“Poetry is my way to humanise everything inanimate in the city,” says Camilla BD, “so that I can be surrounded by the horizontal neighbours that living in a tower block deprives me of.” In three poems, Spittoon Monthly’s December poet casts her animating eye on Edinburgh and Beijing.
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Edinburgh—Walking home
This time of day is mine
when the trees froth black ’gainst the blushing sky
scattered and taut like the strings of a lyre.
This time of day is mine
when the castle melts and spires prickle the heights
unfurl the dusky banner of the sky
after its fevered storm and protest cry,
when churches stretch their stiffened arms
to deliver their cache of sins and prayers
to the forgiving depths of nightly airs.
This time of day is mine
when strains of language catch in my hair
and melt like snowflakes, wild and rare
and haunting pipes light up the gloom
sending aloft their painted layers,
deep blue hymns and high blushed tunes.
This time of day is mine
when my feet flow down rivers of stone
cobbles worn by the watery, human load
depositing their debris in various doors,
the tide that surges me slowly home,
where windows twinkle with promised shores
and guide the vessels to their ports.
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The flicks of roofs
I can see how easy it is to construct a Chinese roof,
simple—it’s just a paintbrush flick
a flourish of a calligrapher’s pen
a mopping-up of a paint drip
a water droplet flying off the end of a shaken lily stalk.
And it would seem that this vital motion carries on beyond the eye
so that the flick keeps curling on its trajectory
onwards and upwards.
They are heavenly fingers writing the sky
scrawling over buildings
conducting orchestras of temple bells.
They have also overstretched themselves;
it was fingers that indicated the direction of future buildings
they pointed them upwards
and lost in their thoughts created skyscrapers
grating the heavens and casting them in shadow now.
Heavenly fingers fell limp as they realised their error
their betrayal
their inability to conduct their surroundings.
The lilies in their watery prison watch and seal their eyes
and scatter no more droplets.
The dripping willows point downwards to the only inevitable direction
~~~
Willows on the lake
willows
bow their sad, wise heads
stir their leaves languidly in the lake,
they practice a meticulous drowning
submerging one leaf at a time,
or perhaps they are paddling
taking inspiration from the boatmen
whose oars also stroke the water.
willows
with their thin feathered tapers,
somehow send forward the surging lake,
the skyscrapers blazing in the distance
are the debris dumped on the skyline,
the smog you see and breathe
are wisps of mist blown out
by the exhausted willows.
willows
through tendrils of their frail bodies
the loosening fibres of veins
funnel the lake’s blood
and soak the ground with willow seep
to leave green puddles all around
so you can pass along the walkway side
and feel the firmness of the ground.
willows
rustle the music that creeps to you upon the water
sway their tresses solemnly,
weeping yellow leaves
their gilded dead,
and caress you as you pass under,
lavish their lonely love on you, snag in your hair
and trail behind you longingly.
~~~
Camilla BD is a poet born in Scotland and raised in America, Italy and then the UK. She studied History and now lives in Beijing. She speaks Italian, French and is currently learning Chinese.
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Spittoon Monthly publishes one exceptional short story or set of poems on the first Monday of every month. Click here to submit your work.