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Peter Dent

The Concealments of Princess Blue

 opening a curtain, looking out: can it ever be an answer?
--- after Huang Yu-tsao


Saturday 9 p.m., the flower-seller imagines her life as
a princess – beggars intervene.    The plot is complex, 
I think, for believers.    Much turns on lilies, her mind,

a photo-gallery, years of mourning.    Romantics are
rueful, knowing the need to express or be diminished.

Nothing serves like a well-placed interval; starvelings
get together at the gates, console one another, pick
up the latest metaphor.    A picture is a picture – this


she believes.    Young ones call for her.    Anonymity
sees how to record it (ways and means).    Porcelain
in the store-room: a rack of questions on light.    I do

not pronounce.    Tastes change.    Opticians report
a conspicuous coup d’état: remedy for the well-fed?

At her stall she requires no names, no addresses.    A
nibble at the edges – her smile is nothing to the rich.
Sets frost on blooms.    Inertia?    Months in a trance.


The ghost of her looks east, what happens in dream
isn’t what counts?    Outlines of a sail, coercion will
speak for itself: she relishes ‘quail & oranges’; dates     

don’t get a look-in: the accused are loathe to open
her eyes, which isn’t how it was – the ‘angelic norm’!  

Says Nature, beware of steps down to darkness: I de-
termine a problem, you present it to conference; try
a no-win no-future morning, her lilting exhortation.


Whatever the reason, pray – a suspicion of spice and
the dish is done.    Her love was nominal, I am easy
to lose; as the director worries a camera, so the lead

won’t make a storm.    Bandage across his eyes.    An
exquisite touch.    In green trees a far brighter green.   

Parakeets, lovebirds, admiring the world from above.
Even so, fate thrashes the copse.    Behind columns,
12 spear carriers.    Priests and princelings.    HMRC.


A book of nanoseconds, my lap has no sitter, the dye
is less than straight.    I would know your ravings at
a moment’s notice: yesterday’s papers under a black

stone.    Pour me a smooth one.    One to remember
when all else ....    Sleet gives way to shafts of intent.

Brilliance speaking in volumes – turn over, start now.   
I dedicate success to vessels on the horizon.    One,
she is not on board.    Two, how she clings to the rail.


The theory goes, eyes must look for beauty: treaties
there are for signing.    Or smoke.    Recalcitrance, a
pope is unelected and treasures dissolve into dust.

Rhyme wasn’t the reason, pearls knew no price – for
a clockwork car to operate the children ‘speak now’

or ring an auctioneer.    The Magritte needs to fetch
thousands to hold its price – no arrest forthcoming
or proving a servant to the poor.    What a palaver.


Where am I in all this?    In the lowliest of quarters, a
red ring on the finger of one without.    Twigs snap.
It’s been a night of luck.    Clients also.    Speak easy.    

By consent.    ‘Force’ is a syllable in the forest; green
eyes and green eyebrows.    Or my woman – at Leafy 

Mound – will pluck her lute.    Laugh at my expense.   
Why the lodger and his friends say nothing.    If only
to impoverish my line – skip the guidelines, run her


Ragged.    Analysis omits what’s awkward, my page
is thumbed.    Tea for kneeling, mat and screen, her
report’s like tomorrows dressed to kill.    Don’t over-

simplify.    Or embrace (double the compensation!).
Dynasties even today are smiling – rank with decay.

Restore connectives, sip and revive.    I will translate
you: ‘walls of flowers, eyes and vine’.    Princess with
her menials – magpie fluttering in its prison of time.


Not a quick-fix chancellor?    Eradicates his howlers.
A swamp is a swamp is a swamp too many; a brave
new century is already over the Date Line.    Count

badly.    For good riddance add extra.    Put no-one
on your list of friends that’s not one – light candles

for a free school’s thinking.    These Hours fill nicely.
No worries, no need of ledgers – I’m alive to an un-
tutored page.    Americano with a kick?    I get wise.


(Hides flowers for her lover.)    Nothing plus nothing
is begging to equal something – a place for solemn
music?    No-one says no to Cold Mountain, its pale

schemata, its biddable ice.    But, are we anywhere?
Bad songs bother the judge, I’m ever one to forgive

her.    No code this, it’s not for cracking.    Or wives.   
Another day and a pristine trail – the fact of us may
never strike home.    (Scans.    Turns heads to light.)


A passing fancy – could be a high-flying owl?    See,
I am in a state of .... wonder.    My millions spell out
a man, not a fortune.    My narrative flips and falters,

gives way to ‘collisions of the skin’.    A ‘biography’? 
It looks familiar, but who’d put a face to the name?


‘To woo’.    Connect with the way we are, calculate
the profit.    Oddly, she won’t be having that.    She
sees through my eyes 20/20.    Dice are so last year!


A corner pitch.    East of the old grey gaol.    On the
level and out of the wind; she was strict as you like.
Her gentlemen ‘rewarded’ their belles, never mind

girls of ‘no mean sensibility’.    Well, don’t you have
to?    Heads up, shuffling through extra fine lettres.

See: top shelf for more.    Fumbling, like characters
from the past – flowery types mostly.    Sometimes
a rector’s daughter?    Oh yes, she made it through.


Copyright © Peter Dent, 2016.