my mother's cook book

The Yes No rubber....

This piece of brick I found about twenty years ago in some rough ground in Wolverhampton. It was just laying on the ground and it made me smile instantly, that is is what it is and has its name on it too. I think it was just waiting there to be picked up and noticed.

The land of my heart


The only land
is the land of my heart.
I enter it without passport
as if at home.
It sees my sadness
And my solitude.
It gives me sleep
And covers me in a fragrant stone.


There was a time when I had two heads.
There was a time when the doubled face
would be covered with amorous dew
and would melt like the scent of a rose

But now it seems
that even in retreating
I am always marching forward,
towards a high gate
beyond which stretch walls.
Behing which sleep extinct thunder
and broken lightening.

The only land is the land of my heart.



Marc Chagall

Spellings practice

A little slice of my daughter's childhood...

Oh, that child beating time,
it beats louder for you,
You flee,
with fluttering tendrils; your billowing escape.
That restricted past,
your old decrepid life,
now left and forgotten.
Your deprived bonds have broken free...
A new rhythm moves you.


Amanda Jane Clowes 1985

This poem was written by a friend of mine I met at college. We got on so well, but sadly lost touch. I have looked and looked for her, but no luck. She was so talented as an artist and a writer, I keep my fingers crossed that she is has kept doing just that over these twenty years. I remember her giving me the poem. It fitted my life exactly at that time.

photo by Witold Leonowicz


MY FACE

This is my face.
It is for you to see me.
Look at me,
hold me in your gaze.


Vanessa Stone 2005

THE SAND IN MY HAND

Standing with the sun on my back
I can hear the swoosh of the waves,
coming and going.
Their movements are as timeless as the sun rising and setting.
I know that the warm dry sand in my hand,
that slips through my fingers
is the most beautiful thing
in my world at this moment.
It's like liquid, the grains joined and intimate,
touching so close that there is no air between them.
I am so happy, but
I know in its beauty I have to let the sand fall through my fingertips.
It must fall away into the wind,
into the air,
into space.
I have no choice.
I long to hold it forever but I know I have to let it go.
And so the waves swoosh
coming and going,
coming and going,
coming and going.


Vanessa Stone - March 2010

The morning cup of tea


As my sleepy brain
responds to the knowledge of you,
I hold you cupped in both hands
so I can feel the strong curve
of your bone china body
in my hollowed palms.
Your handle, a limb, a space for
fingers to slip gently into.
This handle means I can’t drop you,
you are shaped to be cherished.
At first I only sense the heat of you,
but so deliciously quickly, as I pull
my lips to you, that sweet warmth
flows into my mouth and over my tongue.
I like to take you into me hotter
than is safe so that I can feel
every last measure of your liquid life.
Drunk fully with deep gulps, you are soon
emptied and I smile, satisfied.


Vanessa Stone July 2009