Thursday 25 July 2019

Poems, Summer 2019

Garden, Alone

I am here, in the garden, the only one that matters.

With insects as company –
flies, and the red-and-black spider
hanging from my sunglasses.

Cuckoo. Swarms.
Bleats. Swallows.
Buzz. Barks.
Whines. Calls.

The smell of nothing at all.

A confetti of magnolia petals – all stages from virgin to crone.

Bracken reaches out in plumes.

I want to lie naked in a field full of women.
And lunch on benches, chatter on rungs.

People have died.
Sheep walk the tracks.
Bluebells wash over in slices.

I have no money, no job, no children, no husband.
It is now and only now.

I dive in deep for the sword at the bottom.


Unbeknownst to Me

Blades of grass do somersaults
and bend to the rules of the afternoon.
My head spins in a dance with the earth,
one of which I am unaware, blind to, or not listening.

They waltz and flurry unbeknownst to me
- as I lie down hankered, tempted, 
to throw everything into the harbour,
let the wild water transport it offshore,
somewhere sunken, laden with treasure.

Branches glimmer - and again -
the breeze is peripheral,
there seem to be whole laws and kingdoms
rejoicing in secret.

The ribcage splatters
as it would
when made aware of its liquidity.

How the breath travels
is a mystery -
I suspect on ancient railways
draped in velvet,
reedy as thread.


You Could Call Me Lazy

Driftwood on the carpet.
Ghost of an incision.
Dreaming dog.
a sticky teat.
White walls
smoother than arrow.
I bathe in broth,
my bones,
to the pallet.



In my mouth I hold the absence of taste.
In my throat, a whole clearing
of white eggs and blue crystal.
The colony of ants that live in my stomach
feast on long-dead days and colour.
Gooseberries glisten somewhere in an orchard
surrounded by mountains.
My love assembles tents in the clouded sun.
Protection serves as layer upon layer
of breath, whimsy, rogue dandelion seeds.
The house where I was born
looks down from its cradle.
A stream in the shape of a graveyard
carries with it yellow poppies.
The petal rustles
as it drops.



Memories dripping like stalagmites
- I'd like to eat them
  but fear dissolve.

a branch falls in silence.

The coffee sits
obedient as cream
between us,
and the puzzle.

The lake leaves
green freckles
on the skin
of grandmothers.

I catch myself
- in mirrors, 
  in strangers, 

as the day bows.



A breathless walk
through unfamiliar trees.
A bouquet of flowers,
bright yellow,
A cookie
in the place
I predicted my future
that one time.
So heavy with tides.
You say. 


Baba Rosa

become steeped
with the smell of Turkish coffee
and Baba's cherry slatko
becomes an emblem
of oversaturated sentiments
like the final blossoms
of a hot
and arduous



She walked up the hill
holding yellow flowers.
She wore the pattern
of tropical leaves.
He dressed all in blue, exiting a van
the candy version of ocean.
She imagined him saying,
Are those for me?


Walk in a Field

Rattling crickets and
tides of traffic
weaving in, weaving out,
the landscape.
Mountains sit
heavy as fact.

A surprise of heat.
The breeze, less so.

Brown castle.
Titillating strip
of sea.

It is enough to be a witness,
employed full-time
by the senses
- arrest me as they do -
to the moment
that lies just inches
beyond my nose.
And yet my mind runs miles
to escape
the anchor
of presence.

It is simple
and delightful
to notice
a stack of black hay-bales
twinkling like onyx
and above,
in a distant village,
a reflection
like a lighthouse
(though it is afternoon
and July).

that must have seemed abhorrent
at the time
now look quaint as windmills;
electricity poles
as organic
as washing lines.

Contours of space
spelt out by birds
in their flights
so full of meaning,
while a butterfly dances,
and ignorant
to the finite summer.

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