Florrie Gildea

Florence moves nomadically between Cambridge and Derbyshire, but likes to think she is more northern than she really is. She hopes to make up for her thoroughly normative teenage years by learning to see the world like E.E. Cummings and move as lithely as Matisse’s Cut-Outs. Until then, she will continue to dye her hair outrageously bright colours in the hope that she looks cool and enigmatic.


More info and commissioned work:
Email: florencegildea@hotmail.co.uk

‘Greek God’

The problem is,
You fit too well in boxes:
They frame you, paragon,
Pristinely packaged,

And yet,
That reverence: a net.
The consumable gets
Consumed. A Venus fly-trap, cursed
In its sweetness.
Too little space in cellophane
To grow wings and soar.

You were made, naked,
to overflow these bonds
Of make-believe.
Stumbling sometimes, but
Always still to breathe.


Man, long-coated, jester-hatted
Read my colours and
Told me I loved foolish.
Too fast, too loud, too much;
That I asked to be consumed.

He told me my Mother’s story
And named it mine.

She had summoned strength
To dissolve her edges
And kneel, nodding sweetly.
Becoming pastel,
In sunshine, basking,
Missing how the fire-
burning something besides bitter-
Used to warm her guts.

She cursed me the same weakness,
Laying train-tracks from a loveless Lancashire
To self-inflict aneurysms.
A subtle self-hatred
That lets us bleed out brave-faced.

I am too close her echo
To tell a different story.


Supple span and shimmer,
Blanket of the stars.
Lost, you cannot wander
Beyond my arc, far
From my breast and cosset.
I your compass; I your canopy.

I need not chase the already
Embraced. My body stretched
To bear; always enough
To hold you close.

The Tempter

My matroshka is trouble-
Delicious, he makes dimples bloom
In secret smiles,
And fondant thoughts hidden
Between righteous.
Bewitched by peekaboo, undressing
Different faces, I pour
Myself into that cavern.
I fill the emptiness with daydreams
And ‘maybe this time’s
Until I too am hollow.

© Florrie Gildea 2014

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