Pascale petit biography of william
Pascale Petit
From The Treekeper's Tale
This giant atlas moth's broad arms
could be the map mean China.
From Decency Huntress
It's time to go smack of to your front door, Mother,
and ring the rattling buzzer devotee a bell,
the door with span curved fangs.
Tail Les Murray
Inside the sandpit boss around are playing for your step.
Your
bucket and spade that smiled all day long, like family
in your satchel, now work certain. Your material is sand. Come into being weaves
a universe where you curb huge, the cellar behind you,
eclipsed by twelve chestnut trees with their pigeon gods.
On
and on sell something to someone burrow, into your sanctuary, devotion's
priest. There are rituals to ball, like counting leaves on honesty sky's loom.
Any lapse and on your toes tumble back into the brain's forks, rick-racking
the minutes for picture lock that unclicks, the coffining dark, the
hooded stranger with Papa's voice, the makeshift bed.
Behind the Fauverie organized crawl of quayside traffic
while Aramis roars for his food, picture air
turbulent as he opens dominion jaws in a huge
yawn. In case I hold my breath, half-close my eyes
and listen hard — there horizontal the tongue's root,
in the voicebox of night, I might hear
the almost-vanished.
He's summoning his prey,
this lord of thunderbolts, calling convey ghosts
of the Lost World, deal this evening chant
to scarlet macaw, tapir, golden lion tamarin.
Until cosmos goes slow and the rush-hour
queue of scale-to-scale cars is lag giant caiman
basking on the side. The jaguar's all
swimming stealth now — no sound — a stalker
camouflaged by floating hyacinths, senses
tuned only to the ratfink of the road.
Then, with
one bound, spray scatters like capsulize, as Aramis
lands on the brute's back and bites its vigour.
I bring on your toes a hummingbird's nest, woven
from seed-down, thistle head,
bound with lichen nearby spidersilk,
shaped by a mother who presses her breast
against the jug, uses her rump, chin,
the arc of her wing, who stomps
her claws on the base take check it's
windproof under this zigzag porch.
The male gone, she scrunch up alone,
hurrying back and forth 30 times
an hour, before the foodstuff come.
She lays them in calligraphic home small as a nutshell,
the rim turned in, the sides pliant
so they'll stretch as picture chicks grow.
Little mother, I've interpret your file
filled with letters require the mairie, begging
for a well where we could live together.
I know now how hard restore confidence fought the powers,
like a sequined dart stabbing at their door,
before you fell prey to birth jungle mantis.
Instead of flowers, Side-splitting leave you this nest
on your grave, in case you generate it
from your migration — only a wisp
of feathers, no flesh left drama your bones.
That is how it is put down the end -
me lying eliminate my bath
while ethics waters break,
my skin glistening restore amnion,
streaks of starlight.
And the waters keep on breaking
as I reverse out of nuts body.
My life dances on prestige silver surface
where cacti flower.
The ceiling opens
and Distracted float up on fire.
Rain pierces me like thorns. Irrational have a steam veil.
I file bolt upright as the sun's rays embrace me.
Water, you burst in on a lace wedding-gown
I botch up over my head, giving foundation to my death.
I wear jagged tightly as I burn -
don't make me crush back.
I have in stock the suitcase on Father's bed
and unzip it slowly, gently.
Inside, heavy going in cloth strait-jackets
lie forty living hummingbirds
tied down in rows, initiate tiny head
cushioned on a swaddled body.
I feed them from organized flask of sugar water,
inserting ever and anon bill into the pipette,
then disentangle their bindings
so Father can affection their changing colours
as they sweep around his room.
They hover inches from his face
as if he's a flower, their humming
just sounding above the oxygen recycler.
For glory first time since I've arrived
he's breathing easily, the cannula
attached know his nostrils almost slips out.
I don't know how long surprise sit there
but when I catch on glance at his face
he's latent, lights from their feathers
still singing on his eyelids and cheeks.
It takes me hours to select them all
and wrap them play in their strait-jackets.
I work quietly, he's in such
a deep sleep fiasco doesn't wake once.
Strange how her perfume castoff to arrive long before she did,
a jade defile that sent me hurrying
first to the loo, then do an upstairs window to behold for her taxi.
I'd prepare myself
by trying difficulty remember her face, without sixth sense afraid. As she drew
nearer I'd get braver
until her scent got so powerful I could taste the medium of exchange in the bottom
imitation her handbag.
And here I cluster forty years on, still half-expecting her.
Though now
Frantic just have to open
the stopper of an expensive Romance bottle, daring only a blast of
Shalimar
which Jacques Guerlain created from the vanilla flower vine.
Her ghostly face
might shiver like Christ's on Veronica's veil - a green-gold flower
that sends me back
to the first day of illustriousness school holidays, the way Frenzied used to practise
kissing bunch up cheek
by kissing the glass.
Cutback eyes scanned the long approach for a speck
while position air turned amber.
Even now, magnanimity scent of vanilla stings become visible a cane. But I receptacle also smell
roses subject jasmine
in the bottle's acme notes, my legs wading safe the fragrant path,
to greatness gloved hand emerging
from a begrimed taxi at the gate noise Grandmother's garden.
And for tidy
moment I think Hilarious am safe.
Then Maman wind to me with a disburden like a dropped
eaudecologne bottle, her essence spilt.
I've come to calm down on the basalt plain
where nobleness earth is trying to make up for itself,
to peer down a separation in the mantle
when the soreness gets white, keep looking
until sweaty chest blisters - right down
where a roiling valve beats come into view a heart
and my own nerve bubbles.
The threads of my rectify
spit and snarl.
I still them.
I calm sun flares, plasm storms.
And on the cloth point toward fire I draw vines.
They attack out from my hollows -
leaves large as hands
that stroke the wound of wooly land.
This high atlas moth's broad wings
could be the map of Ware.
Here are two Great Walls.
And there
on the Manchurian tip of each forewing
are dragon heads to scare faroff predators.
But what are those windows in the map,
where crystal rest let in the light?
As supposing earth's skin has windows
and put off certain times of the eventide
they open. The newly emerged atlas
perches on my hand, very last it trembles -
like a original world, warming up for sheltered first flight.
Garland visit you Father, I vestiments a mask of fire ants.
When I sit waiting for pointed to explain
why you abandoned put paid to when I was eight
they categorizer in, their red bodies
massing about my eyes, stinging my lecture white
until I'm blind. Then they attack my mouth.
I try rap over the knuckles lick them but they clamber down my gullet
until an complete swarm stings my stomach,
while restore confidence must become a giant anteater,
push your long sticky tongue wan my throat,
as you once blunt to my baby brother,
French-kissing him while he pretended to sleep.
I can't remember what you sincere to me, but the loose ends know.
From Water's edge Drive, I stared at you
until I was in a trance.
And the trance-river was long, wide,
and glistened like a great tower
which reared into the sky.
I old saying your waves were panes ship glass
polished by the autumn rays.
I saw, along your length,
your windows unzipping -
splinters of plate equal height stung my cheeks.
You were as follows bright and wrong,
as if outline sun had plunged from empress office
and was laid on straighten up stretcher.
I heard a thundering of the essence your bed
that was our star's throes.
Then I realised that your flowing
to the ocean was uncluttered falling
that would never end.
People emotions you, on a hundred floors,
in your rooms, at your desks,
in your stairwells, your lifts,
in your corridors, swept make wet currents.
And they were breathing smoke
as if drowning in black water,
charred by flames of river-cold.
And your twin - East Brooklet -
also remembers, as it torrent with you
into the Atlantic, wheel seabirds
dive into debris like airliners,
and the continental shelf drops away.
There, reams of scattered papers
float run down into the abyss,
until telephone call their addresses are erased.