The Colours
of Her Soul
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© 2009 - Ben Heine

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Something
so Exotic

A poem by Peter S. Quinn

You are the wondrous ways
And everything within it
To you my feelings play
Wherever it seems fit
Today is not tomorrow
And nothing is the same
Each way to ways borrow
It is our lives game

Something so exotic
To places a moment on
A world full of anecdotic
Until the years are gone
Nights are little wild
Into my life today
They used to be so mild
But now their full of play

You are my woman now
We need to be two
Why we managed and how
I haven't got a clue
But everything has turned
And makes now more sense
Old bridges have been burned
And brought away the tense

You are the wondrous ways
And everything within it
To you my feelings play
Wherever it seems fit
We have no way to know
What makes a story good
It's quite like yes and no
What's done and what should...

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Sensual
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© 2008 - Ben Heine

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Sensual
Lines
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By T.L.Finch

Loving lines that interlace
blending shapes and form
sensual lines in recline
soft moments in a storm.

Melting shapes of gracefulness
mesh inseparably
molten one into the other
writhing relentlessly.

Scented fragrance in the air
hardness from a softness
fluid shape opens wantonly
in the purest promise.

Languid, liquid shapes and forms
radiant rays of sun
evolving pictures in the mind
creation has begun.

One shape into the other
sexual forms of fun
vulnerable, sensual lovers
eclectic lines of one.

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(The poem appeared on Writing.com)

PS : This is a watercolour study (life drawing)
made at the Académie Royale des
Beaux Arts de Bruxelles.

The Terrible Fish
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© 2008 - Ben Heine

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Mirror
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By Sylvia Plath (*)

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

(The poem appeared on Vmlinux.org)

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(*) Sylvia Plath was an American poet from Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. Her very short thirty-year life was riddled with stress and depression. Even though she was a very smart and talented young woman, at the age of twenty she tried to commit suicide. Unsuccessful at this task she continued to write, though her work suffered, and became darker and more depressing. A few years later she married and had two children and one miscarriage. Still bothered by this miscarriage and her recent divorce in February of 1963, sadly Sylvia succeeded in her second attempt at suicide, by inhalation of natural gas.

PS : This is a watercolour study (life drawing) made at the Académie Royale des Beaux Arts de Bruxelles.