Monday, 15 June 2015

2 New Poems

Smoothing Stones

A ripple is an echo by other names,
in other tongues, other epochs;

it is a chosen stone, careful dropped
as quill ink on fresh-printed parchment,

but lesser permanent, lesser meant,
blind but to its writer, by terms.

Listen closely, it can be heard:
the hesitance in verbage of tea-time blandness,

though content with flattened verse, it stirs
of deeper longing in private hours,

it cries between pine needles' space
to come back to spaces where

you and I ripple upon each other.
Or is it echo?

Could Be All Yours

If I could freeze clocks on you,
the glacial porcelain facades of
Swiss maker's hands could finger-count
all hours running out my youth in cold,
in unaired hotel rooms, in library benches,
I'd settle on love's birth in a single metaphor:

you were reading Kundera
in a room of light banter's banality,

every impulse to crafter's wine,
dusty bookshops, thesis work in
the Sunday pubs of suburban London.

Still, the bottle dust, the record books,
the hard-parcel pieces, the Guardian default news-tickers
give way to clicking the same three Chait articles
to smirk slightly at their headlines.

In other terms,
to lonesome.

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