The Secret Garden by Lise Colas

Forlorn,

patchy--a garden of eden

stalled, soft hollows 

promise nothing of gold captured,

where once lush grass 

keen-edged

coaxed crimson beads from tender flesh,

now a wilderness choked

with the rattle of dead things,

brooded over by man and beast,

appetite bred out of them,

staring ahead,

making us abandon that quest for

a thin seam of rapture

buried deep inside this pasture churned

over, vessels and broken ends

lying side by side in counterfeit bliss

ripped along silk of longing,

returning to that first kiss,

the seed of everything that comes after.

And when the day fades

casting a steepled shadow

over the unrecognisable leaves

and an acorn escapes the rake’s teeth,

coddle it like a small flame,

watch it leap and dance,

then plant it at your feet,

before the head gardener brings

his empty barrow

to take away the tools.

Lise Colas writes short fiction and poetry and lives on the south coast of England. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch magazine. She has a poetry blog at lisecolas.wordpress.com.

Lise Colas - Queen Bee

My lust for knowledge is beyond grotesque. Honey mixed with vinegar, antique in hue, drips steadily from the stacks. I have my own sense of order that must be followed and certain eggs are to be hatched while others spoil.

The redistribution of resources is a speciality of mine. Index cards are to be marked in green ink and all neophytes persuaded to immolate rare proofs on induction day.

My wish list is scrawled in blue ballpoint pen on the blank pages of an old master’s sketchbook. Hunger is often appeased by the decaying tissue of a rejected biography. The old guard can be soothed, just polish their claw legs with wax.

I observe the interlopers like a bird of prey as they browse my ancient tomes, making a note of their names. Little do they know I have a drawer lined with secrets. Slay all the pretenders, especially the keen young things bearing tawdry certificates. Keep the solander boxes firmly sealed and send the summer interns out to purchase useless postage stamps. Make everyone none the wiser, muddle their bookmarks--the truth is always sacrosanct.

Over the years, I have built a nest from discarded rags, bones and epithets steeped in faded glory. High on the shelf are the brains of old men, riddled with contradictions, desiccated and obtuse--fodder for my interpretations. Call me a whore of history, but I know what they had for lunch, how much they drank and what they thought of their wives. Their sepia portraits, badly foxed, remonstrate with me. How they yearn for reincarnation, kissing my feet at night, hoping for a footnote.

Crumbling volumes are heaped upon the desk and I breathe in the miasma of horse glue and indiarubber. Their disintegrating skin stains my fingers. Alas, I was never one to wear cotton gloves.

The neophyte is there to type all my letters and answer calls. My ears are closed off to the hoi polloi, but should an academic of brilliance stroll by, I will bask in his dreary shadow and allow him to survey my treasures. The curious clay head excavated in Alexandria, the dog collar and the visiting cards, the ink spill on the Persian runner, the briarwood pipe and the billet doux, the mind-bender’s warped cutlery and the smeared wine glass.

And before he departs, I shall beg him to sign the visitors’ book.

Lise Colas writes poetry and short fiction and lives on the south coast of England. She used to toil in the archive of Punch magazine, weaving silken cords from old rope. Her work has appeared in Litro online and Literary Orphans.

Lise Colas - Private Reflections of a Silhouette Artist / Holy Pelican

Private Reflections of a Silhouette Artist

Close the shutters,
exclude the bright day,
let darkness consume the form
to reveal a royal contour
in the spill of the lamp
and with soft pencil, commence to trace
her shadow'd face,
taking care to leave the margin clear--
then usher the subject to the finishing chair,
pick up the scissors
and with one eye on the map,
navigate an exquisite line along her forehead,
nose and lips where blades dip,
around the chin at journey’s end--
don’t attempt to hack
or meddle with thoughts of alteration,
but press on,
the scissor’s mouth working left to right
unimpeded, acknowledging every cleft--
as slivers curl away from petal skin
daubed with lampblack--
and to finish, sculpt an eyelash
by teasing out sweet morsels.

Holy Pelican

A heraldic offering
blazoned,
involuntary,
broods on a field sinister
of stark gules and rusted argent--
hope an abandoned crest,
sacrificed--
the leaden flux coats
something angels dare not
not look upon--
wings clipped,
I remain ensconced in that sterile nest
mortified,
pecking at my breast.

Lise Colas writes poetry and short fiction and lives on the south coast of England. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch Magazine. In the summer months she often wishes she had a pet raven to scare off noisy seagulls.