The Works of Petra Whiteley
Petra Whiteley comes from Czech Republic, she immigrated to UK in 1993. Her poetry has appeared in Osprey together with an article on political and current events, another article has been published in The Glasgow Review with more to follow as she is their regular writer for the Opinion section. More of her poetry is forthcoming in ETC, Eleutheria, Gloom Cupboard and Eviscerator Heaven, which will also feature her articles on poetic movements and their methods in following issues. Her first collection of poetry, The Nomad's Trail was published by Ettrick Forest Press in September 2008.
All Poems © Petra Whiteley
Marat faces the entrance,
dense and deep,
to the irrefutable smug smile of
swallowing burgundy flames.
Bath of cold water and warm blood,
rigor mortis settling into body,
betrayed and morgue-bound, slow
near blissful disintegration.
Betrayed, just like us
in this tumbledown town,
this bearing down world.
(nspired by 'The Death of Marat', oil painting by Jacques-Louis David, 1793; in the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium and study of French Revolution and current revolutionary theories.)
I can sense her in this room,
walking yellow shoed
across dirty blue carpet,
Her rain soaked laces
keep on leaving thin toe traces
in the street lamp lit, darkened
spaces of small flat, its book scented air
is filled with her shallow breath.
I can nearly touch the void of her being.
Between the fingertips,
it feels just like black horse hair.
I can nearly smell her,
devil's meat sizzling on red electric
rage stove, the table set for breakfast -
white lace and red napkins, The works,
even flowers and soft piano wonder music.
She is formal and dignified,
yet beneath her white apron,
a dark mess, fossilised chaos.
Behind long eye lashes - a ticking eye -
nervously twitching lids and barbed sorrows.
When the sun shines on her pallid skin,
she tries to make it go away as if the rays
were no more than a storm of flies.
As she disappears into the light, she promises
to stack my accomplishments behind her,
assembly it with the blizzard inside her,
to come back for me when the sky falls across
me like a blanket, just after my last world-glance.
My sister, who loves me more than my brother.
She rests behind the horizon, horizontal, never born,
death's wrapped around her legs, she, the twin-stifled
aborted Goddess, and me her jangled disciple, lusting
for the bright life she's never had - the guilt-ridden medium.