Dove Makes a Home Visit

Dove, glid
over feathers

“crow, you,    mess
made a mess
no you’ll make things worse
don’t speak

eat your worms
I’ll    later, with the nurse
she wasn’t happy. last time

crow what will we do with you
kill you
its okay     look at me
aaaah
don’t pick your scabs
aaaaah

back soon
back soon      i know
i know
bye”

then with a sigh, she heads next door
where a god lies sleeping
in a pool of his own dried vomit

Poems About Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath

Ted guessed
By the blue-black sheen of the bookmark

Knew,
when, on the 49th page
Three days before the writing stopped
The entries began to more and more
Resemble claws and talons
Scruffily dipped in ink
And smeared across the paper
Making a real mess
That he had to burn it
What else could he do?
Then went to lie down
Face down
In his face upwards body

***

Ted caught a Sylvia
Oh what a fish
He kept it close, and they lived
Happily as man and fish live.
After a while, he let the fish alone, she bit
Besides, you know what they say about fish.

When someone put Sylvia in the oven he cried
Why should fish have to die like this?
Rather than swim glinting in the thunderous foam
Scattering scales, each part of the water’s poem.

From time to time, and when life
was nearly through
Ted tried a little smoked Sylvia.
His taste buds were suited to her
As a fly is suited to a fish –

Now they swim together,
Amongst the many pages, they swim.
And we thread new lines to catch them.

***

Who killed Sylvia?
Aurelia killed her. Make no mistake.
She knew just what she was doing.
She lit the fuse
And bundled her into a white heat
pressure, pressure of a skull forge
Of an american all-girl third degree
burn to the brain.

After that her skin flaked slowly
Small stanzas of skin
The scar-tissue exposed would sting
and then burn and numb again.

And when the fire achieved her core
She climbed into the oven
To finally feel at home.

Dove’s Mission Creep

Dove sat
Stunned at what had happened
god sat next to her

I still don’t quite know what happened, said god
Dove stared, and all god saw was his own face
this made him glad.

But then he saw crow, he began to cry
Dove hopped on his shoulder, drinking

The tears made Dove grow terrible
She slipped out into the heavens
With a syringe and a cotton swab

Magpie

All the other birds have fled
Disturbed, as magpie makes perch
Upon the dirt-dust iron hook
Where a selection of old nuts hang

His blue gaze is hammer and nails
As he fixes me in place, and then
Stabs a hanging half coconut shell
Repeatedly. Full of fat and gristle,

The carrion hang on the feeders
Was not there til he arrived, and now
As he flies, he leaves behind
A small lamb whose eyes are gone.

Another one now takes her turn
Her clean beak is too soon soiled
She flies guiltily off. And I,
I watch the clean bones drop.

And as for the flak of trembling feather
They learned as much as they watched
And in turn, in turn, flap to floor and search
And slurp up all the fallen scraps…

Dove Builds a City in the City

A winter wind gusted
Dove heard it, rang through the archway

Her dark veins pulsed in the frost
Til the blood boiled over hope

Cracking the paving glade
Her crusting eye fixing on the mist
the dirt, the sand, beneath the skinnings

Crystals poured from her lungs
Piling growing strata of symbol
searing martyrs to the brickwork
Resolving, concrete sinnings
Shimmer towers, seeding.

Dove heard all this racket crash and scream
Extinctions kept her good company, and she knew it

A winter wind blew
Dove heard it, and said
A winter wind taught us to dream