I bowed upon the stroke. There was nothing but this night and I was happy then. Who knows the poetry composed that night lost in the gaps between the stars? I strummed six golden strings, but never nailed it. Peter, Jude – I too have walked home, got lost in the mist…
Month: March 2016
meditations, etc
Meditations, etc I I’m chained I feel to my will, my flesh and bone; the pen in my hand follows the lines of my command. But it’s you, is it not, tapping the nerves and the veins along my arm; fiddling my words, my will. II What do the poets talk about…
Word as it is Today
Since when did he ever worry about his father’s permission He always did what he wanted to do regardless Fort Street left him wandering a path with no way home When he came looking for her It was too late He knew now when she tried to tell him She had run into the arms…
richness
richness ‘tenderness and tenderness and tenderness’ from’Night through the orange window’ by David Mitchell summer leaves bent with rain on the wind full-tide floating up shell and pine needles in a lifting breath the back of my hand along your thigh kisses november 21, 22, 2015
not talking
not talking when my wife feels like talking and i don’t i tell her my ancestors are watching me weighing me up on their heavy scales the ‘le baiges‘ of a few hundred years ago who for a few hundred years just tilled their soil tended their few beasts the talking goats and dancing…
man of it
man of it looking up into the giddy white grain of fog blowing around the streetlamp he reflects that he disappeared years ago into his own mist not seen clearly since. evening, 20 august 2014 nelson st, howick
I know what to say and I know what to do
I know what to say but can’t like my hands had been cut or worse and I can’t talk. It doesn’t matter however like I said and even tho I’m here and you’re not we’re together I think I walk the rounds the wrong way round – anyway away from you, my…
NA FIANNA
As housewives brush a fly away Cast them aside the same way Most of me is rust A black eternal pool of suburban corrosive metal A broken social unicorn NA FIANNA We are weighted down by sins that don’t exist Indisputably we become aware of ourselves and the void Trickling water through a sieve Memories…
The Eradication
He built a bonfire Next to a lake with no edges The red roses had been sucked from his skin Pale drooping as a flower reaches out to the rain Crystal shards formed at the water’s edge to the bonfire’s flames and embers He sat smoked and drank rum Memories of childhood games The flames…
suffering
I never get sick of the violets and greys of evenfall. Even so, I love the yellow splendours best, the first flowers of the year. The suffering is, there; soft, a clean score that sparks memory, trembling the years; the scent of hair. My sorrows are bitter, hard; to bear: friend, I’ve nothing,…
from A Pilgrimage Of Snails
VII Small odours hold in the walnut- panelled Glory Box, in special coffins for the life remembered, lined with pale silk; there, that’s your face, bent around the convex plane of the unused silver spoon commemorating royalty, succession, continuity; that’s your name, on the ticket stubs and programmes; a poster with your fame, almost overgrown by…
horses at night
I stopped to spot the grass, look at the stars. I caught 2 silhouettes, the slow movement of heads. Horses are calm in the dark; when no-one’s there to see them. But it starts – the music begins to grow like 6 strings being tuned, slow. 27-28 October 2015