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- December 2004
December 2004
u figure
i
grew her
to fat, so she filled the room
when i walked away. her curves her hollows
became me, forever and before we had
met, i had always been the
jam in her
bun
with each
lip–smacking and the letting fly of
lumps she weighted me, we left each other
waiting, and no one under
stands there was less
of her to
love
For M (who painted the bathroom floor blue)
It had felt the slap and
tickle of feet —
bare and wet
the cat, the mat,
the thud, the pat
and now, its colour drained,
it had settled under the steady stroke of just two pairs.
She knew this blue.
It had played beyond her lids
while chopping fruit, and spreading bread
or hanging clothes
while gazing out the kitchen window,
descaling fish
defrosting the fridge,
leaking time.
At 4am,
more paint than skin
she is rocked to sleep
her toenails dreaming in blue
and wakes, excited –
shrieks at the scene
it was not meant to be like this,
so again she mixes, tastes, examines
and goes to sleep
anchoring the room with her paint–splashed clothes.
On the third morning
knowing that the colour matches the one that lives in her
head
she isn’t surprised to see
the bath tub sailing down the corridor
the towels waving behind.
Lisa D'Onofrio
Story of my life and death
I went to the fortune teller
And she said to me
I don’t mean to scare ya
But you’re coming back
As the worm in tequila
Lisa D'Onofrio
I have forgotten how to cook
I
My fork casts a net
over food prepared for me
by other people’s hands
In floating kitchens
my nets come back empty
the gravy thickens into a dirty puddle
In the supermarket
I am lost
my gleaming ribbed charge and I
wander despondently
trying to decipher
the meaning from the glare
The potato just a thing
with too many eyes
tomatoes plump and mocking
Ladies fingers beckoning with
empty promises
an aubergine cold and hollow
Once comforting in its incarnations
Melanzana
Eggplant
Berenjena
Food in its multiplicities
a strange continent
and my visa application
has gone missing
II
Something has stirred
carrots greet me
orange with possibilities
Kernels burst from their
silken wrappers,
a cabbage crinkles with mirth
My fingers tremble
with the beauty of the
first cut
that reveals designs
that the recipes do not
I slice thinly, sauté
Add and taste
sprinkle and whisk
We come together
To follow i knead
my cool hands
ensuring pastry with bite.
Lisa D'Onofrio
Trolley trilogy
1
Do the trollies lark
In the trolley park?
Do they muzzle each other?
And cause a spark
Do they maraude the street
When it gets dark
Cruising silently
Silver sharks
Do their ribs hold precious secrets
We cannot start
To understand?
2
When I am old
And do not care
What other people think
I will collect trollies
Like other women gather china teapots
Or stray cats
I will muster them in my back yard
Where, if they wish
They may bleed
Or pirouette under clouds, or roll aimlessly
The long grass tickling their ribs
Unburdened by necessity
In my back yard
It will be eternally
Palm Sunday
3
I hate seeing
A lost trolley
Gleaming ribs
Circling seagulls
I want to take it home
Paint it
Tie balloons to its handles
And tell it
It’s ok
To be empty
Lisa D'Onofrio
The story of my life and death
This again was a response to Lisa D’Onofrio’s poem. I thought it would be interesting to construct this image in 3D form using several different layers, including model-making, mono print and linocut. The poem is a sharp, short and rather defeated piece, and so this was mimicked by the words winding down to find the ending of the poem at the heart of the piece. The story of my life and death shows the worm in a 3D box frame, reminiscent of Victorian taxidermy, or pinned down as the butterfly that never was.
I've forgotten how to cook
I responded to this poem in much the same way as Trolley Trilogy. The image is a screen print, which depicts the celebration of the art of cooking by strong colour held within a dynamic swirl.
Trolley trilogy
The humour within Lisa’s poem and the celebration of a rather humdrum, overlooked domestic object – the shopping trolley – immediately struck me. I found the strong graphic look of linocut combined with the lively celebratory colours using screen print evoked the mood of the piece. The heart of the image leaves behind the orderly, laborious trolleys to emerge as joyful, exuberant objects, reminiscent of tying balloons to their handles and being told it’s ok to be empty.
Brekinupbrokendown
For Lisa's poem: brekin/up/broken/down
Basketcase 1
it's like tape you see, glittering from a distance, looping
through branches and wire fences/
you think – that's so pretty –and for a moment you forget
you've seen it before and it draws the corners of your eyes
in/
you get up close and see the plastic carcass, disembowelled in
the mud, it's innards – brown tape suddenly dull when the sun
goes in/
when i felt it the best i can say was it was like that
transparent cassette case/
nothing in me put me in a player and push on and nothing will
come out/
and i tried hard to think but thoughts blew me away and they
thought they could see right through me/
they didn't like that so much was visible i was festooned
with workings and words/
here now the insides have been taken out and put on display,
hanging from the washing lines, waiting for the light so they can
dance/
the stuff i took made me like that case – see through nothing
going on here mister and im wearing my insides out still
Lisa D'Onofrio
Poet's comment: This piece represents the first entire collaboration by Bronwen and myself. I had had the image of a basket woven with words in my head for some time, and had discussed this with Bronwen. I then went away and wrote the words while Bronwen worked on the piece. The words are meant to be flowing, but I used a jagged sentence structure to represent the disparity between the narrator and others' perception of her. I love this final piece – in it I feel you can see a real development in both our work.
See also Basketcase 2
Basketcase
It was clear between Lisa and myself that the main image should be in the form of a basket, suggesting the title of the piece and encompassing many more links with mental breakdown. I imagined it to be monochrome and to be semi-transparent, open and vessel-like. The poem itself is displayed so that it can be read, but deciphering is hindered by the weaving of the words, scrambled in places and blank in others.
brekin/up/broken/down
rarelynowiimaginsomethinin
bedwithme,sumbeingthatlies
bymysideitswarmbellybeating
thrumystrainedskinchestbehind
thehollowofmine,foldinmeup
insoftsparrowwings
singingoverandoveritwont
happenagain.
Lisa D'Onofrio
The Witch at No 66
With each skinning she gave
I grew larger
(milk, and pancakes, glistening sweets)
padding myself
from the inside out
I tried not to question
why smoothing scraps of wood, in his shed
was more important than noticing
A path out of the darkness came with a boy –
and a girl – cooked for 9 months, their father
(Milk, and pancakes, glistening sweets)
pressed to breadcrumbs under my bulk –
I raised them into wholeness,
glazing them with spittle
(milk, and pancakes, glistening sweets)
still getting bigger
I’d have bent over backwards for trying,
but I could hardly make it up the stairs.
I realised, too late
how they struggled for air,
under my weighty gaze.
In the long afternoons,
when the sun melts the road into stickiness
I hear other people’s children playing
daring each other to knock at my door.
Lisa D'Onofrio
Relationship in 8 syllables
biscuit crumbs
the bed
between us
Lisa D'Onofrio