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Your brushstrokes make me smile.
You have weaved fluorescent purple streaks
about my hair.
Standing tall on my head a hat –
crafted from wire; all shiny bright and prickly.
Porcupine springs to mind.
What was on yours – when you painted it?

At the sitting
You offered me a plastic cup of lemonade.
Fizz went up my nose
I sneezed, you laughed.
What was the meaning of all that.

It doesn’t look like me
you have captured me young
Salad days – party nights
excessively overly overconfident
in my pig headed way.

The painting was a birthday bequest
just me, my smile, the wire.
The rest of me, seemingly lacking of attire.
I stand back admiring its dignity.
Such a pity that it resembles
someone else –
Someone: Who could never be me…

© Poppy Taylor 2013

*****

With a certain touch of Sylvia Plath about it, “The Porcupine Lady” by Poppy Taylor is todays featured poem. With a certain tender, shy awkwardness about it, this poem by one of our regular authors fold back the layers of a summer romance and looks back on halcyon days wistfully. A beautiful, reflective piece of poetry to add to our archives.

Whilst you’re here, why don’t you take a few minutes out of your day and check out the other poetry by Poppy and the other writers we have featured on the site?

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