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Angela Dye
the poet
Angela Dye is a writer, editor, podcaster, teacher, reviewer, interviewer and radio broadcaster. She runs many literary events and projects in Kent, England, and has worked for various magazines and businesses creating audio content. Angela's work has appeared in several print and digital magazines. She's currently writing a novel, as well as her second poetry book.
the poems
The Ruby and the Con
Oh you patriarchs who regulate the calyx vase,
who decree the mix of wine, milk and honey,
who place me on the shelf to admire, to tame, to spill.
Know this: I possess myself.
I hug my curves tight, I vibrate myself within my jar.
I unsteady the shelf. I smash the walls.
My mother’s chambers no longer constrain me.
I escape as viscous perfume, filling
all the cracks. I, woman, am so wonderful and vast, I will
fill boots, books, beds, babies, benches and brains.
We shall run the Rubicon.
We shall fill the Earth.
And that shall not constrain us.
The calyx is the female reproductive part of a flower. A calyx vase holds the mythical wine, honey and milk – different combinations of which denote women's purity and immortality.
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Soup
Before the baby sun
had been hurled hot
into an unmade bed
of sky, before earth
was made,
compliant and lush,
we were dreaming
the world,
cooking up ideas,
where nothing matters –
he coerced me.
Just once.
Asked for soup.
Just soup.
Soup?
Yes! I want it without humans in!
Just a refreshing bowl
of soup for the soul.
Little things matter.
Soup matters.
Matter's in the soup:
illusion and dreams,
hopes and art,
his dark materials
to stir the soul.
Season with love. So much love.
Love to be made.
There are many ways
to kill a man.
One could
harm
with charm,
cut,
drown,
crown,
disown,
dismember,
diss,
hiss,
piss take,
mistake,
disarm,
cut,
drown,
burn,
spurn,
tickle,
taunt,
tar and feather,
strap with leather,
hail,
nail.
But remember this …
the easiest way,
by far the surest method
to kill a good man,
once and for all,
is to slowly,
ever so slowly,
keep ... him …
alive.
The Borderline
We live in another world now,
where forgiveness
is no longer a magic spell,
where potions
are stolen, cannot be wolfed down,
and Lupin cries to the moon.
He wants to be good
but he has this suit ...
They say six foot
is the best depth.
This is so the stench doesn’t arise
and the body is not taken
so easy – for cannibalism,
or even necrophilia.
But five inches in,
and we have hit hard strata.
At first we thought we knew
what we were looking at –
two bodies at most, possibly,
lying atop, a third.
But after a while
we needed the experts,
the archaeologists,
the social diarists
and the film crews.
The first cut was the hardest:
that slice through
still warm sinew
and the gleam of bone.
And now ...
I cannot go any further
than this.
The spade has hit
the denying rock that yields
no more.
Please say no more.
I would have met you half way
– I even wanted to hide
the murderer in the cupboard,
feed him warm milk from these old breasts.
I thought that knowing
we were monsters
would keep us safe,
our brushes with death
keeping us alive.
You didn’t tell us where
the bodies lay.
Keen senses of smell
led us, dogs baying,
that spotting
of the perfect lawn perturbed,
the fountain in the patio
off kilter
and the water killing
the birds,
the keepsakes shining
in a window display.
But she is a forensic expert
– she will find them all.
Although destroyed
and with their souls sucked out,
we have set them free
roaming in a street
near you.
There can be no forgiveness now.
It isn’t even needed.
A monster can’t help but devour,
doing what it is made to do.
All one can do is run and hide.
Publishing credits
The Ruby and the Con / The Borderline: exclusive first
publication by iamb
Soup: The Echo Chamber (Whisky and Beards)
