Texts and poems by american writer Carol Corke

I have known Carol for a number of years
The sudden loss of a family member was how our paths crossed
I have admired her work for years
This is Carol's page

“That was marvelous, darling. Positively stupendous.” Resting atop the mountain of his overstuffed belly, striped polo shirt stretched obscenely, Simon’s plump little porky pie hands fluttered as he continued to pick and poke at the bountiful feast spread before him. “You do know how to put on a spread, Gretchen.”
“Belch. Do pardon me.” An equation formed in Gretchen’s mind, a symbol in squared form, representing both the expression of an uncountable mass or density of rude table noises, as well as the equal and opposite reaction of distaste and loathing. Unfortunately, one did not necessarily cancel the other.

Tarnished toothy smile revealing bits of roast wild pig, Simon beamed, oblivious to Gretchen’s scathing glare. The candle flames flickered, visibly repulsed, no doubt, by the fumes of belch breath threatening to extinguish them. One tall candle, wreathed by artificial autumn gourds, stood its ground in the center of the reproduction refectory table. Apparently, it was immune to both halitosis and bad manners in equal measure.

Porcine eyes dancing merrily, Simon added absurdly, “See what you do to me, Gretch?” With a nod of his sparsely tufted head for emphasis, Simon waggled bushy brows suggestively reaching yet again, among the many covered dishes arrayed conveniently near his place setting, for the object of his desire; the white ware chaffing dish swimming with jellied boars’ trotters.

Repressing her shudders of revulsion, Gretchen Whitmore fixed her eyes on a fold in time wherein there was no Simon. No Rubbery lips wrapping eagerly over meated joint, sucking. No Saturdays spent upon the wasted landscape of littered animal corpses; gutted rabbit leaking pale fluid on the chopping board. No ludicrously garbed gnomes in triumphal procession tracking mud across the Italian marble floor, joking lewdly about rutting stags and congratulating one another in over loud voices on their conquest of wounded elk.

“You’ve really outdone yourself this time, darling.” Wisps of steam obscured the tantalizing view of game-free past, as Simon seized upon another of the many wild meats marinating in wine infused au jus. As the lid was replaced on potted duck, Gretchen’s pale eyes were able to once more pierce the fabric of time, staring blindly through her husband’s bulbous-nosed, ruddy-cheeked visage with an avarice to match the feasting hunger of Simon’s insatiable appetite.

Time waved a remembered paisley curtain over an ever widening window. Gretchen sat up straighter, focusing her vision intently on the image clarifying like an old newsreel suddenly made manifest in digital clarity.

Candles flickered there as well. Ranks of stubby white plumber’s candles plunked into reused aluminum pot pie tins, colored sand at their bases. Teetering on stools and chairs, which bore the hand painted designs rendered in bright bold colors by the youthful hands of a twenty seven year old incarnation of Gretchen; grouped in threes and fives and eights along the claw footed bathtub’s rim; even daring the vortex of time laced widow ledge, candles burned.

Mesmerized by the sharp resolution of the image, Gretchen rose to her feet. A voice was droning on somewhere, “It’s all in the presentation, you know. Game must be properly displayed.” Music overtook the voice as though it were nothing more than an incidental advertisement supplanted by the main program. Absently, she brushed her hand against the paisley percale, inhaling the rich fragrance of vetiver and sandalwood scenting the bathwater as New Age rhythms trembled in the air.

Fluttering now, the curtain time warped about her slender body, whisking her within the inviting tableau. Sewn into dreams of a future bright with promise, Gretchen’s past enveloped her. The reflection of firm-jawed dewy youth was not lost on her as she sank, before the full length garage sale mirror, into herb infused warmth; her clothing lost in a quantum possibility of rapidly diminishing return.

Candle flames danced with her delighted laughter. Pagan goddess; vegan queen.

THE VALKERIES

At the Table of the Uteri, the Valkeries sat contemplating an empty chair. Roselda was missing, and none of the four in attendance had a clue where she might be.

Thea drew forward, steepling her long fingered hands, high forehead furrowed over slightly narrowed hazel eyes. A Force of Nature in her own right, Thea commanded the attention of the other three with the practiced arch of a finely made brow.

“Perhaps,” purred Thea with a suitably pregnant pause (remember, they were seated at the Table of the Uteri), “Perhaps,” she continued after noting the glint of interest shining in her companions eyes, “Roselda has entered a dimensional rift.”

“Dimensional rift?” murmured Stevia. “Why, it’s only the third of the month and well past the time when such occurrences might be likely.” Bobbing her head sagely, golden curls glistening, she added, “And besides, Roselda hasn’t got the constitution for such feats.

” Moriah chewed a fingernail contemplatively, offering her own theory upon which the others might wish to ruminate. “Roselda is in Paris,” she began with a slight half smile wreathing her elven features. “Just last week we had such an interesting discussion regarding architectural advancements and artistic scandals in the Paris of the 16th century. She must be at the Louvre.” Moriah’s smile broadened as she warmed to the subject. “Yes, yes,” she continued, hands fluttering in palsied affectation. Moriah hit upon sudden inspiration, pronouncing happily, “Not just the Louvre, but the Eiffel Tower as well.”

Two of the others began a rousing debate on the logistics and likelihood of Roselda’s romantic Paris tour. Thea was just designing Roselda’s Paris wardrobe as a rapt Stevia added commentary on the contents of her carry-on luggage “And I’ll bet she flew to Dover to see the Castle and then after a picnic of egg salad and bottled water she probably hitched a ride with a handsome construction worker to Ashford to get on the Eurostar!” offered a thrilled Moriah.

The last member of the group, a glamazonian red head with piercing green eyes and a rich fruity voice, finally spoke up. “Ladies, though I agree that Roselda would indeed love a trip to Paris,” the other three interrupted in a flurry of enthusiastic agreement, a veritable orgy of tangential supposition and divergent extrapolation. In a fit of signature zeal, Moriah went so far as to imagine Roselda dining with the Prime Minister.

The crimson haired Donatella pursed her well shaped full lips, expertly riding the currents of dialog as though she’d been expressly created to do so. Which, in point of fact, she had. Distracted not in the least by the music of her companions musings, she rode her own train of thought straight back to the point she wished to make. Interjecting her own comment with commendable precision, Donatella insisted, “She simply can’t be in Paris.” Despite the gathering storm of disappointment that met her statement, she forged on, full steam ahead. “She couldn’t possibly be in any other country, sisters. She hasn’t got a passport.”

Three faces fell in unison as the image of Roselda, baguette tucked into a snappy canvas shopping bag, parlevoux-ing with the locals as she stroked the soft pelt of her new French boyfriend’s Bichon Frise with one hand while holding aloft her crystal flute of Kir Royal in the other, faded before their collective eyes.

Grudgingly, Moriah offered, “Well yes, I suppose that would be a bit of a stumbling block; that, and the fact that she has only got $42.33 in her bank account.” No one had the heart to mention that said account was in fact housed in a ceramic piggy bank in Roselda’s bedroom closet. Wasn’t the stark face of reality enough to contemplate without adding insult to injury?

Smiling wryly, Stevia giggled, “Now don’t we all just get carried away!” The others joined in her good natured laughter, hiccupping at the absurdity of Roselda continent hopping without a care or concern. After all, Roselda had a family to look after, not to mention a demanding job weaving the loufah linings into gourds. And most people thought that was a naturally occurring phenomenon. Poor Roselda had barely enough time to brush her radiant tresses, let alone go off on globe trotting adventures.

“Well,” mused Donatella, “maybe she’s gone to visit her mother. Or could it be she forgot what day it is?” The others agreed there surely was some perfectly ordinary and logical explanation for Roselda’s absence. “Flat tire,” said Moriah. “Roof tiles gone missing. I’ll bet she’s directing the repair job right this minute.” That elegantly sculpted brow rose meaningfully, adding subtle weight to Thea’s proposal. “Ah,” exclaimed Stevia, “Lost her dog. Lost Toby and is frantically searching for him this very minute.”

Moriah burst into tears at the notion of poor little Toby, limping gamely on an injured leg at the edge of a busy highway, vultures circling overhead in opportunistic anticipation. Wailing like a banshee now, Moriah cried, “Dear little Toby, he’ll be so disoriented without his medication.”

Surging to her feet in a fit of anxiety, Stevia pulled Thea upright beside her. Squeezing one another’s forearms in dismay, they wept together, insisting that Toby must, by now, be a trembling mess hiding in some dog hater’s shrubbery.

Donatella, fully immersed in this new drama, took matters in hand. Pressing the remains of her half eaten crumpet against her ample bosom, she announced, “Ladies, we must organize ourselves into a search party.” The other three moved toward all points of the compass at once, finally converging in a huddled, weeping mass next to their glamorous Amazonian friend.

Snatching the tea cozy from the now empty pot, Donatella instructed her friends to “Make yourselves useful and collect the necessary items for a rescue.” Crumpet and tea cozy stuffed securely into her handbag, she then stationed herself near the kitchen sink, fisted hands on hips as the others selected their chosen gear.

Stevia took the framed picture of Roselda from its honored place on her piano, suspecting that Toby could well recognize the image of his mistress and be reassured out from hiding. Satisfied, that she was up to the task of search and rescue, she posed in readiness at Donatella’s side, knowing that to posterity, the image of them at this moment, armed for battle and poised on the brink of heroism, they would appear the very picture of dignified selflessness. Click went the shutter in her mind’s eye.

Thea reached for the Book of Shadows which lay ever in readiness on the end of the sofa table. One never knew when the appropriate spell or incantation might come in handy. She wasn’t sure there were any useful rites regarding lost dogs within the treasured tome, but, nevertheless, she tucked its reassuring bulk beneath her arm. Smiling smugly at the others in the knowledge that she alone had the foresight to save the day, not to mention the dog, she positioned herself at the ready, between Stevia and the front door.

Moriah, the only woman still in hyper kinetic motion, raced in hen turkey fashion, circling half way round in one direction, only to change her mind and make an abrupt about face to weave about in the other. Choking back horrified sobs as the vision of a half starved mongrel, one eye dangling by an elastic thread paraded across the screen of her imagination for her viewing pleasure, Moriah finally seized upon the vacuum cleaner, pulling it into her arms with a triumphant snort.

One moment all four were poised on the brink of canine liberation, the next, they were a whirling mass of tweed covered knee caps and cardiganed elbows. As they vied for first position in the angels of mercy rescue posse, it was clear they were loaded for bear, and nothing would stand in their way. Two of them tried to fit through the door frame at the same time, causing a temporary bottleneck that was resolved by a synchronized double pirouette, rather neatly performed.

Out of nowhere, the firm conviction that Toby had met an untimely and gruesome end, fixed itself in Stevia’s mind. Wondering how they would plan his funeral and if a suitable epitaph could be written on such short notice, she thought to collect paper and pens. As one now, the four women marched toward the foyer, Stevia’s conviction spreading like a contagion to infect the entire group as a whole.

With sobs of commiseration for the deep and undoubtedly unremitting grief of their dear friend, the four women huddled in the foyer. Reflecting their images as a hazy, shifting aura haloing the vacuum cleaner which Moriah clung to like a rudder, the Italian marble tiles gleamed.

Their cries of vicarious grief echoed off the high ceiling which magnified the sound exponentially. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t immediately hear the door open or the sound of a familiar voice in throat clearing interruption. “Ahem,” the voice tried again, a bit louder this time. Four startled and uncomprehending sets of eyes turned to the impossible vision standing before them now. Seeing that she at last had their attention she began, “Sorry I’m late ladies.” Toby barked impatiently from the imprisoning arms of his mistress, as Roselda tried to push past this clot of confusion and household cleaning items the four friends had become.

Moriah pushed the vacuum out of her way, rushing to embrace the woman and dog, the latter not quite entering into the spirit of reunion with suitable enthusiasm. Toby growled as Moriah slobbered kisses all over his freshly groomed face. “Oh, Toby! Dear little Toby!” Stevia joined in exclaiming, “Where did you find him?” with great feeling, adding her hugs and kisses to the ones already annoying Toby “Find who?” said a puzzled yet remarkably stylish Roselda.

All four women cried, “Why, Toby, of course.” Stevia detailed the entire saga of Toby’s disappearance and subsequent misadventures, leaving out only the part of his horrendously graphic imagined death. Laughing at the tale of danger and sacrifice upon which the friends had nearly staked their lives and reputations, Roselda ushered the four back into the kitchen, taking her accustomed seat at the Table of the Uteri, placing one hand symbolically over her womb as she did so.

Stevia furtively tucked Roselda’s silver framed image back on the piano among the other photos, as Moriah put the kettle on to boil. All five women perched on the edge of their chairs now, as fresh tea steeped, and Toby nipped at the hands pinching and patting at him. Grumbling in canine irritation at the fussing of the four women, Toby settled finally into the comfort and vastness of his mistress’s well padded lap. Stroking him absently, Roselda took in the tea pot, naked without its cozy, the crumpet crumbs making her ample stomach growl with hunger. Thea murmured almost wistfully, “We were sure Toby had come to harm somewhere and needed our help.” Her brightly painted finger nails gently traced the pentagram on the book of shadows next to her crumb covered plate.

“Silly girls, Toby’s just fine.” Roselda sipped her tea with appreciation, reaching for the last of the now stale crumpets. Toby, hearing his name, thumped his tale twice even as he simultaneously growled a final warning, subsiding at last into the narcotic stupor of canine self defense. As far as he was concerned, all of the women were head cases.

After an anticlimactic pause, Donatella finally asked, as she slipped the useless tea cozy discretely back on the pot, “Well, where have you been then?” Readjusting the jaunty beret which perched upon her new coiffure, Roselda enigmatically replied, “Ah, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Draped by the folds of a worn red corduroy coat, the woman with the cabbage purse stepped delicately through the carrot patch on her way to the grocery store. Not everyone had her special talent for weaving satchels and hand bags from the bounty of her ever blossoming garden. She was, therefore, something of local celebrity.

Attracted by the novelty of her unusual creations, passers-by often made encouraging comments and keen eyed queries. Many asked if they might also acquire such a fanciful bag to give a mother or girlfriend or ailing maiden aunt. Obliging them was her pleasure, as the textures and sensations of weaving lettuce leaves and kohlrabi into an organic fabric satisfied her in a bone deep, elemental way.

Spiced fragrances spangled the air with pollen; the variegated hues, the soft velvety sinews of vine and leaf, of bloom, were indescribably intoxicating. With narcotic abandon, she’d tease the tops off pubescent beetroot; imbue stalks of celery with a school girl flush of rose. In her most sublime moments, her lashes shuttering over daydream eyes, the pads of her fingers praised peas onto vines prayer bead style.

Offended by crude terms like “disposable,” she instead, preferred the idea of infinite renewal. Thus, she placed a seed inside each finished bag. What the owners did with that promise of germination was none of her concern. Her bags were to be treasured in the moment, the present; the quintessential now. She didn’t mind that their vigor faded along with her own at the end of the average day. Considerately, she buried each spent purse in her special compost pile behind the periwinkle blue garden shed. Of course, to her it was more a place of rebirth and nourishment than a place of decay.

Imagining the Green Man accepting these offerings of hers with outstretched, grape-leaf palms, she would kneel among the ruins and remnants. His ligaments were vines, sapped with dew; his hair the fronds of the swaying palms which could easily cut the tender flesh of the unwary. His heart beat in the very soil she would sift reverentially through her plump, pink fingers. Each burial ceremony represented her affinity with creation, an acknowledgement of her vital place in the garden of life.

Walking briskly now down the Oak treed lane, cabbage bag, purple and green, snug at her side, she contemplated the nature of her moss shrouded universe in the detached manner of a woman composing her shopping list; which, in point of fact, she was. Breathing lung expanding draughts from the light which filtered through the waving boughs above her head, it occurred to her that sleep, rather than compost heap, restored her own vigor for the day ahead.

Striding toward the market, past dreams of rusted cars and old wooden crates, her mind reached outward like the tendrils of the Green Man’s vines.

I thought I caught a hint of intrigue through the muraled halls,
Fragments of the gossip’s tongue, lashing.
That was merely the Doge’s Palace sighing
As it crouched in deeply silted mud, an arrogant old swine.
The Bridge of Sighs was silent.

From the clock tower,
The sky, as blue as Murano glass lampshades, reflected itself in history’s famous bog.
I imagined a Pope standing upright in a brightly painted gondola,
Haughty even as he rubbed shoulders with ladies of a particular inclination.
Though certainly grand, the canal was obligingly discrete.
The groping hand was not reflected on its murky surface.

By chance I stumbled with my new husband
Into the inviting warmth of Hemmingway’s one time haunt.
As though expecting us,
Harry’s descendant magicked hot toasted sandwiches with the obligatory Bellinis,
An eloquent shrug of shoulder his sleight of hand.
Language proved no obstacle to thirst or hunger.

When coffee was served by a smiling young girl the next morning,
I, dressed in wedding white, opened husband’s wallet asking which note to give.
The blue one, he replied;
Color blind, I gave one of a different hue.
Later, all the maids curtseyed as we passed.
Chortling, I tolerated his righteous anger as a shade of gray.

There are pictures in our album;
Weathered gondolas weighted by decades of paint
Carrying crates of fresh fruits, oranges and pears, with cases of American beer;
My husband in some anonymous alleyway, flower pots spilling
Greenery above his posing head.
The same image, shot three times with different lenses.
I appreciate perspective.

Always, I’ll remember the water taxi ride from the airport
In a fast boat, jetting
On sea roughened waters
With the sound of gulls echoing in my honeymooned ears.
The future, now my past,
Captured only by the shuttered lens of my mind.

Here in the forest
Where cool needles
Pine scent the ground,
Sunspots dapple my feet.

Tree bark, brown and gray
And green where the moss
Clings like a lover,
Stands sentinel over me,
Keeps vigil at my side.

Insects observe respectfully,
As I, on bended knee, softly hum,
Sifting, fingering soil,
Tiny pebbles in my palm.

The breeze stirs my hair,
A tender kiss upon my breast,
My flesh alert,
As if to some mysterious hand at play.

My breath, the rhythm of leaves
In this summer shower,
Steady and even;
A pulse felt in the earth beneath my back.

I sprawl,
Enthralled with the canopy of life above.
Green,
Green dripping,
Dropping water into my open mouth.

I blink,
Once to clear my vision;
Once to behold my dream,
My Oberon
Kneeling at my feet.

Texts and poems by american writer Carol Corke

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