She sat, reflected.
Locks of silver trembled in fingers reluctant,
Hesitant.
The brush stroked indulgently,
Sensually, unrestrained,
One hundred times.
She sat, reflected.
Strands of silver shimmered in attraction,
In friction.
Crowning highlights bristled in ritual.
Hair, alive and crackling, flew,
Unrestricted.
She arose, retreated,
Locks of silver tightly braided, pinned down,
Properly.
Hair, alive and crackling,
Decently subdued,
And bound.
Anita Stubbs
E. M. Forster, the English novelist, short story writer, and essayist whose work was one of my earliest inspirations, remains one of my favorite English authors. Forster’s creed of life can be summed up in two words, “only connect”, taken from the epigraph to his novel, Howard’s End.
The first of Edward Morris Forster’s work I read was his essay, What I Believe, and his words had a very personal affect on me. It seemed as though I had met a new friend with whom I shared a “secret understanding” and felt reassured about my own beliefs. Continue reading The Spirit of Poetry
“He came with her. Mary said it didn’t matter what anybody thought.”
“Mary’s the daughter?”
“No-o-o-o. Mary’s the mother. I can’t remember what the girl’s name is, but she’s the one that lives up north, someplace in New York. Anyway, that’s where she met that nigger man she married.”
“Mother, please.”
“What? Why, I have to watch everything I say to you, Lana!” Continue reading Down Home Sickness
Just up the road from our driveway, in the yard of the house at the corner, there grows this ancient sycamore tree. I am sure it is ancient—it’s gigantic. Its white and gray mottled bark wraps a trunk as large in diameter as a medium size tabletop. In places, the bark peels and curls away, like dried hide, revealing smooth white skin underneath. And its leaves, resembling great webbed maple leaves often as broad as eight inches, quickly cover the ground when they start to fall—pieces of brown and yellow parchment for a child to rustle around in, or to make pretend dresses from as I recall. Every time I notice that old tree, something similar to melancholy comes over me, and I am reminded of years past, and feel unsettled, sad. Continue reading Sycamore Trees Make Me Lonesome
I am drawn to all things Victorian and delicately scented.
To dried roses and lavender decorated with lace and ribbons.
To the light, airy, delicate stuff of romance and femininity.
To the sweetness of baby breath, and moonlight kisses.
To sunlight filtering through lacy curtains and falling gently into intricate patterns onto the floor.
To the nostalgia of vintage reminders of times past.
To memories of loved ones long gone.
To those distant days of summer we thought would last forever.
To autumn leaves floating on the crisp air, accompanied by their namesake song.
To sunburned hands I truly used to know.
To the delicate shades and gentle bliss of nature passing around and through us all, in endless, subtle rhythm.
I am drawn to all these things.
The sight, the sounds, the scents of them, whether in the moment or in memory, touch my heartstrings and embrace my soul.
Anita Stubbs
