is a gift
we try to figure out
by tickling the cat
writing love letters
to the sun
has gone stale
in a beer can
sleeps on the bed
no concern for
the living room
all the light
will have gone
only the generators
it is nearly
i bathe in
marking each one
is too brittle
with the needle
in the air instead
hoping the light
catches my fingers
like a sparkler
traces your name
When we look jointly
we see a mirror lens to invert his vision,
the impression of presence,
the passage of time.
At moments within these dark corridors,
moments of rupture,
it meanders, the decisive moment,
like a pair of restless, insomniac twins.
They can no longer be sure
the length of time in which it is possible
two apparently twinned entrances.
Dreams are a short-cut
with holes for children to climb in an out of
while others look on.
It’s a bit like I’m using other people’s kids,
more than 600 billion offspring,
Morlette Lindsay & David Marshall (editors)
We dust the walls.
And of course we are weeping larks
falling all over the heavens with our shoulders clasped
in someone’s armpits, so tightly! and our throats are full.
Haven’t you ever fallen down at Christmas
and didn’t it move everyone who saw you?
isn’t that what the tree means? the pure pleasure
of making weep those whom you cannot move by your flights!
It’s enough to drive one to suicide.
And the rooftops are falling apart like the applause
of rough, long-nailed, intimate, roughened-by-kisses, hands.
Fingers more breathless than a tongue laid upon the lips
in the hour of sunlight, early morning, before the mist rolls
in from the sea; and out there everything is turbulent and green.
Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
by Frank O’Hara
Breakfast egg, half-lopped & scalped,
the morning gold of yolk on white.
Early sun on eastern walls,
dancing crystal golden light.
Dusty-gold of patient books,
unread on shelves, leaning or straight.
In dusk, apartment faces gleam –
windows high on winter’s night.
Yellow cat’s eyes glitter late –
curious slits of golden sight.
A lovely poem to start 2015, by one of America’s greatest living poets:
To the New Year
With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible.
The combination of water and cold
Creates a snowflake, or so I am told.
Crystals, cuts and particles arrested,
Within a flake the water sequestered.
To scrutinize it your only urge is,
Magnified closer the science emerges
And each tiny aggregate reveals
Clear-cut-forms, tough as iron or steel.
Rimed snow quartz, germ of ice and column cast
Irregular particles in time held fast.
And for every needle, sheath or spear,
There’s a broken molecule locked in fear.
For the truth is, like the human, snowflakes
Are unique. One form in varying shapes.
Spot if you can the individual one
In the mass of storm, before it is gone.
I’ve been trying out new things both on a personal level (poetry) and a professional level (teaching); mainly I’ve been looking at creating StoryCube through the excellent Bookleteer site. It’s quite a fun visual way of publishing material & I’d like to start getting children’s stories and poems printed as StoryCubes to display in class. Here’s one I created for my poem ‘X’: X Poem_cube_portrait_1pp_A4
Check it out & have fun!
I think I’ll take a walk down the garden path
to find myself a shed behind the weeds and grasses
and glowing in the window the light of a paraffin lamp
and crackling in the corner the embers in the old stove.
And in that hut I’ll sit and while away the night sky,
burning the stars in their sockets through to morning,
writing the words that of this mind make a code
and of this night make a new poem, a love poem for you.