SCATTERING.
We trickled the grey dust
knuckled with buckles of sharp
bone into the fist of the hole. Stole
sidelong glances at the atoms of it
escaping into the mountain breeze.
Watched it: a flock of small ghosts
pacing like hosts of ganged starlings;
the pockets of dry air it stung through.
The earth of the twm swallowed
it; stole the dust and the diamonds
of bone. Something will come
of it: grass will absorb it and
grow. Snow will anchor it to a tomb.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Sweet Music
Each note quotes
moments of us;
the spaces between
quavers and semi-
breves rave with
the being of us.
moments of us;
the spaces between
quavers and semi-
breves rave with
the being of us.
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Poem for my mother's funeral
LIGHT
for Mam
The last time we were
together in the same place
her face beamed as he
played, the son of her
son the ‘apple of her eye’.
(We never imagined she’d die.)
She said, as he sprang
like new heather or the
reflected light of a summer
sun on the beachfront
trampoline, ‘I want a
go!’. She said - (we never
imagined, that moment, her
dead) - she said she wanted
to jump too and laughed
that she’d never pass for
“Under 16”. (Well, one can
dream!) The pebbles at Cold
Knap wrapped us all
as we sat, in a clear light.
We might have imagined at
that moment living forever:
what we are, where we’ve all
been, what we’ve seen,
come together in moments;
lucid, vivid smiling moments
shared by blood and through
friendships. As we sat in the
café sipping hot tea, she
seemed distant looking out
over the small, swan-dusted
lake. We make ourselves live
forever by our actions, our
smiles and the good deeds
we live by. We never die.
for Mam
The last time we were
together in the same place
her face beamed as he
played, the son of her
son the ‘apple of her eye’.
(We never imagined she’d die.)
She said, as he sprang
like new heather or the
reflected light of a summer
sun on the beachfront
trampoline, ‘I want a
go!’. She said - (we never
imagined, that moment, her
dead) - she said she wanted
to jump too and laughed
that she’d never pass for
“Under 16”. (Well, one can
dream!) The pebbles at Cold
Knap wrapped us all
as we sat, in a clear light.
We might have imagined at
that moment living forever:
what we are, where we’ve all
been, what we’ve seen,
come together in moments;
lucid, vivid smiling moments
shared by blood and through
friendships. As we sat in the
café sipping hot tea, she
seemed distant looking out
over the small, swan-dusted
lake. We make ourselves live
forever by our actions, our
smiles and the good deeds
we live by. We never die.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
A Line
A LINE
for Jo
A cloud came over her;
gun-metal and leaden
when she saw the red
line in the circle but an
empty square. A cloud came
over her, dripping its empty
bulk, a hulk of a thing. Drawing
what seemed like the ery
light from around her, she
moved as if oceans were
about to annoint her. And
in the hours since the line
in the square never came,
it rained. A gentle drip on
the window from the grey.
for Jo
A cloud came over her;
gun-metal and leaden
when she saw the red
line in the circle but an
empty square. A cloud came
over her, dripping its empty
bulk, a hulk of a thing. Drawing
what seemed like the ery
light from around her, she
moved as if oceans were
about to annoint her. And
in the hours since the line
in the square never came,
it rained. A gentle drip on
the window from the grey.
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Electricity (for L.S.)
From a spark of brushing
arms a month before
Christmas, it has grown
into a flame which in
turn becomes fire when I
wake each morning and
think of you. The beat of my
heart started this thing the
rhythm of it sings a birdsong
of hope and of the future. I
cannot help but stare at
you; your beauty, your voice
and the glimmer of brilliance
in your every move proves
there is a fate in our connecting.
I rush to meet your words; herds
of wild horses couldn't keep me
from you. I am already filled
with the meanderings of butterflies
at the thought of seeing you again
tomorrow. Of meeting your eyes
with my own eyes. At the chance
we might brush arms again in a
spark of electricity, an explosion
of fatefulness.
arms a month before
Christmas, it has grown
into a flame which in
turn becomes fire when I
wake each morning and
think of you. The beat of my
heart started this thing the
rhythm of it sings a birdsong
of hope and of the future. I
cannot help but stare at
you; your beauty, your voice
and the glimmer of brilliance
in your every move proves
there is a fate in our connecting.
I rush to meet your words; herds
of wild horses couldn't keep me
from you. I am already filled
with the meanderings of butterflies
at the thought of seeing you again
tomorrow. Of meeting your eyes
with my own eyes. At the chance
we might brush arms again in a
spark of electricity, an explosion
of fatefulness.
Sonnet for L.S.
SONNET
In this dream I
enveloped you in a
complete cloud: held
you so closely, so
totally I almost became
you. In the waking
from the dream the
room was empty; I
wanted you to be
there but the slant
of sharp light from
the window lit nothing
but the emptiness of
a still breath.
In this dream I
enveloped you in a
complete cloud: held
you so closely, so
totally I almost became
you. In the waking
from the dream the
room was empty; I
wanted you to be
there but the slant
of sharp light from
the window lit nothing
but the emptiness of
a still breath.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Saturday, 26 February 2011
Sagaing, Burma
Sagaing
The tea was sweet. Green,
it hung in the chipped cup
like a haze waiting to lift.
Sunlight, filtered through a small
copse of dry trees, hit the
tea. The cloud swirled, fragments
of leaf swimming like dust
in a poor river.
There were as many white temples
as there were specks. Against grey
cloud they stuck out like snow;
I watched a line of them
follow the hillside down to the
river.
The second cup was better; the
first is strong, somewhat bitter
with the taste of rich leaves.
The second – and third – weaker,
its taste more subtle, almost mellow.
We left before the fourth.
The tea was sweet. Green,
it hung in the chipped cup
like a haze waiting to lift.
Sunlight, filtered through a small
copse of dry trees, hit the
tea. The cloud swirled, fragments
of leaf swimming like dust
in a poor river.
There were as many white temples
as there were specks. Against grey
cloud they stuck out like snow;
I watched a line of them
follow the hillside down to the
river.
The second cup was better; the
first is strong, somewhat bitter
with the taste of rich leaves.
The second – and third – weaker,
its taste more subtle, almost mellow.
We left before the fourth.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
In The Garden
In the Garden
I broke the back of a
statue, a curved thing
stained with air, in the
garden near the glasshouse.
Turned my head
to follow the slope of it,
and the whole dynamic
of the piece collapsed
around me.
Erect, the glint of the
metal brought me back to
the position I was at when,
eager to shift, I lifted my
eye from the steel to the
drifting of dry light; from
a substance to a feeling.
Later, in a square shop
near the harbour I saw a
canvas leaning at the
door. It was a Lowry that
gleamed in the low sun
coming off the sea. The
colour in it reminded me
of the verdigris on the
statue in the garden
which I’d turned my head
from and broken the back of.
[From: From Hepworth's Garden Out, publ. Shearsman Books, 2009
I broke the back of a
statue, a curved thing
stained with air, in the
garden near the glasshouse.
Turned my head
to follow the slope of it,
and the whole dynamic
of the piece collapsed
around me.
Erect, the glint of the
metal brought me back to
the position I was at when,
eager to shift, I lifted my
eye from the steel to the
drifting of dry light; from
a substance to a feeling.
Later, in a square shop
near the harbour I saw a
canvas leaning at the
door. It was a Lowry that
gleamed in the low sun
coming off the sea. The
colour in it reminded me
of the verdigris on the
statue in the garden
which I’d turned my head
from and broken the back of.
[From: From Hepworth's Garden Out, publ. Shearsman Books, 2009
Dazu rock carvings, National Museum of Wales, February 2011
Dazu
The surface pushes, pulls the
beauty from ourselves; we
create the enlightened from
what’s in us. Our cells rub
with the dust with the pity
of soft stone an etiolate ochre
once seen an inch below the
surface of sand on prone beaches.
The face is emotionless; expression
is provided by he or she who sees.
The carvings have never been
touched but by the maker; the
shaker of atoms the re-arranger of
shapes. We creep softly among them.
The surface pushes, pulls the
beauty from ourselves; we
create the enlightened from
what’s in us. Our cells rub
with the dust with the pity
of soft stone an etiolate ochre
once seen an inch below the
surface of sand on prone beaches.
The face is emotionless; expression
is provided by he or she who sees.
The carvings have never been
touched but by the maker; the
shaker of atoms the re-arranger of
shapes. We creep softly among them.
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