Saturday, 6 June 2015

5 New Poems

And Fate

The call of blessed emerald,
casting spell of salted sea,
first tipsy-drawn mood of the fishing boat
captain in rosewater supple,
shades of graceless gods, lore of
ticking clock face ever-believed for its
boldness, how you find your heart again
between the Thames banks, beneath
suit-cut clatter of City call-men and
silent disco goers subtle flicks of

What some say to sagebrush sapling,
the just-bloomed bud of restless connection
greening this way, that, root-tapped,
is smothered in the coal fire of knowing
better than belief, better than constellation maps,
better an horoscopes and untamed incantations:

that theirs is no destiny,
only the bricks of Highgate.

One Week That Summer
I never knew I was a dancer
until Lebanese liqueur and loud places
between the canals showed me just how
time can spill, tendril in ink sky as
stamping shoes give way to nervous
sock feet in kitchen chairs.

Still, in the bleary whir of electric
musicians, ghosts casting presence,
hoping for sure-spoken magic,
something more secure than this
rippling of flesh in low-light.

It frees from duller hours,
from places of silence where
minds can run free as steppe,
chase own tails in lifelong spiral,

but throb dull as dishwater
brackish, course with headache
crimson, confuse with genuine

shoulders to deem worthy of
gilded lily cry, that I never

knew myself to be.

Someone's Conquest

I was never a challenge,
in slumping pound shop dress shirts,
not some untouched citadel slippery
with vine cover, shape of ancient deities

Was that the problem: you longed for
climbing hooks, false footing, the traps
and pleasures of new world overcome?

When it was only the ever-smooth steel
motion of Rideau Chapters escalators
I had on offer?

No, no, too wallowed in the realm
of sections in bookstores we never
went: Harlequins and self-help?

But, then, what is Rosa Luxemburg
to Sunday morning's lovers?

Only a memory of things
left away.

Conversing With Shadows

On those days the sky was wine-dark,
oozing blackened blood in the flaying cut;
it preoccupied wire-crackle sparks
the notion of infinite harms,
milestones of sheet bedding taken with
tear-filled eyes, but at least taken.

Talk through tea time and 2AM,
of how broken heritage was to come
down to smashed compass pocket watches,
how none of everything makes you real
some cosmic sense of its everlong embrace:
untouched, unknown as first sunlight's touch.

But more how to immolate ever-pledged freedom,
the glories of oaken flame setting stage,
bringing a Northern snowfall's certainty,
making ourselves into shadowboxers, and
perfectly matched.

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