Jane Dougherty

There a current that runs through history, of cruelty and lack of feeling, and I think it's a sort of design fault with us.

Thank you 💙 And you have to wonder what kind of a thrill they got out of killing something like a unicorn.

I suspect life was like that for many then. It certainly is today.

The true villains are the ones who coerce and take the profits.

Often it's much better not to.

I suppose she's more the willing accomplice, but she'd have been conditioned never to question anyway.

Me too. The unicorn is the one that loses everything.

Such a soft touch, then that puff of smoke at the end. Love this.

Poem: Haunted The hard need of the heart, like flower-celebrations, like cloud-bellies opening— soft rain, salt-scent, storms-- you wonder about it later, after life over without a word.

Good morning! I had trouble with this one--do I write that every week?😂 I wrote two short ones that maybe I'll post later, but then I decided to consult the Oracle for inspiration for this third one. #PoemsAbout #Desire
Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Oh! So beautiful!

A God of Flesh and Marble (Hadrian remembers Antinous) They say we used to canoodle; a word too soft for the solemn silk of your body folded into mine. Too coy for the way your breath halted my empire. They don't say love, not for men like us draped in marble and consequence. Unly rumours, reliefs, a glint in the eye of a broken statue. Only gods dare name it. You, river-born and taken by river, drowned not in current but in the undertow of politics, prophecy, or my own fearful need. I built cities from your absence. They deny our love. But they weren't there when the world slipped from your wet, unbreathing mouth.

Roman Emperor Hadrian loved a young man named Antinous. History turned their passion into rumour #PoemsAbout #Desire @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk

It happens.

I like that idea of a slowly mounting tide, a touch starting with a light brush. No violence, no rush.

The only good kind of desire, one that's shared.

I dreamed of the horse and you again and we were riding up the valley on our bicycles, stopping, skidding on the gravel— you almost ran to its chestnut glow. You—in your worn-out shorts and frayed top, boots untied, long hair filtering the sun— reaching for its glossy flank, its simple face, black mane. And you so poised and pleased as it moved gently, in the heat, under your hand. And at the top—this part, I think, was real— we lay by the corrugated barn and watched the valley spread— the red-brick terraces, blank white warehouses— and heard the clangour of the distant scrapyard. And in that moment, it became the time we got lost in a narrow field with a nervous stamping horse, our bikes a muddy hindrance, time running out on a frozen afternoon. We had gone so far that day but still I was afraid to climb the fence. You only laughed and said nothing: Then crouched—hands cupped, and braced.

Here's a dream or memory or both for #PoemsAbout #Desire - thanks @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @rotherwrites.bsky.social
write.as/robgalpin/i-...
#poem #poetry

Good one. The opening line sums it up.

No, those thoughts were behind it, Glenn. There are really three parties in the unicorn myth, the unblemished innocence of the unicorn with nothing but love in its heart, the lady who is an unthinking manipulated pawn, and the hunters, desire, cruel and self-obsessed.

💙

Cheers Jool. It struck me how different desire and love are. Desire can bring out the worst in us, and love the best.

For the #PoemsAbout #Desire prompt from @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk

💙

I wouldn't wish it on anyone

Thank you!

The poetry of
Jane Dougherty

I got to know what she wanted to tell. Her sorrows were her own. She couldn't talk about them or even admit they happened. Her way of coping. But it meant there were parts of her life and my mother's that I never got to hear about.

💙❤️

There must have been shame and guilt for a mother when two of her children die, and society is unforgiving. She put it all out of sight, destroyed evidence, even death certificates. It was too much grief to admit to.

Thank you. I've often written about my mother's mother, and I wish I'd known her better. She kept so much to herself because she couldn't bear to talk about it. I didn't know the half of it until after she died.

Thank you 💙 I can't think of my gran without feeling the tears well up. She had too much to bear, but she carried it all the way to the end, and the end was where she chose it to be.

The tide flowing and ebbing. So hard to remember exactly where it turned.