P.S. Cottier #26 (flogging a dead haiku)
flogging a dead haiku
with a cat of three tails
no aha! moment here
Robert Verdon, #186, ambient moon
putting a shoulder to the roofless moon
in a thorny desert, unfazed by cackles of silence,
craters on this dark side which is bright as the
querulous creak of an unknown bird
flying by hopping, or anti-gravity,
in the morning on the meridian on the moon,
mild weather as a funnel through time,
atmosphere beaten thin as a wafer of gold leaf,
pushing the moon uphill in my dream like Sisyphus,
thorns of moon-rock jagged as music,
here is a bottomless well of green cheese,
ventriloquist’s dummies come here to die
with their orange flames of hair and bakelite jaws,
like something out of Kipling,
the horizon is sewn up like lips,
the ambience is that of a snug watering-hole up West,
dry as savoiardi, a jazz trio toned down low,
all night long.
Lisa Brockwell #27 Taming Dragons
The ancient dream of a brute air force.
Look to the sky, look up, over the ears
of that horse. Get out of the boat, reach
for more: wing span, lift off, armour
of scales. Tongues of delicious,
horrifying flame. Something wild,
something God-willed, not of this world,
not machine, not man. Inspire, then fire.
Susan Hawthorne #177 Persephone’s island
her island home where she landed near Trapani
a place of more returns than can be counted
she is forever walking the maze back and forth
every summer every winter she walks and returns
the underworld is just a part of life pomegranates
fruit in the middle of winter and the gates of death
remain wide open not until spring comes
will the people dance in her wake celebrating life
The state of being away
Each fresh day ignites
with a full breakfast
and not enough coffee.
Strange beds seem huge,
clean and empty of dogs.
The days unfold like maps,
every tree a stranger,
filled with nameless birds.
I can hear but not speak,
the rare tv holds familiar
faces with outlandish voices.
I’m adrift without ritual
or routine, my diary now
the rungs of an itinerary.
This is what happens.
This is why we step
beyond the known world,
to return with fresh eyes
and fall in love again.
P.S. Cottier #24 9am
is wrapped in commuter cold
hunkering into bus seats
or nursing cars through bowels
of constipated traffic.
9am is the cruellest hour.
See the people made beige
pushing through scarfed
awakening, the workday’s
presence for credit.
The swaddled brutality
of 9am, the coffee clutched,
the earbuds distracting
with a different rhythm.
Stomachs grumble cereal,
phones bring news
of elsewhere, but here
and now is the relentless
decanting of the day
through the funnel of 9am.
This is the vampire hour,
not dusk. The light husk
of possibility drifts,
quite drained, no later than
upon which the house
of my heart is built
lifting my hair
go find a tap
if you want
to drink water
but you can hold
the flame of Vesta
secure on this rock