From Man To Woman

From Man to Woman                                                 Arna Baartz *2006


Beautiful and kind

heart open wide

like womb




edges undefined.

Man is here

wants to be

loved we see… exist is all.

Making the rough

the tough


the phallic reaching, mother womb

fertile fields a sad man’s tomb.

A question soft and true;

See me? I see you. Please see me? I’m here too.

Out of hand,

far too grand and now we’ve lost the point.

A blood-tipped point,

the taste of salt,

a rusty thing no-ones fault.

Beautiful and gentle

a cry…..short and true;

See me? I see you.

Please see me,

I’m here too.

Flower Skin


Flower skin at dawn

petal thighs,

open silk and fragrant

it nests there.


Simply touching skin

momentary fire,

a wealth of frothy wave

it crests there.


Unbearable softness

something sighs,

colour in satin throat

it rests there.

Love Swept The Breeze Away


Fresh and cool it entered

then swayed and left,

or seemed to,

me and you,

the saddest


in the sun.

But the heat that kissed the space just above my skin

told me the truth

I didn’t know until then.

Time entered and sighed and I listened so hard,

I pressed my ear against the

tight spot  in my heart.

Feathers ruffled, a moment shuffled,

the breeze stung my eyes and made me cry (it didn’t mean to).

Breath filled me and called me and kissed me

on the inside.

Love shifted and swayed and seemed to say,

a word that only

the tight spot,

deep in my heart needed to hear.






Noah’s Boat

‘GO’ God said

‘DO the thing, two by two and you.’

‘Do I have to?’ Noah cried.

‘I don’t like animals, I don’t want to put Mrs. Noah in my boat.

I just want to watch the sun come out alone.

All by myself,

I want to float,

on the top of the world

just me and my boat.’

Two Weeks

Two weeks,

aeons when

succumbing to the insanity of Love.

Two weeks of yearning buzz,

confused bee’s

flutter in the chest

while ivy struggles for clear path.

Two weeks of living,

incomplete, drenched existence

stormy child

frightened, dying.

Meeting oneself on a muddy track,

holding back, not holding back.

A jungle of a life time when

eating an endless dessert of tinned plum,

red, rich,

sickly, sweet.

Two weeks.


I turn against this instructed combustion

and welcome clean and easy light,

a glow of love without the eternity.

Calm the drama

rest the finger picking

and wringing of old bells and hands.

Be still  bee’s

you know your queen,

fly straight.

Two weeks,

a string of life lived,

a little plant growing through

a brazen crack.

Two glorious weeks of crisp sheets

and windy nights

and peanut butter

and coffee and yellow dog and paint.

Two weeks.


The Artist

earth lives in wet caress

like polished drops of orange sun

that slide and mould the contours  of my soul

you are a sculptor

my breasts are clay that cry and move,

your push and pull sucks me into being,

thumbs press and stretch like God and water flows in

open pores like moody tears and music to a pool of stone

a deep note inside a song

the touching is a thrill of song itself

you are a musician

melody comes thick and sweet like sugar in hot tea,

black tea, sprinkled on my body, crisp flakes

contrasting with the felt on which you rest your open palm

full grasp of flesh like biting into something rich and salty

a lick of wicked script

a tongue teaching me

the words, of wild and graceful tune

you are a poet

large earnest loops of love trace letters down and over me

holding me still, bending my will a lyrical freedom

heart beating like bubbles bursting

big thick molasses bubbles, bursting slowly, like punishment

a wash of soft paint,

a brush of colour in my belly

pleasure laquers the canvas with vibrant oils

you are a painter