Welcome to Rosanne’s world-changing Salon

A portmanteau. A treasure trove. A time capsule. A poetry book. A diary. A photo album. Memories. Dreams. Wishes. Hopes. An open letter to an unsuspecting public. An intimate confession to close friends. A declaration of intent. A whisper of love. A personal record. An experiment in introspection. A performance space. A political rant. A wild yawp. Why do any of us publish our words and images online? Come, dream with me.

Paper and dust

Their shelves have always held mys­tery. Resist the urge to touch — cloth and paper and paint. I am close enough to breathe in Catullus and all his earthly urges, now sealed and almost eru­dite; So many spines here, leather and lust, dirt and dis­tress....

Numb in the whirlwind

I stand, arms out­stretched as everything i know whirls around me Smashed into drift­wood and debris by the tor­nado of cir­cum­stance They say justice is blind but I can’t help feel she’s blind­folded right now, Held to ransom as random injustice rains...

Time and love and magic on our side

We may not win the battle, she says. And while there’s always fear, some­where down in the heart-sore depths of watching our chil­dren grow, there’s always fear that things can change in an eyeblink, that the wing-free light­ness of the trilling dan­cers of...

Unspoken

Inspired by a Tumblr post I now can’t find… if you recog­nise the story, please con­tact me! There’s some­thing about scarlet cush­ions and 1940s jazz, Dark bars and tiny crystal gob­lets filled with cloying golden wine And a promise of desire...

Precious

These are moments that you treasure, just sit­ting of a sunset, Shoulder to shoulder as you remin­isce. And whether it’s Those memories of women’s decisions, the baby borne or the Journey halted, the intimacies and the viol­a­tions, or whether It’s gasping...

Raw

(With thanks and grat­itude to Robert Borden) 1. 2017 was a good year for fear, a good year for screaming Not like some other good Amer­ican years but it slid out of A year of celebrity death and tele­vised suf­fering that we were all Only too...

Trust

Step out with me — the rocks and the waves are calling and I have some­thing to show you. Step out with me — the ocean is singing to me, songs of spiral shells, seahorses, anemones and brine. Step out — you’re safe with me. It’s almost mid­summer,...

Taming the sea

I My daughter is stretched out on white sand, feeding the ocean. She says she is taming the sea — its wild­ness nibbles at her fin­gers. We have seen no dol­phins today, nor any stin­grays nor whales nor any­thing bigger than spiky brown coral that has...

Place

There used to be water in Cali­fornia; snow­melt rushing through rav­ines to coalesce laugh­ingly as lakes and lagoons and other summer indul­gences. That was long away and far ago, in some strange before time when the land wasn’t riven with cracks and the heat had...

Words

Rough-cut paper tells you it’s a first edi­tion and the must takes you back — Years spent, nose down. Ink-smudges and foun­tain nibs, the romance Of Umberto Eco and sharp-edged medi­eval scores. There’s a deep Con­nec­tion through time to these...

Flamenco

Long fin­gers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight Of fore­finger down a string; that tap of the fin­ger­tips Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over The other and it all dis­ap­pears but for the music. That slight frown on your brow...

Memento mori

His mother painted it, in another life. It is small — less than half a metre across, not quite square. At first glance, it’s nothing but greys, as if it could be Some 19th cen­tury indus­trial city­scape or Soviet town, But closer in, you see...

If voting fails, break glass

It goes without saying that spells of this kind gen­er­ally require a kitten; At least one, more if there’s a storm brewing — the weather Is a fickle assistant. As to breed, well — the more docile spe­ci­mens Tend to dis­rupt pro­ceed­ings less....

A box of old photos

In storage, one card­board box filled with pho­to­graphs. I know one grey envelope con­tains: Peppy, full name Pep­per­mint, Aged 2 or so, inspecting one minus­cule ball of black kitten fluff, Two weeks old, soon to be Nemesis, by name if not by nature. In...

Through the looking glass

A poem about me in which nothing is true She’s humble; speaks little. Mousy they call her, when they notice her. She’s hap­piest on her own. Never thinks twice, quite con­tent. Quick to praise and no regrets. She tends her garden, dili­gent, and Basks in the...

Peggy

She’s prac­ticed at it. You can tell: expensive dress, eye­shadow just so. The way she dips her eyes and glances over your shoulder, as if There’s some­thing she’s idly won­dering but of course, it’s a ruse. She’s scan­ning escape routes and plan­ning...

Every heart a doorway

Thresholds have never been what you’d call safe And over the years, the rituals have gotten silly (after all, the phrase ‘swept off her feet’ only make sense Where a cer­tain kind of force is called a ‘bridal carry’). And love (well, trust) creaks open...

The ravine

Step off. Or not. It’s one of those decisions that hovers at your peri­pheral vision — are you ready? Wings unfurled at your back, that sen­sa­tion of almost-moistness lingering — will they hold? 

Rosanne Bersten

Rosanne Bersten

passionate political poet

Got something to say? Want to get in touch? Drop me a line!

13 + 10 =

Photo of Rosanne Bersten

View my portfolio

I am a communications specialist with more than 20 years' experience. See my CV and professional projects.

tinderspark: ignite your social revolution

HIre tinderspark

Are you involved with an NGO or social enterprise and looking to ignite conversations online about your issues or campaigns? tinderspark can help.