Poem, English, unpub­lished 

This short poem about the end of love describes a night of love in words evoking the Goddess Fortuna but also in terms of a meal consumed too quickly. 

Word-fore-play — Recipe for Love

no thyme
though there was no thyme
it was mint to be
to be quite candied
in no thyme
I knew
no thyme to rue

you took my caraway
berry my sorrel
you scent the spirits
reigned on my dessert
cherry the memory
a floury dill

pump
pump it
pumpkin
got a cress on you
impro­vise, jam the beet
root with me

we got curried away
a hot date
fig-uratively speaking
we made a meal of it

the chips are down
at the sauce
at the kernel
I pine for you

roll me over
liquorice
suck ice
skimmed milk skin
pour pawpaw
your tears treacle
a salt on the senses

Tanya Ury, September 1995

Mid Summer

When we were done
I held your ghost
inmost
cupped in my chest
suspending aware­ness,
before breathing out,
in case of doubt.

But it had gone to our heads
the smoky tokes
and self-centred liqueurs,
melan­choly alcohol,
exhaled in mist
its meaning twisted.

Although it had been a generous repost
we had made no provi­sions for this,
losing our heads in the bed we made
lying among blan­quettes of dead meat now.

I baste your brow with crushed lips,
You brush away bits of bruised fruit.

What had been a mouthful
Med red,
and pink rosé,
like spilt ink
tells it all retro­spec­tively:
red blood and piss gold,
a show down on shared sheets.

No mèdal­lions for our pillow talk;
grilled sentences
skew­ered by silence
and the rapid exchange of fire and fluids.

Love was game
a rare bite of breast
and horn of plenty
saving face,
baked blind,
gorged, without grace or good fortune.

What went down well
on the Sabbath
has an uncer­tain after­taste;
common sense has desserted
on Sunday -
Monday, mourning.

Tanya Ury, November 2005


concrete – a collec­tion of works (including poetry series)


Presen­ta­tion

2006 (25.3.) Trav­el­cook­book, slide reading of short stories with menu, Propeller, Friedrichshain, Berlin (D)

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