Monthly Archives: April 2014

on the shoreline of day

on the shoreline of day

(for Karey)   The air conditioner whines in the background invisible in a tub of motionless air, Mixing a recipe of motive without meaning:   An opaque shadow impresses her presence gently in a corner Although she hesitates before moving She has been there before life began, knitting her secret creations   She knows my objections but wants my end to be easy & so Chooses to erode those stubborn noisy objections I begin to wail (they avail nothing but make the process difficult for all involved –   What else? She whispers, there is no point in all that angry poetry She does not promise heaven or hell or anywhere in between because Dealing will only make this simple common thing difficult & unpleasant …   If I want angels, I can have them singing in choirs as the pearling gates open & a drawbridge lowers slowly over emptiness; If I want Demons they are waiting, howling & gnashing cannibal teeth & spitting fierce revenge but really   Behind & beyond them all, before gravity & matter & time began The indrawn breath of nothing.

like an old gunslinger

like an old gunslinger

In response to Claine Keily’s ‘And then it comes’

.

for Jane

 

She is the woman who writes

on roads

white calligraphy materializing

in the cracks of dawn

 

(for my parents)

 

It was nobody’s fault that we didn’t know who I was

Not yours, not mine

That we didn’t know who I was going to be

Not yours, not mine

who I was going to be when I grew up

Not yours, not mine

when I grew up and grew wings

Not yours, not mine

grew wings

and flew.

 

 

 

It’s the morning of

7th April 2014 and I’ve

just reread your bandicoot poem

about the ‘death

of poetry’. Already the

preparing of breakfast, the making of

coffee and the drinking

of same, the morning cryptic

crossword with

my wife

spouting the clues ‘from

doggie’s point of view it’s

a refill’ has interrupted

my waking idea for a poem. Elements

of the cryptics alone would

save poetry from a dire fate. There’s

a suspense in what

the next clue will

be, never mind

answers.

Are you coming for Easter? Just

autumn and the bushes have been

trimmed back, bees are buzzing

in the rainwet yellow blossoms, white rose

petals scatter, and new moss begins

a bright green on

the old clay bricks. Do vegans eat

Easter eggs? I have a recipe

for a vegan chocolate mousse –

will that suffice? ‘Poker-faced

faculty head hides promotion

and keeps quiet.’ Exaggerations of

position were more the game

when I worked in

the funny ward, titular swelling

of the bullshit gland. ‘Fancying one

is boss becomes

a compulsive interest.’ The day

grows song –

magpies, corellas and

a late morning crow of

the  red-combed rooster. I’m sinking into

a list poem now, I

must break free, ‘in agreement with

salad or chips’.

 

Midnight spiders have

cast their nets

beneath our bed head, so I must

draw them in, ‘take

fish to a finale’,

lying flat on my stomach

on the shoreline

of day.

 

 

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