Lion
How many versions of ourselves are there? What would you see if you really looked yourself in the eye at any given point of any given day?
Kate Grenville’s The Writing Book contains a series of exercises for writers, one of which is painting a self portrait in words.
Have been chewing over this activity for a few months, perplexed by perspective until different versions of self appeared and I stumbled into a house of mirrors. A pot of decaf and Irish whiskey cream in the rainy midnight hour later, there was a little wilderness in my veins.
Lion belongs to the following groups:
Imperfectly, Melbourne & Victoria, Midnight Ramblers, The Red Writing Room and WMGShe comes in every day. Sometimes it is morning, sometimes afternoon but never at night. I imagine she’s nocturnal. She has owl eyes; she’s the kind who howls at black nights. I wonder who she calls for.
I’m never near her for longer than a moment. She looks me in the eye and then she is gone. I think sometimes I see a flare but I blink and the distress signal has vanished. When she walks away, I flounder. I feel as though I’m stranded in a little boat amidst a wide dark sea.
Her mane is the colour of winter leaves. I think her skin is scented vanilla but I’m always hungry for gingerbread when I see the nape of her neck.
I watch her run. She is the Darwinian bean of a stalk reaching for turrets of castles in the sky.
She is here but she’s there. The muscles in her legs contract and stretch. Sinew and bone punctuate each footstep, light as dandelion feathers. I wonder if her feet long for the damp earth of wild fields and overgrown trails. Her hands twitch as she runs. What myth is it your fingertips are remembering?
I want to unfold the colour and texture of the skin the drum in her chest is wrapped in. My hands know it would be the light blue of a little origami bird.
There is a place between my rib bones where I feel the flesh tighten when I watch her. I know when I’ll feel it tear. She lowers her head, meets herself head on and changes her breathing. Rip. Her lip snarls, her pace quickens and I hear a guttural growl stir in her chest. Deerhunter.
She runs. Her skin changes colour; she is sunset, twilight and the shadows of veiled stars in a naked breeze of bare skin and the summer of memory. She throws her head back, winter leaves falling down her spine.
She exhales and breathes the ragged breath of battle’s end. She is fed.
She looks herself in the eye when it’s over and the owl blinks widely. I wait for this moment every day; the spell breaks but the cradle doesn’t fall.
Her lips curl in a small smile and glisten like they’ve been rubbed with honey. The curl unravels and the white points of her eye teeth show.
I distract myself as she approaches. I don’t realise until she has stalked past, leaving me floundering in vanilla, that the parachutes of flame falling around my little boat in the dark sea are not flares at all but shards of little firecracker tails catching light.
copyright © 2009, Holly Ringland.
Lisa Jewell
Exquisite and divine, I adore the gentle imagery you weave so beautiful.
Your voice is one I shall never tire of.
xxx
lianne
I will never know where or how you find such haunting visual images, images that tease the senses and awaken some odd kind of longing in me to see through your eyes, feel with your heart, what or who it is that you write of. I can feel my own flesh between my rib bones tighten as I read anticipating the poignancy of the rest of your prose. You are Holly, simply the most moving writer I know and each of your beautiful descriptive pieces stays in my mind like a haunting memory. How I hope you are loving every second of your journey – but I miss you!
JaneSolomon
Oh I miss you too Holly. Another beautiful and haunting write. I simply adore you. xxx
fillette
Wow, that was breathtaking and exciting. Always waiting for the next run you and your pen will take us on… xxx
bellmusker
She throws her head back, winter leaves falling down her spine.
Such a treat to wake up with my morning coffee and see a piece from you, my girl! And one rich with colour and scent, ripe and glorious in the pictures you paint with your pen. Your voice really is like no other Holls, and the spells it weaves are always, always sublime. The last paragraph in particular had me beaming…if anyone would know about catching light, it’s you. x x x x
ArcadiaTempest
Each of your lines are magic!! The scents in this verse wafted sublimely to me as I read …...you are a stunning storyteller that I think could make the coldest stone brim with warmth and delight…XX
Pip Gerard
I enjoyed reading every word.
purelydecorative
God you’re a good writer- I feel intimidated to write a comment because I’m not, but I’m compelled to tell you how much I love your work…so I do. Does that make any sense?
anya
Ah autumn. You seductress.
Paul Compton
I agree completely with Lisa. There’s a gentleness to your work that works wonders.
Naomi Downie
I think her skin is scented vanilla but I’m always hungry for gingerbread when I see the nape of her neck.”
WOW that line sings to me in my bones
hsien-ku
i loved these lines:
She runs. Her skin changes colour; she is sunset, twilight and the shadows of veiled stars in a naked breeze of bare skin and the summer of memory. She throws her head back, winter leaves falling down her spine.
such a rich and beautiful piece of writing. your use of imagery is just divine – i was breathless from the first word until the last.
gretchen .
...but I’m always hungry for gingerbread when I see the nape of her neck. ... how i love to see the only holly i know owning words in the way that only she knows how. and what a perfect title… i purrrred the whole way through. x o x
francis carter
very nice get a real great visual picture of whats going on powerful peace well done!!