I feel so very tired of your questions
I wish my head was a shell
With the wind blowing through it
But your words staccato come
Mouth sprocketed
Wheeling me round the universe.
All the universe wants to know
Is its own blackness
But stars ventilate it to daylight.
Even silence is waiting
For a pin to drop.
November 1989

Something beautiful
Is grasped
Like a kingfisher's wing
Catching the sky
Or the sand
Slipping through fingers
Something we can never own
In the throat
In the eye
In the oystered brain
A pulse of agony
Passes through
Putting longing
In our hearts.


The blind is a silkscreen of shadows
A bee flies by
Three times its size
And a plant sways slowly
Everything that's far away
Cannot be seen
Just occasionally heard;
The distant traffic 
These few things illuminating
On the blind
I am disappearing
The light comes
Seeming to expand
The white walls
Very slightly pink
Then grey
It is like the inside of a shell
I feel barely alive
It's all very delicate
Your eyes are quick to note
They are like Egyptian birds
Feeding the canvas
With parts of me
But time is running out
So I keep very still
Will you capture
The expression
​Of my thoughts I wonder
I like to give
My thoughts to paint
Just a mark at the corner
Of a mouth
Or the slant of an eyebrow
Paint is curious
It likes to mould
To play
Or destroy with one quick stroke.

Even the water finds its boundaries

Against my thigh

Shrinking into tiny droplets

When I rise

And caressing the sand's surface

Where they meet

Always wishing to soak it


But the sun dries it up

And the sand absorbs it too quickly

The sea cries and cries over it

​Again and again

She wants to dissolve all boundaries

And become mud with it

The sea doesn't realise

​That she has gone under the surface already

​It is like love.


This section still under construction.

More coming soon!


Leaves varnished its paper floor
​The park
Where knuckled trees
​Waved branches at the sun
That cracked the sky;
A willow-patterned cup
​Like hair.
What dreams did that child
See then
In his heroic world?
The water pistol
Cool purchased at the gunsmith's
The corner shop
And his pockets crushed with secrets
First the cowboy
Moving bow-legged
​Saw the Indian in the tree
Rustling and creaking in his sleep
The brave green soldier
Blotted and blistered the leaves
With water
​Stumbled across the enemy
The tramp
And shot him while he slept.
But when a sandpaper face
​With doormat hair
And a wriggling smile looked up
He couldn't explain
The water pistol
And why the world was

All words and images on this website Copyright © Jemma de Vere Cole
January 1990

A little butcher
Is my clock
Chopping time
The same piece over
Hammering the spot
With a little steel fist.
An hour divides into minutes
Dividing into a multitude of seconds
Like a swarm of gnats
Doing time
The long and short of it
Like the rhythm of a pacemaker.
A lot can happen in a split second
I daren't even think about it
Killing the hours
Till closing time
​Picking dust off blouses.