusing to Be Beaten Refusing to be beaten: dwarfed by decades but dressed like a teen in a bright bikini, blonde hair, outrageously large sunglasses. She went up an elevator in a shopping mall while a young couple came down, looked down, noticed, sniggered, whispered about this youthful soul refusing to age appropriately. The aged beauty saw the young couple, knew exactly what they said, what they thought, but carried on going up. She adjusted her glasses and cracked out a reddened smile. Beauty 3 - Just Children Beauty is a brilliantly blue November day that make the roots of winter wither into forgetfulness. The orange and yellow trees in the city park are so brightly colourful you forget the slow death that paints them. The continually falling leaves, filling the air with fluttering action. The leaves on the ground, fossilized in the frost. The sound of laughter: an adult snapping arms at falling trees, being a leaf-eating monster for his toddling son who giggles and runs, all limbs in waving steam-engine motion. The fact that this is a German garden, the father and son are Chinese, and I am an English observer reveals how we are really all just children delighting in the passing world.
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AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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