THERE IS NO END OF THINGS IN THE HEART
Abbreviated love, that will not fade
and can't come back - surprise
in the manner of Chinese verse - as peach
or peony, as hair piled up
and pinned with jade and silver and gold;
as the seasons of waiting and parting of ways.
withnakedfoot
Sunday, 20 August 2017
Thursday, 2 March 2017
Out of the warm
OUT OF THE WARM
Conjuring oblivion
to keep oblivion at bay,
I have this image of snow
drifting into the grey, tall flank
of a North Atlantic swell,
as I take some side road
above the tree-line,
assured that all I need
do is nothing
when the cold and the dark
set to work and I feel
the immunity that comes from
having our worst fear confirmed,
secure beyond all saving.
Conjuring oblivion
to keep oblivion at bay,
I have this image of snow
drifting into the grey, tall flank
of a North Atlantic swell,
as I take some side road
above the tree-line,
assured that all I need
do is nothing
when the cold and the dark
set to work and I feel
the immunity that comes from
having our worst fear confirmed,
secure beyond all saving.
Tuesday, 25 October 2016
Against Completion
AGAINST COMPLETION
So far, the softest of landings.
Your sole design, to be left alone, left out,
or left behind, when the traffic thins
at half-past nine on a workday morning.
La vie boheme on a pension,.
Time to take thought for a saunter,
time to write thoughts down
or, by failure, braced - no freedom
like it - to highlight, then junk
the latest essay in lost love,
the break having been, in life,
anything but clean.
Two scraps of verse, unlikely survivors,
engross the hour before dawn;
a bowl of oats, a Greek-style yoghurt,
serves until afternoon.
Piecemeal, and from less and less,
the most is made. The house that is
as you had always intended
is the house you are about to leave.
#
So far, the softest of landings.
Your sole design, to be left alone, left out,
or left behind, when the traffic thins
at half-past nine on a workday morning.
La vie boheme on a pension,.
Time to take thought for a saunter,
time to write thoughts down
or, by failure, braced - no freedom
like it - to highlight, then junk
the latest essay in lost love,
the break having been, in life,
anything but clean.
Two scraps of verse, unlikely survivors,
engross the hour before dawn;
a bowl of oats, a Greek-style yoghurt,
serves until afternoon.
Piecemeal, and from less and less,
the most is made. The house that is
as you had always intended
is the house you are about to leave.
#
Saturday, 7 November 2015
SUMMER LIGHT
I knew it was a dream, because
he spoke without obstruction
what was in my heart
and after they had kissed,
she did not leave.
Best part of the day, the wish
was truer than the history -
dying, not of darkness
but, for all to see, of
northern summer light.
All I want is to breathe the air
she breathes; be nothing otherwise;
slave to the syndrome of de Clerambault -
offensively devoted -think
Stendhal, behind lenses tinted green.
I knew it was a dream, because
he spoke without obstruction
what was in my heart
and after they had kissed,
she did not leave.
Best part of the day, the wish
was truer than the history -
dying, not of darkness
but, for all to see, of
northern summer light.
All I want is to breathe the air
she breathes; be nothing otherwise;
slave to the syndrome of de Clerambault -
offensively devoted -think
Stendhal, behind lenses tinted green.
Friday, 16 October 2015
THE GHOST VIEW
Cars climb the hill and stare at the sign
before the long descent.
Silhouettes, moving or still,
in cubes of yellow or blue light,
show what feeling at home looks like.
A woman working after dark
leans a coloured print
against the gallery wall
as the last, lone, nuisance
of a skateboarder
nods at this shadow of a man.
A conversation cycles out of town.
Tonight, the missing can be seen, almost.
Null and void is in season.
Traffic-lights fire blanks across the street;
the train-announcement reaches
north towards the river,
there to die as angled snow.
Cars climb the hill and stare at the sign
before the long descent.
Silhouettes, moving or still,
in cubes of yellow or blue light,
show what feeling at home looks like.
A woman working after dark
leans a coloured print
against the gallery wall
as the last, lone, nuisance
of a skateboarder
nods at this shadow of a man.
A conversation cycles out of town.
Tonight, the missing can be seen, almost.
Null and void is in season.
Traffic-lights fire blanks across the street;
the train-announcement reaches
north towards the river,
there to die as angled snow.
Wednesday, 16 September 2015
WORDS TAKE ME
Words take me from where I am.
Someone I'll never know
has unlocked the door of a house,
surrounded by trees then wilderness
and painted the colour of the sea.
The fire is lit and one I'll never meet
has left out food and drink
and a note on the windowsill that reads
Stay here for as long as you like.
Words take me from where I am.
Someone I'll never know
has unlocked the door of a house,
surrounded by trees then wilderness
and painted the colour of the sea.
The fire is lit and one I'll never meet
has left out food and drink
and a note on the windowsill that reads
Stay here for as long as you like.
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