Discover ABOUT
My name is Eve Redwater.I write poetry and prose.With a pen in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other, constantly strive to unearth the less obvious.I write in a mixture of themes and styles, to the macabre to the pleasant, and enjoy nothing more than drawing influence from the little details that otherpeople may never see.Seeing something that's easily missed and thinking: "That's important.," even if it's obscured by darkness, it's something that you should pay attention to. It's clawing at you with nails that say: "I'm here, Im here!". Listening to that voice is a eureka moment; like a crackle of thunder, unavoidable. It transforms from obscurity into the most beautiful thing in the world, and all it takes is the blink of an eye at exactly the right moment. I wait for that moment. I live for it. The best thing about writing my poetry, is that I never know what I'll write about next. The content is always a mystery to me, and the most exciting thing is those first stirrings of inspiration. I wake in the morning and think: "What will I come up with today?" or "Where is my mind going to take me?". As a writer, nothing can beat that feeling.
Name: Eve RedwaterD.O.B: January 1989Favourite food: Cheesecake.Least Favourite Food: Bananas.Hobbies: Writing, Reading, Drawing.Hometown: Northampton, UK.Star Sign: Aquarius.Strengths: Open-minded, Considerate, Thoughtful.Weaknesses: Timid, Self-Doubting, Over-Thinker.
Poetry "The Dunce Beneath The Pine Tree"
With wings that limb the beaten bore,
Inside branches red to mud, blush and
Dowse him, before the birding
Sucks onto the pine.
There be creeping a winding bottle,
Blue in bud, spore-filled, boorish;
A charcoal dinner of savoury wood,
And muted burly fruiting.
Beneath, the waiting traveller, a dusty
Grass companion. Flailing dimly along the
Bark wood- tempting feasts with
Nose's crook.
Smiling pretty beneath the pine tree,
A sugary cheek becomes the rice mound,
Frustrated, shaking, he throbs the timber;
They watch him quietly,
Ear to ear.
Copyright Eve Redwater 2012
Poetry
"But The Hawthorns Are Sticky"
O'er stone paths the roses grow still as a ditty,
When light lamps are paling the ripe summer oil;
With a noise that the left ear blocks rushed in a hurry,
The hawthorns are fierce, till the black thorns are pretty.
Where the mind is at once full of peace, full of pieces,
In shrubs there are stubs made from wagtails and hen,
Tin, copper, unfathomed: a marvellous city,
In comfort the day loses its din as it ceases.
Skimming at milk with the tightest lipped marrow,
Left hands, right lobes singed, as it curdles to putty;
The bones of the fair-folk are lost in the morrow,
And our hands meet the roses, so we'll grasp them in pity.
Our four feet go kicking, at that hard wall we're sitting;
But the hawthorns are wet, and the hawthorns are sticky.
Copyright Eve Redwater 2012
More on my blog: Redwater Ramblings
