the evening party /

a collection of writings, poems and photographs by the anonymous author ︎︎︎  
2019—present ︎︎︎ Index of entries ︎︎︎ Email ︎︎︎

‘Ah, we’re an ungrateful race! When I look at my hand upon the window sill and think what pleasure I’ve had in it, how it’s touched silk and pottery and hot walls, laid itself flat upon wet grass or sun-baked, let the atlantic spurt through its fingers, snapped blue bells and daffodils, plucked ripe plums, never for a second since I was born ceased to tell me of hot and cold, damp or dryness, I’m amazed that I should use this wonderful composition of flesh and nerve to write the abuse of life. Yet that’s what we do. Come to think of it, literature is the record of our discontent.’ —The Evening Party, Virginia Woolf

As Kodachrome

I saw myself
as Kodachrome,

blissed in
youthful blue
over the
wooden cabinet

As around the dust

a little baby
smiling those
summertime leaves
catching light
at the edge of
trees –

In Valentine’s Park
delicate twined
mum’s fingers
soft clothes & ice cream

beside the
empty pram colours

as they grew
with the windows open.