Good friday
a man was
mowing the lawn
on Good Friday
did that mark
the occasion
in some way?
the weather
was good
the clouds like
buoys on a
pale blue sea
the weather
as it might
have been on
that day
and someone
dying to it all
breathing in
all human folly
holding it under
the breath his
last breath for
as long as
it takes.
still holding
it in.
6 april 2012
At night the white lines are like the dreams I have heard
some nights, hers. The dashboard lights hold my nerve,
at the wheel. I dream the darkness I pass returns
to silence, more deep, awed by the most exquisite
discipline, at speed. I prime those slow gentle
downs; intuit the curves, the lay of her hands,
and these black lands my other senses know well.
You have trod the snow of the eastern wilderness,
stranger. One day you found your way your Self , sailed
home; done are you now with such alien
suffering? May you nestle in; friend, dig that hole
in the snow for winter. Me? I’m so far away
I can’t begin to say, to score my pen across
the wide, wide page. I feel sure that I shall stay.
This town shall not tumble down like a tower.
In time, however, the blocks will crack, spread thin
their lines, wide along suburban miles and miles
of wood & brick; bungalows built like props. The time
will wear down, the houses crumble down after years
of nothingness, missed by the Lord’s momentous
reckoning; and the weeds will grow where they will.
3 December 2015
no usual thing
to be made
anew
in this life
no small thing
easter
coming up
the stone rolled
away from the
mouth of the
tomb
evening
the lunar
eclipse
earth’s shadow
from across
the face of
the moon
don’t be shy
say it
you put the
rock there to
shut your
light in
you said
the made day
is the same one
every time
as if you’d
never
slept
to be made
anew
no small
usual
thing.
14 – 16 april 2014
How cold the silence of the unheeded cry
How long the night of the sleepless sleeper
It is the misery of doubt, the burden of fear that
steals reason.
As the nights and days blend, the mind turns, finally, on itself
And from there there is no escape save the slow-turn clamp of unreason
There are those who suffered
more than Christ, who knew death
would be vain; nailed, or skinned,
the Jew by the Assyrian, which
no noble death can atone.
Even now the boy king weeps
in his cell, and all of his fingers
are broken. You know what it is
that makes men mad for the sword,
the rush, of the Arabian horse:
a child is beaten, starved; a moth
has its wings torn off – it is
the hatred of this that impels us
like the wind, a Robespierre
to cut off the head.
17 March 2016
easter water
‘Water drawn on the Easter morning is, like that at Christmas, holy and healing …’ sentence from Wikipedia entry on Easter:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%92ostre
they say
water drawn on
easter morning
like that at
Christmas dawning
shall be ‘holy
and healing’
so saying
set me in
reverie
that the
fish the eels
of the deep
shall be ‘holy
and healing’
the foam touched
shell the bird
pert on the
swell the whale
at the edge of
winnowed sunlight
gliding down
in shadow
the
succulent arms
of squid
pulsing ink
in retreat
the submarine volcano
bleeding upward
from the trench
shall be
holy and
healing.
30 april 2014
nelson st, howick
the nights are cooling off
and little in my heart has changed, that
swing latch
box with sticking hook, the
pressure
on the lid to lift a shot
glass, and draw the heat
into the rolled tobacco leaf
order extra p…
nah, bra, bro-ken-deal
I get in my unpissed bed
this is how I roll now, this is why I feel
the same good in the morning
as when the day is coming to an end,
off more years than on —how it goes,
what is lost and never known
sober, I don’t care to know,
nothin’ walkin’ those opposed again,
always something wrong, a type
of fresh anxiety, behaviour
or neglected invitation, totally
untrustable, the poet and his alcohol.
the clean, the dry and stainless
bedding, the courtesy of calmness
as the fish are in the ocean, sit below
the poster of them waiting for yr burger
the floating calm too of birds, or man
facing his death alone, secret smile
on her face, hunted all day, the gear
improving, this sideways walk, this wide
continuously stable happy mind
if mind is what it is
we’re projected from, say ‘into’
and the ‘not said’ is more truthful
there is anarchy shaping but like a light
that can’t stay on, the fitting tampered
with I don’t know anything, said
I hear things, and repeat them
without knowing if it’s true, this tamper;
intro Autumn coffee, awesome cake,
and wandering the park, a notebook
filling up, the art galleries, home
before it is dark, the van temporarily
away the days off the extra blanket
isn’t needed it joins the pillows up
against the glass window of the rear door.
1
If you think
Adam had help, and there
was more
than one
Eve, you’ll grow
on, living
in little
things,
loose,
like the
white flowers
wild yarrow
no taller
than yr knees
scattered
as clouds
at altitude
one
beginning
no beginning
everything
elite
at peace
with the small
significance
of the ordinary
servitude
without…
2
feeling switched at birth.
As a babe
we would take yr milk
from your hand
pumped out of a breast
knowing you or not
& maybe never know
anything was wrong,
immune, we’re growing on
elite and hard to mend
crawling on the floor & joined
in tv sing-along
this, is clearer, each epiphany—
there’s a word
as the bubble burst
‘phiff!’
the sudden soft
coming to yourself.
3
If yr proof
is not canopied
of others
of ‘an’other
than yourself
then by your knowing
look make it out
available compassionate
and true. fear, & love,
both
have an equal sort
of access
to the signs. the facts
are disputed
everywhere, truth is
neutral. grit
becomes gemstone candle
makers,
are not the flame;
nor the keepers
of the Flint the mechanics
of combustion formula.
this hill
inspired by the Blue Oyster Cult song ‘The Reaper’
‘do not fear‘
these words
a hill i
stand against
the low sun
from which you
can see
the sea
and above
the clouds
forged of
light they
hardly hold
the fullness
of
‘do not fear‘
these words
a hill from
which you
may gaze
into the face
of the moon
a cast out
mirror
gather
yourself
the farthest
reach of your
skirt the
farthest
curl of
your hair
and sing
on into
the night
this hill
still
here
when eyes
can see
no more
‘do not fear‘.
april 10, 11 2013
picton st, howick
A small yellow room
A blue chair, edges worn
A vase with no flowers,
Its stem chipped.
A woman’s life
Is caught here.
Behold. Nothing.
The paint has lifted;
Carpet’s thread exposed.
A cup on the side, tea
Riding the crest.
This is her home,
Her chamber of nought;
So stark, the memories are lost.
Save one, formed in spring.
Her with a little case,
A photo and dank hair,
Dropped off: do not return.
A middle-aged man
Leaving the room.
knows you
the wind knows you,
boy, the hidden
parting of your hair
the scar on your knee
how you watch
rivetted to those
hems
the wind knows you,
girl, how you smudge
that smile across the
boys’ eyes and hide
it back under your
flackering hair and
how it lifts at your
knees, lifts the skirt
under your giggling
hand, cold
on the thigh
the wind knows
you back to front
and from the out
to the inside
don’t doubt it
reading the book
of your skin
running in tandem
on the good days
up against you with
a fistful of grit
on the bad
knows the lie
you flew that
that blew someone
away the kiss you
unfolded into darkness
that four hands worked
to hold together
braced for as long
as it took this
wind has emptied you
of every touch you ever
fed another every look
you ever let wander
where it would where
it shouldn’t yet
one day
this wind
will gust right
over your fallen
view
as if
it knew nothing
of you just a low
obstruction to its
haste and how it
hurts to be so loved
then so forgotten
to be so loved
then so forgotten
october 2015
panmure
