Bronwyn Writes

Clouds (2 April 2009)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:04:00 +0000

Clouds - Bronwyn Desjardins

Thursday, 2 April 2009 at 23:35

Our source, your source, the source;
Three states
Of which we are one;
Gaseous, like the sun.
See us soar,
Hear us roar,
As we pour out over you.
A band of brothers
Endless shapes quietly hover
Above your head
Even as you lay asleep in your bed.
Clouds are we, white-grey liberty -
Roaming,
Groaning,
Gliding, flying - low and so very high,
Since the beginning, for eternity,
A sight to see for all,
And all for free.

Why (12 December 2008)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 21:00:00 +0000

WHY - Bronwyn Desjardins

(14 December 2008 at 02:51)

Why can I not silence the doubt?
What dark and blood-thirsty beast is this that claws at my trust?
Why do words come fast
When mistrust is cast?

Why does love silence my pen?
Pain gives license to words and poems come easier then.
Is it love I despise?
Or her ability to render me speechless and hypnotize?

Malevolent darkness, happy slumbering daylight;
I cannot tame this beast of the night.
I sleep not deep,
In my dreams I weep.

Sleep deprived and hungry for what is not,
I watch you sleep and claim my lot.
The difference, I can no longer tell in my state of sleep deprivation,
Between what is truth and what falls foul in my desperation…

To find the answers I seek to my cries of “why?”

My Father's Son (18 November 2008)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:57:00 +0000

My Father's Son - Bronwyn Desjardins

The pungent, sour smell of horse manure and the stale smell of urine fills the air.
I startle him as I enter the stable, hay crunching beneath my black Doc Martens – red laces.
His head turns in my direction, his eyes searching my face for a motive for this late intrusion.
I reveal the steel blade I’ve kept hidden until now. Its ominous presence is reflected back at me in his mustang eyes.
I have the upper hand.
Equine muscles quiver in fear.
I step toward him.
My assault is swift and violent.
The gelding surrenders and slumps to the floor in a dark fit of screams, a stallion no more. In my hands, I hold his pride – sticky and crimson – his stolen manhood.
I am my father’s son.

Ode to Bluebells - Bronwyn Desjardins (In Memoriam: Eric Laver)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:56:00 +0000

Ode to Bluebells - Bronwyn Desjardins (In Memoriam: Eric Laver)

Sunday, 7 December 2008 at 00:46

Bluebells swell deep
Where hearts fell asleep.
Once a carpet of blood swept fear,
Now a sea of bluebells dear.

They ring for the men in silence
Who stood up against, and in gruesome violence,
Despite the pounding screaming
Of the pulse that raced unfailing.

Where you slumped from your blue-blood driven mission,
Blue blossoms come into fruition.
Long dead, these men and women who battled here,
Now honour and perfumed peace replaces their fear.

Blades of green intermittently peak and stutter,
Standing up for the names this generation does not utter.
Parents, siblings and children of whom
Are too, but barely a faded photograph hanging in a room.

No longer do canons roar and bullets sing.
This field’s harmonious silent blue ring,
Reminds all to forever give thanks
To the young men and women whose blood fertilized these banks.

Bluebells blossom dear
In a field once carpeted with fear.
Where young lives fell asunder,
Now, for us, a sea of bluebells to plunder.

Sudden Death (10 December 2008)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:55:00 +0000

Sudden Death - Bronwyn Desjardins

by Bronwyn Desjardins (Notes) on Wednesday, 10 December 2008 at 11:40

A naked room. My head is swimming. Spinning. The cutting, cold steel of the cuffs coax me back to sobriety. Little square room.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 1:30 a.m.
The sound of the clock on the wall. Hypnotizing. Above, a rusty, rotating fan does little to cool the stale, interrogating air.
I glance to the left – reflecting back, a blurred, unfocused, pale, stained face.
“I know you can hear me out there”, I yell. No reply.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
What time is it, I wonder. I try to focus on the moving hands.
Tick. Tock.
My arms ache, despite the anaesthetizing safety of the triple Jacks. I could do with another.
“I’ve got to use the bathroom!”
My words an empty echo.
I’m going to be sick – sobriety looms.
“I’m entitled to a phone call!”
Nausea.
BARF!
The contents of my stomach spill. A palette of debauchery, painting the concrete-floored canvas. Hues of pink and yellow. A modern masterpiece if you can get past the smell.
BARF!
Again. I can barely breathe.
“You can’t keep me here. I have rights!” I scream into the vacuum.
Trying to stand, my legs buckle. Betraying me.
Think. Remember.
Tick. Tock.
A flashback – a car, my car. A crash. A face – a man. A scream.
Blood coated steel.
Looking down I see the crimson guilt. Coagulated stains – metallic and dry – cover my knees.
Tick. Tock. Dam that clock.
Slumping to the table, warm gastric waste slaps my face.
The door opens. Voices ring out from the sterile corridor beyond.
“Charge her”, a faceless official voice commands. “The hospital called. The man is dead.”
Tick. Tock.
Clock, please, stop! 1:35 a.m.

Schoolyard Bully – Bronwyn Desjardins (20 February 2009 at 00:37)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:55:00 +0000

Schoolyard Bully – Bronwyn Desjardins

Friday, 20 February 2009 at 00:37

See me here, no?
I didn’t think so.
I’m here every day at her side – my teacher, blind. Oblivious.
The last to be picked from the crowd,
The blue-eyed girl with the sad smile.
The games you played,
Well, I never learnt the words.
Pretty pink party dresses,
Your hands pulled at my tresses.
Can you believe we shared the same name, you and I?
But at opposite ends of the school yard,
There was no way I could find courage to defend.
You with your buck teeth – sad, afraid (I see that now) a bully at the core.
And me with my cock-eye –alone, afraid (no more) behind the door.

Joy Undefined - Bronwyn Desjardins (18 December 2008)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:54:00 +0000

Words don’t surface with the same familiarity now,
Hesitating and tongue-tied, they retreat impotent in my mind’s crevices,
Fearful and stammering, they recede in the blinding light of my heart’s delight.

My intelligence, confronted by joy, exhibits a blank canvas
That I labour and yearn to paint for my reader,
But the words fade and wilt in the presence of such intense rapture.

I seek and find not the language to express,
The ecstasy that leaps and carouses within,
Newborn and undefined, rollicking and spirited – my bliss.

Perhaps, then, it is fitting that this feeling remains untainted by definitions,
Free from words or language, to frolic euphoric – unchained and unrestrained,
Forever my haven of un-penned delight to relish and savour – my joy undefined.

A Scene (Writing exercise)

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 20:53:00 +0000

Red, blue, green and yellow – a smorgasbord of coloured balloons of various shapes and sizes, bobbed above the poster “Happy Birthday, Dylan”. This is the standard billboard for these kinds of events. The children’s voices, shrill and merry, a hullabaloo of party pandemonium grew louder with each step. Candy-saturated and cake gorged faces greeted the late arrival at my side, and in a second, my son disappeared amongst a blur of face painted buddies.

Alone, I turned to brave the clique of mothers seated at the tea table. Painfully and embarrassingly aware of every move of my awkward frame, I approached the women with a self-conscious smile. The voices in my head were critical: you should have washed your hair; why didn’t you put some make-up on; and what were you thinking putting on that oversized, floral-print top?

A glance to my left revealed a happy and enthusiastically received boy perched barefoot, atop a jumping-castle parapet. “Look at me, mom!” he yelled before he leapt with a playful war-cry of “yaaahhhh!” into the tribe that waited below. His mop of blonde curls bounced as he did so.
“Time to go”, I wanted to shout to him, anything to avoid the inevitable snub that awaited me.

“This is Luc’s mother, Adrienne”, a voice announced from the seated sorority behind me.
“’Allo”, I replied, as I turned to confront them, my French accent immediately evident. A hushed silence fell.
“Oh, you’re French”, said one of them.
“Yes” I replied, as I made my way to the nearest empty chair – blue and made of flimsy-looking plastic.
“We moved here from the Alsace, it was three years ago now”, I said with my best attempt at a friendly smile. My mother would have been proud.
A few “ah’s” and “oh’s” reverberated, followed by the clinking of tea cups and spoons on plates. I eyed the water - a heavy looking jug of iced, lemon Evian. Don’t spill it, whatever you do, I said to myself as I reached for it and began to pour. Conversation slowly resumed amongst the group. Cool refreshment in hand, I turned to watch the chortling troupe of young friends run towards a wooden framed jungle-gym. I sipped the lemon-scented drink and made yet another effort at polite conversation.
“This is a fun place for the children”, I commented, “very nice”.
“Yes, it is”, said another mother, as she nibbled at a piece of carrot cake, Gucci glasses resting on her head.
I looked at my watch, not a polite thing to do I realised and clumsily reached for my mobile to compensate, as if I’d been expecting a call.
“It is lucky for them that the weather is good”, I said.
This time I was ignored. It was going to be a long afternoon, despite my intentional and selfish tardiness.

Drakensberg hike

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 00:40:00 +0000

Had a challenging hike up The Crack and down the Mudslide in Drakensberg on Saturday.
I fell down twice and grazed my leg on a branch. Thought we heard a large animal breathing nearby and baboons were barking when we walked through one if the rainforests in the dark.
This experience coupled with the runaway fire one has given me an idea for a story. Just have to write it now.

Words - A reading

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 18:30:00 +0000

Published!

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Mon, 09 May 2011 16:57:00 +0000

It finally happened. On 14 December 2010, my first novel was released by Nollybooks. It is entitled "Lights, Camera, Love" and it is a chick-lit. I enjoyed writing it as got to reminisce about my childhood holidays spent in Ixopo, and I got to relive first love.

In February of 2011 I was invited to be a guest on the e-TV morning show, Sunrise. What a blast! Then, I was pleased to see Nollybooks feature on CNN too. I hope this is just the beginning.

Visit Nollybooks at www.nollybooks.co.za for more info on this and other novels by the same publisher.

Words ~ Bronwyn Desjardins

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 02:18:00 +0000

Words
In words I find my peace
With words man was created
Without words I will cease.

My words bring me comfort
My words bring me joy
To pain - my words give a voice
To love - my words give choice

Words - so many!
Which to choose?
Today I write - the letters fuse –
Screaming,
Bleeding,
Loving,
Needing,
inkless on this virtual page
Words my saviour - me the sage

Thank you words - for being my friend
For giving me safety - a netted blend
of letters, names, phrases and verbs
In the beginning - the word
In the end - the word
Forever - words.
Wise
Oracles
Real
Divine and
Spiritual...
WORDS.

Dawn to Dusk – Born to Mourn ~ Bronwyn Desjardins

bronwyn.desjardins@gmail.com (Bronwyn Desjardins) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 20:19:00 +0000

I left you, one centimetre, one milestone at a time.
I watched you watch me leave – one year at a time.
You praised my progress and encouraged me all the way,
Until the day I left and you grew silent, for a moment.
You praised my independence, but I saw your pain – it was mine too.

In the wings you watch and catch me when I fall – still.
You speak of when you will leave me and I grow silent.
For that day, that hour, I curse.
This fruit of your womb fears life without you,
For the cord was cut but we were not unbound.

Upon your death, I will be your legacy, you say.
Someone to hold your hand on your last day.
But, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to face that!
Who will hold me then? Who will catch my tears and tell me it’ll be ok?
This merry-go-round of life and death makes no sense at all,
So I cling to the moments I have now, I embrace them big and small.

Love can be painful and unkind.
The fruit of it is what we leave behind.
I know my time will come too when I will leave my two.
Was it selfish of me to bring them here?
To face the separation game we play as men women – time and again?
Creating and separating – loving and leaving – praising and mourning.

From dawn to dusk, are we born to mourn?

16 August 2009