Stella Wulf – three poems

Engagement

Some days you gatecrash,
sweeping in like the headline act,
in a glitter ball of dust,
turning your spotlight on my grimy windows,
flooding my floors with your aura.

Even on the grimmest of days,
you try to engage me,
sliding under my kitchen door
like an illicit proposal,
insinuating yourself into my darkest niches.

Today, you shimmied in on twinkling toes,
hip-hopped the popping suds to dance the tap,
strobe the dimpled bottoms of washed up pans.

You are one that embraces curves,
slips with an easy grace
around the shoulders of chrome,
flatters the obduracy of stainless steel.

I’ve seen you leap on a knife edge keen as a laser,
slide down the blade of a cleaver.
I’ve watched you play in ladles,
loom in the scoops of spoons.

Today, you beamed at the moon
of my face in the kettle,
gave me back to myself in parody.

You dazzled me with wit,
lit me up – then balanced a diamond
on the rim of my cup.


Briar Patch

She left me on the floor to moulder,
like an odd sock rolled in on itself.
A finger of sun pokes through the shutter,
stirs up a corkscrew of glitter,
pulls me out to a sparkling day.

Strung out on the line crows hunch,
mute as tar babies,
unshakable in the ruffling air.
Maybe I caught a glimpse of her,
there – in the rainbow
of their oil-slick plumes.

One by one they lift,
wing to a sky buffed clean
by a rag of cloud,
their cries snatched
by a whippersnapper breeze.

While I languished,
the upstart swept the dead skin of winter
under a gaze of ox-eye daisies.
Fresh blood springs from the humus;
poppies, scarlet flax, red campion,
an insouciant host of dandelions.

I vagabond forgotten lanes,
like an errant mutt, nose to the ground,
following her breadcrumb trail.

A hare breaks pell-mell from its hollow,
flushes a partridge from the ditch,
a whirring snitch, startling
the whiffle of horses cropping clover,
skimming the backs of knuckled down cows,
flurrying the white flags of egrets.

My heart surrenders to the day,
stops beating itself to submission.
I found her there, in a patch of briar
bristling with sparrows,
a passerine choir whistling
a score of promissory notes.


Madame Dubois’ Confiture

A wedge of sun squeezes past the shutters,
drenching the room in an orange glow.
Monsieur Dubois resists the press of his dreams,
throws back the covers, rises
with the levity of proven dough.

He picks for his wife, a petit déjeuner,
plump figs ripened by a fine promise.
Madame Dubois doesn’t care for muesli,
coddled eggs, kippers or kedgeree,
she likes to pluck from her husband’s tree.

She craves the flesh of his Mirabelles,
devours his juicy Bergerons,
until she’s overcome with the yield.
Touched by his tenderness, she preserves
his sweetness to spread over winter’s long denials.

When the orchard sleeps under a duvet of snow,
and the brassica beds have lost their allure,
she’ll screw the top from a pot of summer,
fall back on the comfort of bread and butter,
nourish their love with her confiture.


Stella Wulf lives in South West France. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University and her work has been widely published, both in print and online magazines and journals. She has poems in several anthologies including, The Very Best of 52 (Nine Arches Press, 2015), three drops from a cauldron, and the Clear Poetry Anthology. She is also an artist and her work can be seen on her website: stellawulf.com

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Stella Wulf – three poems

Culaccino

Your place next to mine, warmly impressed by you.
Close, but not touching.

A stray hair curled into the nest of your pillow,
the duvet humped in a clever spoof.

And there is your thumb in the toothpaste tube,
above mine, naturally.

I slip into the shell of your shirt,
nestle like a Russian doll,

close, but not touching.
My feet fit inside your prints in the snow,

heel to toe, backtracking.
I place two glasses, lip to lip,

we sip together, culaccino leaving
two perfect rings – close but not touching.

Note: Culaccino – an Italian word to describe the marks left on a table by a moist glass


Colour Theory

‘Truth is simple,’ you said, ‘black and white,’
as fundamental as day and night.
You wooed me with brilliance, Kandinsky
explosions of vibrancy and light,

a pointillist impression of dreams,
riots of violets, deep seas of greens,
expressions of mauves, fantasies of Fauves.
You shade in crimson, ultramarine,

subsume me into your Rembrandt gloom,
me and everything else that you spun
on your ivory palm, eclipsing sky,
blue moons and buttercup yellow suns.

You took everything that I gave back,
consumed my radiance with a lack
of attention, devoid of reflection,
laid me down flat with slathers of black.


West Side Story

Spool back the years
light up the face of a spellbound girl
as she freezes the star-crossed lovers

in the frame of her fanciful mind.
Cue the music
but soft
as a prayer on the parting of lips
turn it up to the endless day
send it soaring over the envious moon
etch her heart with the score.
Somewhere
someday
she’ll write her own moving script
step out of a bit-part role in a one act play
and shiver the stars to tears.


Stella Wulf lives in South West France and is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing with Lancaster University. Her work has been widely published and has been included in several anthologies including The Very Best of 52 (Nine Arches Press, 2015), three drops from a cauldron Lughnasadh 2015, and the Clear Poetry Anthology 2015. A retired Interior designer, she now spends her time up to her oxsters in paint and plaster.

Stella Wulf – two poems

Lost

I am not a loser
generally speaking, of things,
of cotton reels, identity, earrings,
and I’ve never lost a bet, a dare
a race – I was just differently placed.

I’ve often wandered wide of the mark,
and in a skylark rollicking bed,
I’ve frequently mislaid my head,
but if memory holds a seat in this morass,
I’ll find my face in the looking glass.

My catseye marbles and bumblebees,
and that old thing, virginity,
not lost, but foolishly forsaken.
And the plot? That’s where they put my friend,
I didn’t lose her, she was taken.


Time Lord

I have grown to dislike the smugness of your face
and the way you insist upon semaphore.
I know idle hands are the devil’s tools
but I’m not the fool you take me for.

It’s not a joke, running out on folk
nor is your perpetual leer
when you spring the startled cuckoo
from another stolen year.

I wouldn’t give you a second glance
if your advances weren’t so insistent
but your unwavering constitution
seems hell bent on coexistence.

It’s wearing me down this living on tick
the drip, drop, drub of the tally,
I wish you would stop or turn back for a while,
let me dawdle, hang out, shilly-shally.

The witching, it seems, is your finest hour,
when you put your hands together.
Are you applauding your power,
the lording of another day
or knowing it’s my time to kill,
is it your time to pray?


Originally from North Wales, Stella Wulf now lives in South West France with her husband and a menagerie of animals. She is passionate about poetry, both the reading and the writing, and her work has been published in various journals and online magazines. She is also an artist and exhibits her work under her real name, Claire Jefferson. Her work can be seen on her website http://www.stellawulf.com