Claire Burge

posturing: giving in to raw

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 11:14:37 PST

i remember the square in italy, as if i was lounging there over a meal, just yesterday. i was little, very little. i was 5 with the eager memory of a sponge. dad was upset: very upset. mom was hiding me in her leather jacket, from his hands that wanted to hit my backside every few seconds. he was hungry. mom was hungry and i was hungrier than both of them and myself combined. he refused to buy the expensive food in the closest restaurant and i wanted mcdonald's which he also refused to buy. he settled on dates and some other snacks from a local shop on the corner. he did this knowing full well that i did not eat dates, not because i was fussy but because he told me lies about them!

he would buy those blocks of dates that are all shiny and with absolute delight his large hands would break chunks off to include in his morning cereal. all of this was happening while he told me about the 'arabs in turbans' who sat under the palm trees and spat on the dates to make them so shiny!

this 5 year old was not going to the eat spittle from a strange man half away across the world, sitting under his palm tree. not in south africa. not in italy. so this 5 year old went hungry that night and felt extremely sorry for herself. her father angrily ate his dates and off to bed the family went at 7pm.

the memories still hang thick in my mind. so too does the grief: the ache from losing this big man who told me stories and taught me how to delight in the world. this man who loved me infinitely, this man who originated my genetic core and breathed life into my heart time and time again. this man who exasperated me endlessly just because he was my father and because that is how daughters and their dad's operate. this man whose death has left an irreparable tear in my life.

someone once asked me what grief is like, the grief that comes after the mourning. i explained that it is like the african woman who balances a very heavy bucket of water on her slender neck. it is a burden you always carry, day in and day out. it becomes a companion just as her bucket is water to her family and although her neck is slender, it teaches her to walk with a straight back, for if she doesn't, it all comes crashing down. grief gives you posture.

i am posturing today, giving in to raw, hoping it doesn't all come crashing down. it is a sensual act, this opening of the heart, allowing it to bleed.

Sensuality ... 29

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 01:43:54 PST

1. The curve of a clavicle bone
2. The venous accentuation of a well toned male hand
3. The throaty voice of a female blues singer
4. The sway of a pianist lost to the notes in front of a baby grand
5. The whiteness of linen wrapped around a naked body the morning after
6. The broadness of a male swimmer's shoulders as he butterflies out of the water
7. The hunger of eyes that connect across a room and remain transfixed
8. The inner curve of a slipper orchid's lip
9. The flush of red on bodies after love
10. The slow compression of froth on cappuccino
11. The viewer of art allowing themselves to be changed by what is before them
12. The low slung guitar across his back
13. The upward curve of long jet black eyelashes that close onto cheeks
14. The sunlight that pierces the strands of hair across her face
15. The slight extrusion of a slender ankle bone
16. The rippled line of a spine, hidden by curls
17. The cut of boy shorts across thighs
18. The deepness of baritone when it speaks into a phone
19. The shadow of a naked torso in front of a window
20. The rising steam from tea freshly poured
21. The strap of a lace top, hanging from an exposed shoulder
22. The hopefulness in a goodbye kiss that lingers
23. The idea of that which one cannot have
24. The stringing together of well selected words
25. The roughness of sand on skin giving way to water
26. The upward slant of the silent smile that sings
27. The hint of something unknown
28. The mystery of raw unexplained chemistry
29. The recognition of you across a room

{Image by Noukka Signe}

Lay Me Down To Love

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 22:00:06 PST

sometimes the sky
inside of me bursts
open and all
that i protect
comes thundering
and crashing down
in such disordered
disarray that it doesn't
make sense. it is here
and there, pieced and
broken, gathered and
bundled into fibres
that assemble and crumble
me all at once. you are at
the centre of my storm.
in fact you are this storm:
this storm that calms me,
keeps me stretching toward
a sensual passion that lays
me down and with gentle
ferocity unclasps and unbuttons
my heart, laying me down
in nakedness that is both
terrifying and liberating.
i prefer curling up,
hiding from your eyes
that penetrate me
to honest wholeness
pretence a garment
that irritates the skin cells,
leaving them chaffed,
i undress
lay me down to love.

{i am exploring sensuality at my blog this month. the image is part of a shoot that i have done recently with actress liana o'cleirigh}

Who Knew Sensual Was Funny?

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 12:40:05 PST

When I hear the word ‘sensual’ I immediately think ‘sexy’ and sexy I am not. So when my good friend, colleague & accountability partner, who by the way has also seen me naked, tells me she considers me most definitely sensual, I am curious. What exactly does this Ms. Angelina Joli look-alike, 15 years my junior (conservative estimate), 40 cm taller (perceived accurate estimate) goddess really mean by ‘sensual’ and will I be disappointed when I dig deeper?

With 3 days till my 14^th wedding anniversary my curiosity is piqued, I’m in the mood to be sensual – whatever that means. Caution to the wind … it’s worth finding out.

So my Google search yields graphic results that got me hoping neither of my assistants noticed and while I get a hint that the word might be related to the senses, of which I understand we have 5 – some argue 6, according to the world wide interweb, I am not the only one with lurid thoughts around this word. This calls for me to go the more conservative route.

I imagine myself dusting off my very large Oxford Dictionary which my mom bought for me way back when in her continual quest to help me spell; but I can’t find it. Thankfully she didn’t stop there cause I manage to uncover the slightly smaller Colins Gem, New Edition (1981!) and Paperback Thesaurus, to help me unravel this conundrum.

The thesaurus confirms my thought process: physical, libidinous (not sure what this means but I suspect libido has something to do with it), lustful, randy, raunchy, fleshy (maybe this is what Claire was referring to). Turning to the Gem I am bored by the description: self-indulgent, of senses only and not of mind, yawn even for 1981.

What catches my eye though are the surrounding words “sensible” “sensitive” “sentimental”; now these are words that I think well encapsulate the me I like to display on the outside.

Perhaps these are indeed the adjectives Claire was leaning to when tagging me as sensual, perhaps not. Quite frankly I am curvy, short, googly eyed and love to laugh till my tummy hurts and my eyes tear. I do not practice how to smile in photos with my one shoulder positioned forward, chin tilted downwards to evoke some steamy fantasy, I do fire from the hip, wear my emotions on my sleeve, love to communicate with my hands and speak passionately at a rapid pace of knots.

I cry at airports, during adverts and at every school function. I love to savour my food and quite frankly despise buffets (even the beautifully decorated ones). I breathe deeply through my nose to both smell the roses and calm my nerves. I see my life as a series of stepping stones and while I sometimes stand still, I celebrate moving forward.

So now that I think I have gone off on a tangent on the wrong topic entirely I conclude: Sensual is a strange little word that evokes fantasy and pleasure; and judging from Google, I sense-you-all might agree!

{Post by Tracey Foulkes, that crazy woman across the ocean who I simply adore. Image by Philipp Hilpert}

Subtle Movement... {Exploring Sensuality}

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 14:28:15 PST

The dock was shaded by afternoon light. The river stretched from west to east, crawling infinitely into the canyoned space beyond. The wooden raft was positioned in the middle of the river, a permanent structure. It held her body: delicately positioned on an ivory towel.

Her slate black swimsuit was buttoned at the neck, tucking her waist in towards her heart. She would turn, her hip rotating towards the sun and then away from it. When she lay on her back, her hip bones would face skyward, begging.

Her pearl earrings were what held my attention for the longest of moments. She would lift her fingers upward,touch her lobes and hold the off white rounds as if they held answers to all her concealed thoughts.

Had I been a painter, a brush would've have been balancing between my lips, my fingers dusting coal across the page. Instead I photographed her in my mind to share with you here in this space of words: capturing the subtle poignant shift of body and light, soaking up one another's company.

In these moments of observation, I learn that sensuality starts with subtle turns.

Kahlil Gibran writes: 'If these words be vague words, then seek not to clear them. Vague and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end... Life, and all that lives, is conceived in the mist and not in the crystal.'

I learn too that subtle is not fully explained, wholly tangible. It is an experience, rather than a definition.

{The image is by photographer Noukka Signe, sourced via Flickr Creative Commons.}

{silence is the answer}

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 02:03:45 PST

{thank you}

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 05:08:24 PST

{for helping me to see... i really appreciate the comments, replies and thoughts. i asked you all for words that describe my photography and this is what you gifted me with.}

churn

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 04:00:14 PST

churn
churn
until your heart can murk no more

white wave crest
your waters
until rock gives way
to watery time

churn
churn
until your innards settle
wash out to sea

give in to tide

Istanbul: Place of Forgotten Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 05:59:07 PST

To see more images, head over to Calvin and I's travel blog. I have posted a set in Monochrome and another in Colour.

i chose wildness

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 22:00:03 PST

i chose wildness this year
i chose opposites
i regaled expectation
i chose child
i chose innocence
i chose openness
i mislaid expectation
i chose love
i chose mystery
i chose exploration
i chose intuition
i chose trust
i chose faith
i bucked responsibility
i chose necessary
i chose to gift more of me
i chose walls
i chose selfishness
i chose beauty
i lost known
i chose unknown
i chose questions
i chose risk
i tasted failure
i chose ideas
i chose uncertainty
i chose vulnerability
it unnerved you but my soul thanked me.

{image entitled railroad symphony by filtran}

{yummy}

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 11:25:51 PST

food and drink, a set on Flickr.

{my food project is progressing deliciously here in istanbul. the turkish know how to feast and we are joining in! they take their time about their food. they relish it: slowly, thoughtfully, delightfully.}

i would walk a mile if i knew you were...

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 22:00:01 PST

'here! here!come quick, they're here!'

i was trailing rope and twine and plastic handle as my fingers knotted and unknotted to keep my kite in the air. i was running forward, my eyes blinded by sun.

running, running for his voice. had he found the robins or was it another treasure this time?

the urgency became thicker and more muffled as i grew closer to it. 'are you in the hedgerow?' i giggled, not feeling the brier on bare skin and skirt as i made my way into the dugout that we had created behind the old schoolhouse, now abandoned for more space.

'is it the eggs?' i asked breathlessly.

'no, dummy. it's the milk i stole from the back of uncle joe's truck this morning while he was shooing the cows on. here's your bottle: i'll swap you for a mud fight.'

i was thirsty. the mud was further down the road. maybe he'd forget. 'ok,' i said, sidling in next to him.

a van swished past, upsetting the hedge temporarily. our eyes peered out at the disappearing tyres.

i would walk a mile if i knew you were waiting in the hedgerow on a sunny afternoon again. the milk of childhood lingers in my mouth.

{the prompt for this piece was to take a memory from your past and contextualise it into your present. clifford, my best friend from childhood, and i would dig underground tunnels in the bottom of their house. we were able to do this because the foundation of the house was littered with trap doors and passages. it was the greatest delight for the two of us to hide away from his little brother, matthew, who was set on spoiling any form of fun we tried to have without him. i took this memory and set it into donegal where calvin and i were living at the time: a colder climate, farm land and hedgerows everywhere with winds that could lift any kite. the old school house down the road from our house was one of my favourite abandoned places to explore.the image is entitled veryware by max slowik.}

technology disruptions

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 07:29:00 PST

he announces his arrival with a shadow that flits itself from curtain to wall and back again. the pages on my book shadow over but i pretend to be interested in the words that keep repeating themselves like sonnets before my eyes.

i peel potatoes. i feel the starch accumulating on my pores, urging its way between thumb and index finger as knife deftly moves. the oven hums a low undertone as it's belly beats iron. the pot putters trying to escape the warmth it generates. it is these notions of presence that i long for. but at what expense i wonder?

i remember the day vividly. something edgy was in the air. i couldn't quite place it until the hammer was pounding, metal and glass and plastic and wires all at once. i remember the blue electricity i felt within me mirrored in the plugs spitting back at me. she needed to leave. all i wanted was hay and manure and the sound of roosting hens.

technology they say is supposed to be silent: the solution to all modern life's overwhelm. why then is it then that she seduced me with the lie that mumbled grunts were conversation?

the fraying jean on wooden floor can be heard again. he holds two eggs in his hands: 'they're still warm'. i smile, turning to reach into the cupboard. i motion to a wine glass. he nods, takes a seat at the counter, watching my starchy hands as they place peeled potatoes into boiling water.

'when i was about 5, when we lived in the hills, grandad would laugh before he played the concertina.'

i wipe my hands on my cotton apron, slide in next to him, my feet dangling from the high bar stool. my elbows cradle my cheeks, a slow smile forming. i nod, motioning for him to carry on talking...

{the prompt for this piece was 'she destroyed the tv and what was left was...' but it needed to be written in context of your own house and we were told that the woman in the piece physically destroyed the actual television. i found the prompt very difficult. maybe it is because i never grew up with a tv? the photo is entitled [365 048] by corrie howell.}

isolated

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 22:00:10 PST

the window peddled it's age with weathered splints of time. the linen curtain struggled to hide the ageing signs as the wind called it outward. the windows were seldom open. stuffiness and cold traded places at her fireside.

today was different. her bunyaned hands shakily moved the brass latch outward and muscle fought sagging skin to lift the framed panes of glass upward. she turned, breathless from her first completed task for the morning. arthritically her legs move towards the door. that door opposite her: beyond which lay stories, neatly sketched in cotton rows.

like the time aunt beth came to visit. her walking stick pointing in every direction except down. pointing and speaking: synonyms to the old bag they were. spittle flying between pieces of chapped lip, unattended in weeks. she would speak about the land. the land they owned together that now stood unploughed, the rusting implements, the tea.

yes, the tea. at 11 o'clock his scuffling could be heard. tentatively it would ease, his hand pressuring the back door.

{the prompt given to us for this piece was to start writing a story. if ever i was to write about the two years that we lived in donegal, ireland this would be the beginning of the book. it is a fictitious piece based on two people who i met and lived close to. mary and dan were classified as a high risk couple because of their fragile condition, their age and their wealth. they had no children and so it was frowned upon by the social welfare office to reach out to them in case you were trying to get a share of their wealth once they passed away. it was sad situation which led to them becoming very socially isolated. nearing christmas, people like these rest heavily on my heart.}

grenada

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 22:00:05 PST

cotlash slices tree
fisted forearm
fumbles fish
child squeaks
mother's breast leaks
papaya is gifted
mango on the cheap
breakfast a feast
holler this a way
holler that a way
talk happens as a scream
dress on the skimp
its 'cause of the heat
winter is nowhere
summer dawned
and never went to sleep

{the prompt was 'what's happening out there?' my heart was still in grenada despite having being back in ireland for more than a month. i was missing the heat and the ruralness that hot landscapes create. the photo is entitled market square, st george's by shaggyshoo.}

observations

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 22:00:00 PST

the road is uneven, hewn with generational memories. it stretches towards the mountained horizon and somehow stops to greet the windmill who daily toils at it's watery task.he lifts his muddied gumboots from the splintered box and struggles his feet inward. he looks up and down the distance of the road, as the door makes a gentle click behind him. his hand massages the stubble on his cheek, reminding him efficiently of last night. he knuckles the gnawing away, failing somewhat in his attempt. silence a companion to him as he makes his way towards the bleating white blots that dot his farm. he has walked a sufficient distance to now be standing halfway down the road. the house to his back, the post box ahead of him. sunlight and wind vie for his attention as each clings stubbornly to straggles of wool, left behind in the fence he now mends. momentarily he is distracted from the reality of the boxed lettered lines, waiting at the bottom of the road.

{the prompt for this one: observe someone at work but from a distance. write one paragraph. my mind remembered a wintry afternoon in donegal, watching a farmer mend his fence after a storm. the photo is entitled farmer by ard hessalink.}

underneath

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:00:06 PST

she is citrus

hard to peel

sweet within

{the prompt we were given was simply an orange and an onion. the photo is called tasty and available by domiriel.}

misfit love

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 22:00:01 PST

his tires leave traces in granules of ground. his height emerges from the vehicle, his personality follows. she stands in the shade of a tree, alongside the village women. the large bellied pots putt putt putt their way to edible. she sees him. he is shadowed to him. invisible hands knit a jersey of want about her. she stares at his disappearing frame for what seems like an afternoon.

under the coolness of a cold shower, taken underneath a tree, in the drip of a makeshift, she tries to scrub him from her thoughts but like an ineffective pumice stone, the rough bits of an altered reality remain on her skin.

he sleeps or rather tosses fitfully, unable to remove from his well defined back, her eyes, bearing an imprint only he could feel. his mind races with the realities of science: the smaller the point of contact, the greater the amount of pressure exerted. he thinks back to israel, to limestone mountains giving way to salted sea. anything to distract, but just as limestone has a way of blinding one at midday, just so his eyes seem seared.
she is of a genre he cannot sing.

his standing in society: that of a middle fledgling, eeking an existence into the upper crust. a cold reality settles in, invades the comfort of a dream.

she hunkers over the coiled, red heat of the old fashioned stove. her brown slender fingers move between blade and brittle white flesh, as if in war although larger and better armed. blurred she raises knife, as if to harm herself, only to wipe a tear that becomes another and yet some more. spitting oil and flat bottomed pan: her white flag.

he enters in, welcomed by aroma of home. the warrior supposedly.

unknown to him, the war just fought.

{before we were given the prompt for this piece, we were given extracts from isabelle illende and miguel gracia marques. once we had read the various pieces, we were handed the following objects: a russian hat, rough dry clay, a mohair blanket, a used wooden spoon and an angular rock. we then had to make our own associations with the objects and write an essay based on our associations. writing this piece was the first time that i allowed the words to write themselves, it just flowed. it was in my mind, unknown to me. the image i chose for this piece is called josephine by tor kristensen.}

workmen

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 22:00:07 PST

your foul mouth
spews toast and egg

animated co-worker faces
lighten at words
like durex, privates
and the night before

respect nullified
as friends rag
at your exploits
pounding chair and fist

beer and coffee
slander and sex

lines blur
between day and night
wrong and right

{for this prompt we needed to write about an overheard conversation in a crowded public place. at the time when this conversation happened, i was sitting in a hidden small cafe known for its tea and deli type food. it was early morning, the sun hadn't yet risen. i didn't intend to listen but i couldn't not listen to the conversation that stumbled from these hungover builder's mouths as they ate breakfast before an early start to their work day. the photo is entitled working days by fran parra carrion.}

like...

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 22:00:06 PST

like thank you

twisted around
concaved
into a hat box
that was supposed to be
square
but turned out round

{the prompt for this one: write something that doesn't really makes sense but rolls off the tongue. not sure if this worked. what do you think? image entitled park benches in central park by david joyce}

feminine

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:00:10 PST

fragile strength

searching for a storm
needing thunder
to lay her bare

timidly 'neath umbrella
hunkered she hides
questions like rain
find vestments to soak,

take up residence
like pungent ripe tomatoes
plummeting to bursting death
at bite's first touch

hands reaching up
she strips drenched layers

hands ready as yarn
to piece together
answer by rowed answer

of a life being knit together

{for this prompt we were told to write about our gender, using three distinctly contrasting images which we were given. i was given the words tomato, rain and yarn. the photo is entitled 'kristina' by tiffany dawn nicholson.}

object

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 10:00:01 PST

broken petri dish
of human experimentation

pearl straggled
'cross gray
giving way
to brittle edge

soaped
textured smooth

ceramic clink
fragility laid bare

{over the next few days i am blogging a few pieces that i have written in response to writing prompts. in this exercise, our writing group was shown a selection of objects and told to select one. we then had to write about the object's physical appearance. i selected a shell. the image is called 'echo' by dale smith.}

friend, today...

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 03:08:52 PST

you have become part of the daily tapping of the keyboard, the notes popping up in social media spaces, the 'hi, how are you?' said so casually, heavy laden with love; the conversation waiting unobtrusively in my inbox; the stringed together words of syllables so beautifully uttered that my heart is sometimes rendered silent.

i savour what these spaces have become, what you have become to me: honeycomb, sticky and tangible in its' ability to captivate me, time and again.

today is your day. i imagine God on the day of your conception, rigorously working to complete what He could not wait to birth. pure magnificence.

i love you. thank you for allowing me into your world.

you are celebrated.

if i could...

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 09:25:46 PST

i would stand in the middle of swirling lights and turn around in circles, over and over again.
i would climb a tree with a flask and blanket, wrap myself up there and read until the sun sets low and the crickets send me home.
i would run into a pile of leaves, fall down and kick about in them until my mouth and hair and clothes were full of dust and leafy bits.
i would wrap my body into a neatly packaged box, wrap it up in brown paper and post myself to cape town, pretoria, uganda, dundee, oregon, jersey, new york and california.
i would place myself in sunshine, right in the very core of it, so that it soaks into my bones and into my marrow. i want it to collide with my osteocytes.
i would go rock climbing, to exert every muscle in my body, to feel sweat beads forming on my skin.
i would cook a huge meal, invite over my life long friends to celebrate change and togetherness despite change.
i would climb into my marriage and have a conversation with it, a real heart to heart.
i would take a long walk, on a gravel road that leads to nowhere with a stranger. i would ask them many questions, bare my soul, just to know the freedom of anonymity.
i would book a cottage, open the door to the sea, and read for days on end in a hammock.
i would solve a few problems with a few creative solutions that seem to elude me when i need them most.
i would climb into time and ask it why it moves so quickly, perhaps ask for a few suggestions to make it stretch a little further.
i would love wholeheartedly right now.

the question is why don't i?

when strangers beckon, take a seat

noreply@blogger.com (Claire Burge) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 00:00:08 PST

i change direction because of your plucking at those chords. i see matted dreadlocks before the guitar body reveals itself. before your eyes look up...

i hesitate. my heart tugs at me to just sit down. my head tells me that i am being weird, that this is not socially acceptable behaviour. i try walking across the bridge. i turn around. the minor notes that you are collecting and rebirthing with those nimble hands of yours have me spellbound quite literally.

you see me walking towards you, expecting the turning towards the other way but i stop dead in front of you, motion to the vast spaces on either side of you. your head nudges right: no words are needed in this exchange. i settle down, prop my bag into the small of my back to ease the coldness of the cement below me. i close my eyes, lean my head against the railing, breathe in london fog.

it is in the closing of my eyelids, in the settling down of my racing mind that your music finds it's way back into my being, courting me gently. i hear how your left hand exchanges flirtations with your right, the one mysteriously dissappearing before the other and then reappearing to make itself visible. you pluck, stroke, strum and beat with heartbeats that make your hands and heart collide.

dusk becomes night, fog fades into low hanging mist and smog. the fall crispness descends. i wonder if your strumming would sound different under warmer skies, barer skin? do we listen with more than our ossicles? the bridge that nearly carried me away from you, stretches before us now. it is like the road to terebithia... it holds possibility, stretching beyond the immediate vision. it curves though as all good bridges do, as all realities do.

courtesy says drop a few coins into the velveteen laden case. i reach for my purse, my hand tentatively hesitates. i withdraw my hand. you sense my conundrum, shake your head, willing my hand away from where it is placed. i want to but i can't.

it is the companionship that i crave. that you crave. some voids cannot be filled or even bought.

i gently tuck my hair behind my ears, get up. we nod. i walk over the bridge. your fingers continue weaving hearts together.