If I know anything
I know this
That the end of the world will be
And will come from somewhere
And that straightaway
for as long as there is
People will say
they saw it coming
As if the moon finally spiralled into the earth
8, 3×8, Storm 6
Then, I heard the thunder would come
but mouths murmered, the top end cut
So I never really got it
Their predictions had none or less
crunch or grind to my mouth, my eyes
now the thunder here, behind woods
does the scrape that only skies do
dumps all the folds in the stratos
rattling the bin of history.
We are talking, when the thunder
comes, stops us, sets us up on posts
ready for the whip-cracks, the fright
deep fright of the millions year
dark creep of the cloud-shadow, fast
ancestor. It puts us on edge.
I love it so much I could end
arms outstretched with one last static
shock to end all shocks, to end storms.
But you still tend orchids outside
As the rain tends all other plants
then sit close and we wait breath tensed
baited with small sounds to draw out
deeper ones. Each new paradigm
storm sound to teach all others how
2, 3×6, Storm 5
Thunder comes once when I
am stood among poetry
among the old books, new
Only once, but enough
to set a featureless
day in stone memory.
2, 7×7, Waterfall
What blood of the land is this
that surges over stone, steams
over a thin film of light
the river’s wrapped in, rippling
what hidden force vomits it,
Lurch from dark of reflection
crawl under the hot sun sprawl
Its brown gold gleam is not seen
even scalding caramel
boils darker, and slower. Here
the froth bangs and scatters. There
all the deeper brown darks drag
dead branches across fathoms
where speeding rapids disperse.
Waterfall, 4, 6×3
By virtue of water
Dark ink flows from my pen
feathers float by – also
The sound of the air fills
with that relaxing spray
and constant tear-shiver
Last night pins and needles
struck me body lengthwise
to calm after the drive.
But now that same water
is a different shape
shields me from sun with noise.
I don’t know if anyone is out there listening
You may think I haven’t been posting as often, or as well as I had been.
You’ve just been getting the odd piece that doesn’t fit.
I have been working on a book form of poems that I can sell here,
So you can, if you like, see my pomes in another way, surrounded by the Paraphernalia that I would rather have there.
But maybe the primary reason for this is, that if I can hold a pamphlet in my hands which I have made, it would help me to feel better about what I have been doing.
Writing poetry by yourself and rarely talking to anyone about it can be lonely, but the main problem is people mistake stillness and inwardness for lack of drive. Meanwhile, subtle transformations of great beauty are going off in my head. Art doesn’t have to be for others.
I have written more poems in the past five months than in the prior several years – it took finding the modern Anglophone poets of mid to late twentieth century to knock me from a particular groove I’d been riding around in. I realised that we can still (and always, in fact) do interesting things in short form poetry. I also realised that modernism is exciting and nowhere near as difficult as it has been made to seem. Both to write, and to read. [Or, maybe I reached a critical mass where it started to make the sense it has the potential to make].
So, my only audience, be on the lookout, if you like. It may take a year or more, but it should appear. If it doesn’t, I’ll just upload all of the poetry here.
Like the wave’s undulate swell
you surprise me with your disparity
your mammal necessity
You are as essential
as the comet’s tail passing
Moulting Berenician fur all over the galaxy
Your territory is a human place now
and you are a stone lodged in the human shoe’s rubber
Go cat, hide – we cannot understand each other.