What kind of a year has it been

Some things ended in York, some things have started in Edinburgh. I'm thankful that there's more of the second thing than the first. Here's some new stuff, workshopped this week.

Homecoming

These black waves belong to fish
and those spirits whose rumours disturb
our sleep. I lie and imagine myself
among bogland, or watching the rocks
drift into our kenning; but the song
of Oisín flits around in the darkness –
taunting my ears with deep rhythms –
I curse my heart-weakness.
Never again did man see Eden,
and I may never see Achill again.

Memory begins to blur and distort.
The face that sent me to sea
turns to the fatal cast of Moses
still in Moab, Canaan left untouched.
And now I have a book, for my sins,
though I fear that my brothers may forgive
more than Him. I have burned true words,
enraged in my ignorance, and those flames
have enlightened every marvel I’ve seen;
yet I pray in His name I’ll see Achill again.

Tonight I dreamed. I heard
Him call me: Brendan, come home.
No more than a man may measure the ocean
may he see all My wonders in his life.
Come home to the monks of your fatherland.
We have crossed the last time this horizon;
black cliffs rise up and gulls whisper
in the distance. I see the glow of white
blossom, hear singing from the shoreline,
and I know I may never see Achill again.


You! Me! Dancing!

It barely matters
that our morningwatch
of major chords
sweeps away the ghosts
of thorn-woven ruins.
Our smallness remains.

Sun chases grey into black,
houses rise like bruises
from the sickly patchwork
of hesitant string-picks.

Dust rises and towers rise
as starlight forges factories
from the shadows, building
furious momentum
from a frenzy of dischords.

Our dancefloor of nuclear beats
remind me of no earthly
thing more than your eyes
under the flashing blue
and violet light.

Cat’s Eyes

A stray reclined in the garden, beneath
a rare open sky in a gloomy summer
which deepened the glamour of its starbath,
untanning itself in the distant glimmer.

It shot off into the hedgerow, torchlight
hot on its tail. The night’s only variety
was the blue-red blink of a red-eye flight
weaving through Orion en route to the city.

That was all; goodnight to woods.
Reeled indoors by the sluggish hum
of my plasma TV, I felt the certitude
of the right thing done. Up next was some

documentary: On our tiny planet
life was created; if this delicate
balance has just once been repeated, as yet
we don’t know. It seemed something like fate.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Sea Legs

Writing poetry is fun partly because of the way it gets round to what it's "really" about. I'm writing about an empty house but I'm talking about say isolation or exile or what have you. So it lends itself well to insular kinda folks. But it also indulges that insularity, which is not only generally intolerable but leads to shitty poems. Poetry is written primarily for other people.
This poem is part of an exchange with the Edinburgh College of Art, and is based (loosely) on the picture above, by Toby Cook.

Sea Legs

Maybe that’s all that there is.
Maybe he runs through the streets
along roads over bridges on railway
lines that fly over sleeping cathedral
towns lit up blue green like swamp
mushrooms tra-la like coral like Christmas tree
lights like the Forth Road Bridge a frame
over night-bound trawlers young man finding
his sea legs tra-la cutting shadows
in the sky far beneath the feet of a man
on the moon-blackened bridge
regarding all that there is.

Thanks,
Dave.

It's you! It's me! And there's dancing!

Check this out first:
You! Me! Dancing! by Los Campesinos

So I wrote a little thing about this music video.

‘You! Me! Dancing!’ by Los Campesinos!

I

It barely matters
that our morningwatch
of echoing major chords
will sweep away the ghosts
of thorn-mingled ruins –

our mutual smallness remains.
Sun glares over the mountains,
houses rise like bruises
from the sickly patchwork
of hesitant string-picks.

How can you understand
the sunrise forging warehouses
from the shadows, building
inevitable momentum
from a frenzy of dischords?

II

Draw back from our disco of nuclear beats –
blasting this sphere to a cosmic glitterball –
which reminds me of no earthly thing
more than your eyes under the flashing blue
and violet light.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Welcome to the WORLD of TOMORROW

Soooooo it's been a while since I paid attention to this here thang. Ima put some poems up that I've been working on, hope you enjoy em. Gosh, this whole page needs a little housekeeping. The junk in the right margin... seriously.

This one is a re-worked old one, the title refers to where the poem might be situated. Dreams are weird.

Anywhere but Vienna

The night is alive with drones.
The hum of the streetlight,
the infant cry of a far-off ambulance,
stillness enough to hear blood flow.

If I opened the curtains I might see
the moon pass between clouds
like the last train out of Vienna,
and the courtyard dyed blue-grey.

If I opened the window I might hear
dogs yelp as they doze,
or the murmur of an exchange
in a language I don’t recognise.

But if I sleep I might dream
an off-white room full of saints
praying for distillation from the physical
into one solitary, confident note;

a theatre of bunk-beds,
curtains and moth flight,
and a pebble of dream-stuff
I can hold until morning.

Next one I'm pretty sure has been around here before, but I wanted it a bit more sparse. Less is more.

Anaesthetic

The valve turns and releases graceful
sleep. Daffodils circle the tree
among patches of foxgloves.

Satellites beam through
space, miles above the surface,
shinking the landscape.

The daffodil in my hand
braces to the wind
that once blew over foxgloves.

Names are fun! So is romantic longing. This is a renga, which is a Japanese poem consisting of pairs of stanzas; the first has three lines of 5-7-5 syllables, the second has two 7-syllable lines. The basic idea is to make a poem that can be easily read then just as easily forgotten.

Better Words

Hear the folk song of names,
blood-lines, incantations.
Sound them like a spell.

I hold your name behind my teeth.
I hold your name beneath my tongue.

I call up spirits
far gone in time and geography,
that one afternoon –

shearwater, meadow brown,
cormorant, yellowtail,

stitchwort, iris,
meadowsweet, herb robert,
lily, vetch, foxglove –

for better or worse, time let
them live, like a kiss goodbye.

Ruddy with wind-catching,
we walked through the streets
with grassy knees.

A towel, old shorts, summer sun,
touching my face with loose blades.

Topless in water,
feel the searing embrace
of airlessness,

watching the sun set on the glens,
glowing like you wouldn’t believe;

god, or a thing
for which there is no better
word than god;

the breeze tangling your hair,
fingers tangled in your hair.

Palmful of horse chestnut,
floor glazed in green shells,
smell of muddy shoes,

witch-hazel, valerian,
ragged robin, lady’s bedstraw,

bay window,
the ever-dwindling
list of flowers.

I knew you less than a year.
We never saw winter.

I write about birds a lot. They're weird and fantastic.

Magpie

From a standing position
in the wet-leafed car park,
magpie waits, wings furled, head
tilted left, right, square
to the ground.

On legs of hooped birch
and dirty lizardskin,
its haunches tighten
and release, launching
those few pounds of bird-
flesh, bone and feathers
inches from the concrete
where wind twirls magpie
in somersaulting spirals.

Feet, yards and faster,
magpie wings spread
farther in the blank
winter night –

Yards, furlongs and further
magpie spans the breadth
of the sky, tearing away
its animal sutures –
shards of feather turn
in diffusing whirls
to the scattered light
of the black, glinting
winter sky, all
the stars tangled
in magpie’s wake.

Thanks for reading!
Dave.

Ay Oh, Let's Go

These two go together, one is set during the day, t'other at night.

Whose Garden Was This?

Resting like idle violin bows.
Birds in their dialects;
Keys of a typewriter, squeaking
Sneakers on polished wood,
Muted ruffling of blackbirds in unison.

Cirrus smudges like finger paintings
Roll like surf;
I lie stretched long in soft grass.
Listen to the code of magpies,
One from the aerial, two from the chimney stove.

Clench your feet on the prickling fuzz,
Leave behind foot prints,
Take home with you a gloss of loose blades
And remember the sun,
Lying on your belly on a towel on the grass.

Cat’s Eyes

My father’s cat had escaped on my watch.
Shortly before the midnight clock-chime
I laced up my trainers and switched on a torch,
Shuffling through darkness half-blind.

Sadly for Saffron, the night was all stars.
A sudden clear sky in an overcast summer
Had sharpened the glamour of the lights in the air,
Dusty grey grand-stars and the shooting white glimmer.

I thought about naming the cosmos like clouds:
“Three in a row, like a belt!” “Okay.”
Black canvas resistant to fathoming out,
A map without compass, no index, no key.

I remembered a book then: “On this tiny planet
Life was created; whether or not this delicate
Balance has been repeated, as yet
We do not know.” It seemed something like fate.

Thanks,
Dave.

Hi.

Whale Watching

A cargo of sightseers draws
sedately clear
of Bar Harbour, watercolour dawning
and gull-filled air

whips across the prow, drains
the flushed colour
from faces weighed haggardly down
by matted hair.

The flock of terns the lighthouse draws
in their silence clears
my mind enough to make it dawn
on astonished ears

that a mournful wail gently drowns
out the low-geared
thrumming engines; echoes and resounds
beneath us, where

the whale basks, singing. As if drawn
up by a clear-
minded artist who'd ordained
such unwary

carelessness, its cragged, drawn
forty-odd-foot glare
is half-dreaming, half-drowning
in air and water.

Thanks,
Dave.

Oddyssey

It's that time again! I've been doing some editing. Some are totally re-written, some just tidied up a little. Plus one new, never-before-seen DVD extra poem! Here!

Penelope

No gulls haunt the horizon, unadvancing,
Unreceding, a line that hides its riches in
Its folds; constellations orient my view.

The sea soon learns to hoard loam and flot and barm –
Protective filters from the light – to turn obscure,
Safe, dulling the full reflection of the moon

Into torn bandage ribbons waxing, waning
Over sable molten glasswork that encircles
This vessel. I watch reflections touch my feet,

Fill my lungs, my eyes; I meet its gaze at last.
I regret this. Minerva, Pallas Athene,
Queen of grey-eyed purity in this black and

White serenity. Her eyes were often blue;
More likely they were simply indescribable.
Tonight the feeling is not so Greek to me.

Edit edit edit

The Island House

A cricket rubs its legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are silent valleys and crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More – big mountain; Knockmore – big hill.

Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the houseflies’ days are numbered;
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.

Over the fence, the donkeys tear grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
Air brushing cold between the lips,
Steady silent prayers to the island.

Sorrow Burns

A vesperal flare in the reddening night,
Curled on the floor, half-naked, we lie
To each other, beautiful half-truths, delight
Daubed freely across the northern sky.
Drifting for now, asking nothing but the world
Leave us, all fingertips and tales,
Sun-fled and tight-lipped, too fleetingly held
To the warm, dull thud, too livid and pale.

We have long overslept as rainfall returns
Us our respective lives. We fight but concede,
And memory directs a distinctive reprise
As our parts are usurped, sensationalised
In Merchant-Ivory grayscale, the starring leads
In an alien picture. Unheeded sorrow burns.

The Mountain

I

At mountain’s peak, I stayed a while.
The pines rolled out to vanishing point,
In sanguine breathless stubbornness,
Shouldering neighbouring canopies
That hold in line the skyways and
Sanctuaries now strewn to the four corners.
Verdant canvas of vital greens.

II

On mountain’s side, I climbed ahead:
Massive fauna reminisce,
Serene and solid, delving deep
Into moss-stained soil, carbon
Engravings dwarfing my hands.

III

At mountain’s foot, my fire, ablaze
Beneath browning kettles, I hold
My pilgrim’s victual, bathed in embers’
Glow. Green bed under the clouds,
The mountain watching the pale, rising smoke.

A Staircase in a Foreign Country

It wanders up from stonework river-walls,
From the old town’s cobbled lanes
Where skateboarding kids work magic feats,
From the tourist traps and pork knees,
The sweet lager and plastic half-crowns,
A timorous, frayed-ragged stairway
That holds the best seats in the house.

No market marble coolness
In these newborn office courtyards,
No fleet-foot street artists with coterie crowds
(And no box-office) will welcome me here,
Counting the hours and watching the city’s
Heart harden. With each failed landing
I draw closer to the balcony haven.

There seems stability in these hills;
Peace at the precipice, a house of God,
Veranda over the clay-tiled canopy,
Where sunrise tries to catch my shadow
And send it out across the skyline.
Fingertip metronome counts off the beat
For skateboarders in the shimmer of dawn.

So, Then, Tycho Brahe

On the hillside that overlooks city and sea,
I lie in your hand’s reach, nestling in
The soft grass, sheltered by branches,
Black blanket sky lit by freckles of light,
On the hillside just angled to lie and look up.

I haven’t anything to say, not really,
And the blathering stream and the bass-chorus
Owls seem more eloquent anywho, night-
Watchmen with three-sixty vision; I tell you that
I haven’t anything to say, and you’re quiet.

So I turn back to the stars, moving too slowly,
But moving, ancient light that confounded
Astronomers, fearing eccentricity, or punishment
For it, burning away their distance from God;
So they turned back on the stars, and you squeeze my hand.

If truth is heresy, Brahe can hardly be blamed
For his universe model that set sun and Mars
Toward fiery discourse – I say, and you smile.
Perhaps I imagine the peace in your eyes.
I can hardly be blamed if truth is relevant.

Errantium syderum – wandering stars
That threw the world into error, only needed
Correction, but correction eternal.
The tent-bed is warm on the hillside.
Mountains and skyline, errantium syderum.

Anaesthetic

The valve turns, and releases cold and graceful
Sleep, though night fell long ago.

Daffodils circle the tree, March-blossoming,
Standing in stubborn fealty against squall and shower
For a spirit that has shed its need for dead places
With the vigil-keeping foxgloves in the garden.

Satellites and transmitters shrink the open country
And open sea to the space between mouth and ear.
Ethereal baritone braving midnight storms,
Undaunted by distance, bringing news from
The garden to my hands. The daffodil in my fingertips
Braces to the wind that blew over foxgloves, miles away.

Illusion

III

The day-old sun caught the spinning edges
Of the Diablo, reddened the white masquerades
Of the Marceau-faced jugglers, settled and
Lingered in the fallen haze of the evening.
I dodged crowded faces, screaming and vomiting,
And stood in silence like a sole grave-visitor
Beneath the canopies and curtains that climbed
Into the twilight, eclipsing what brightness remained;
The neon bar-lights stirred, wakened, hot-
Buzzing with lures that left burns on the eyes.

II

The raven-haired harlequin half-danced
Among puddles now gilded by humming streetlamps
In the anaesthetising gloom, ridding
Your strange flesh of what few flaws there were.
Green hair in spotlight, tawny eyes of cold
Silver: Indias of spice enlightened in your blood.

I

Last order of honey-wine quite gently tipped
Its hat in esteem of my wettening shoes.
Coins became yellow blossoms, enchanted
By the gold and silver cloth of the circus awning.

Descent

Flying in from Glasgow on the eighteen-fifty
To Aldergrove; out through the thick-glassed window
The frayed knuckles of coastline, reaching out with gnarled hands
Beyond the fallow piebald farms, swooping and diving
A thousand feet below. The sun touches the horizon
With a feathered fingertip, hissing as it meets
The waves, settling in for the night under a blanket of
Flourescent algae, the unfathomable sea-dreams of fish.
I wait to be informed of our descent, patient angel
Entranced by rolling breakers, snow-white foam,
Trying to feel something. Awe. My grandfather flew
Once a month to his work in Scotland, leaving his
Son and wife in the capital, watching the sky.
My wings melt as the black cliffs drift into view.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Viva Ozymandias!

I

A few hours later, through Babylonian desert
And confluent arteries, pilgrims blown by trade-winds
To the fusion of inert gases and electrical tension
That ignites one word, appearing and disappearing,
On a pedestal of plastic and dark bolted steel.

Two vast and pointless pylons shoot searchlights
Into the restricted airspace stars have neglected,
Where angels dare not venture, holy creatures blinded
By the fire-fly desert city whose refracted visage
Glowers into the darkness, a glowing eye from space.

A labyrinth of temples complicates the surface
That perspires through the night and mocks the dawn,
Mocks the works of the dead, a masque of death,
Parody of life lived apart from sweating masses,
The great pawns of history tread their faltering paces.

At the pulsing heart of the teeming desert city
The twin ziggurats are counting, one by one by one,
The blurring roll of tributes to unknown emperors,
Counting the germinating souls sacrificing
At the altar no man-god will deign to forsake.

II

Too hot for outdoors and with nothing on the telly,
I sneak to the toilet-stalls and inscribe the words of Shelley.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

I can't get enough of this shit

Oystercatchers

The road beyond the house stretches
Out around a field grown wild with oilseed,
Tarmacadam sweating rainfall into gutterways
Before turning east in search of seashore.

The road lies low, and silent this early,
Mist and light rain holding indoors all but
The swallows, herons, swifts, cormorants,
And any one else who never wanted for roofs.

A corridor of hedgerows opens into the rocks
And sand (smaller rocks) dusting the spray
As the oystercatchers loiter in the shallows,
Waiting for the water to offer its secrets.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Love Poetry Almost but not Exactly

Illusion

III

The day-old sun caught the spinning edges
Of the Diablo, reddening the white masquerades
Of the Marceau-faced jugglers, settling and
Lingering in the fallen haze of the evening.
Dodging crowded faces, screaming and vomiting,
Corner-pissing in silence like a sole grave-visitor
Beneath the canopies and curtains that climbed
Into the twilight, eclipsing what brightness remained;
And the neon bar-lights stirred, wakened, hot-
Buzzing with lures that left burns on the eyes.

II

The raven-haired harlequin half-dancing
Among puddles now gilded by humming streetlamps
In the anaesthetising gloom, ridding
Your strange flesh of what few flaws there were.
Green hair in spotlight, tawny eyes of cold
Silver: Indias of spice enlightened in your blood.

I

Last order of honey-wine quite gently tipping
Its hat in esteem of my wettening shoes.
Coins had become yellow-blossoms, enchanted
By the gold and silver cloth of the pissing-corner.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Romance de la Luna

Lullabye for a Sleepless Night

It's late. Outside, cities sleep,
Or wake up, or do whatever it is
People do to pass the time. It's late,

And the moon passes between clouds
Like the last train out of Vienna
In the final reel of an old movie.

It's late. And yesterday's waste
Waits by the roadside to be recycled
Again. The old dogs howl in dreams

Of endless summers of haystacks
And drowsy-polleny-buggy sun-days
And energy that burns and still lives...

It's late. And the last goodbyes draw close,
Link arms and lock eyes and pose and smile
For the images I will carry with me

Til I forget them. They can wait.
Tomorrow's players are rehearsing
Already, butterflying for

The rising curtains. Outside, the cities
Dream, or pull tight to their lovers' heartbeats,
Or whatever people do to pass the night.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

The Shortest Way Round

Anaesthetic

With a swift gesture, the tired-eyed local nurse
Opens the valve under the IV a crack wider,
Freeing a nullifying rush of cold and graceful peace.
She hikes up the sheets on a diminishing soul.

Daffodils circle the grave-tree, March-blossoming,
Standing in stubborn fealty against squall and shower,
For the spirit that has shed its need for dead places,
Standing with the vigil-keeping foxgloves in the garden.

Satellites and transmitters shrink the open country
And open sea to the space between mouth and ear.
Ethereal baritone braving midnight storms,
Unfazed by cold, undaunted by distance, bringing news from
The garden to my hands. The daffodil at my window
Braces to the wind that blew over foxgloves, hours ago.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

A brief recap.

I've been looking back over previous posts, checking out how my writing has changed over the past year. It's worth pointing out that there are a number of poems currently posted here which I now find clumsy and heavy-handed, particularly the early ones. So, with that in mind, I've decided to post the full back-catalogue, in their current incarnations, a kind of director's cut, as of March 11th, 2008. They are ordered as they would be in a hypothetical collection, rather than chronologically, which would be a difficult way of defining them anyhow.

Giant’s Causeway

Back on the path, its gravelled lustre
A reminder, overwhelming, that I hid
Skillfully, pretending the rough sea
Wind had blown dust under an eyelid,
And walked on, a few steps behind.
I made jokes about the cliff face, and
You pointed out primroses, designated
Them spots in the garden, and I feigned
Interest, and pointed out Fairhead.
We took a wrong turn, what harm?
Shuffling past luminous anoraks
Half-drenched in the coastal storm
Like we owned the place, and far more
Rightful to barge down the stairwell
In half-hidden mirth. By a crumbling
Hand-rail with a red-rusted warning fell
Palm-sized stones a hundred feet below,
And after all these years I shouldn't've been
Surprised that you still had the better arm.
They stirred the spray. The ocean
Refused entry, the cluttered sky gone grey,
We retired from rain and glaring clouds
At a pub you knew. For once, I thought
I knew what you felt in your blood.

Descent

Flying in from Glasgow on the eighteen-fifty
To Aldergrove; out through the thick-glassed window
The frayed knuckles of coastline, reaching out with gnarled hands
Beyond the fallow piebald farms, swooping and diving
A thousand feet below. The sun touches the horizon
With a feathered fingertip, hissing as it meets
The waves, settling in for the night under a blanket of
Flourescent algae, the unfathomable sea-dreams of fish.
An hour earlier, on the crystal waves of cumuli,
Propelled by the eerie thrumming of astral turbines,
I wait to be informed of our descent, patient angel
Entranced by rolling breakers, snow-white foam,
Trying to feel something. Awe. My grandfather flew
Once a month to his work in Scotland, leaving his
Son and wife in the capital, watching the sky.
My wings melt as the black cliffs drift into view.

Three Nights

An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Strides across the field on the attack
His antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

October’s dress, embroidered in delight
Heaven-witnessed honouring a pact,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white.

One drizzling evening, nothing but polite
In her appraisal of all the things I lacked,
Her antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

A desperate prayer, the forlorn hope I might
Restore to you a life made whole, intact;
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white

Should patrol above your headboard, shine its light
To ward away the demons at your back,
Its antagonists stand quaking at the sight.

A man sits by the bedside, tries to fight,
And, pleading for a gem that sickness cracked,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white,
Your antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

El Tres de Enero [For Garcia Lorca]

Nieve cae, tranquilidad sagrada,
La zumba baja de la caldera
Está la ruida sola.
Media-luz de la madrugada,
Nieva por aire negra.

El cielo cerrado tiembla,
Deslumbra la luna miedosa.
Quiero que quede oscura
Por siempre; esta noche plata
De relámpago y nevada.

[Snow falling, cathedral silence,
The bass hum of the boiler
The only sound for miles.
Half-light of the small hours,
Snow falling in black air.

The blanket sky rumbles,
Obscuring the timid moon.
I would it stayed dark
Forever; this silver night
Of snowfall and lightning.]

Burns

It was divine providence, synchronicity,
Along those lines. Fate made me miss
The appointed time, we met by pure chance.
Not that that means anything of itself,
But my mind likes painting over cracks.

I signed my name, detailing my confession,
A dim-lit night of bad wine and worse blood,
Delicate serration –
Not that it matters. That was someone
Younger than me, unwelcome in my hearth and home.

We took hour-long excursions to quiet places,
The wood-sheltered rivers I’d forgotten
Becoming their own tributaries as memory
Worked its home-surgery, witch-doctoring
Tattered parchment to smooth river-skin.

Each meandering Charles, each low-lying Lagan,
Each Feirste and Quinobequin curved
Away beyond kenning, carrying ballast downriver,
Confluences of babblings and rapids
Recollecting stony strands at my feet.

At this turn in the river, in this auburn-tipped clearing
Where cardinal and blue-jay fade to heron and gull,
I reach my hands into the clear-dark freshwater
And wash the stale blood. Tent pitched on the littoral,
Water flowing past us, on its way to everywhere else.

The Mountain

I

At the mountain’s peak, I stopped for
A while, cast an eye over the pines,
Rolling out towards vanishing
Point, layer over layer, rank
And file, phalanxed shoulder height,
Mottled units toiling under
Sylvan dictat. On north-eastern
Slopes, a fallen mount gasping for air,
Pleading with avian windpipes,
Tree-cacophony, crushed larynx,
Wilderness howl in falling twilight.
Suddenly the tree-pier did not
Seem high enough.

II

On the mountain’s side, verdant canopy-
Shelters, tree-grounded, gigantic fauna
Remembering Triassic brothers
In serenity and sanguine nostalgia.
The earth has ears, a heart, a mouth, bait;
Unrooted feet striding wordlessly, turn to
Constituent carbon, clawing through meat,
Unnamed vital organs, blood and carbon;
Hair falls out, turns carbon, nutrients,
Teeth fall out, carbon (calcium?).
Eyes, tongue, brain. Carbon.
Soul.
Flight through treetips dancing on leafstages
Outstretched and dissipating further
Boundless offerings and earthtunes
Earth.
Knees soiled, hands caked in fecund soil;
Disgusted, croaking eyes observe my retreat.

III

On the foot of the mountain, my little fire
Cooks, browns tender meat, fresh loaves
And fresh produce for my pilgrim’s victual.
Lying on green mattresses, bathed in ember’s glow,
The mountain looks down on the pale, rising smoke.

Franconia

There is an old farmhouse, north of Boston.
I stopped by once. Its peaceful aspect caught
The scarlet sun’s swansong, the Appalachians
In silhouette as cricket-music fell.
Rocking chairs paced their motions, a little
Out of synch, still looking to the horizon.
An empty pantry, rusting range, wooden floor,
Wooden bedframe’s crafted skeleton, curtains drawn.

I read about death in an old comic book once.
It said that it wasn’t like a thief in the night,
Snatching you from your bed, leaving no trace but
A faint depression in the mattress and the smell
Of stale sweat on the pillow. It said it was more
Like someone you’d known forever, an old friend
Who stopped by every night, a loyal old friend
Who picked up every thing you’d forgotten
You even had, so that it wasn’t there next time
You wanted it. And, that, over time, there just
Wasn’t anything left to keep you there;
You were the last thing death would take home.

There is an old farmhouse, north of Boston.
No one lives there now, the old man was famous;
But there is a clearing outside, and a path
Through the woods, passing cairns for forgotten
Little gods. You may find old photos,
Small foreign coins, footprints in the mud,
Roots weaving their stories in the earth;
And the spot, at a fork, where footprints end.

She Held a Daisy in Her Fingertips, the Bitch

She had a camera, capturing the coast through a daisy
Held up to the lens. Her friends sounded German
Or Swedish, she looked French, or at least like
The ones I’d seen in the movies.

There she was, standing at the edge of the world,
Taking photos, through the tint of her travels;
Maybe the reality of Ireland clashed with her dreams,
Maybe it didn’t. Either way,

A month later, I was wandering through Amsterdam,
And met her in the red light district, taking photos
Of the girls in the windows, selling wet dreams.
But I hadn’t the nerve to say hi.

The Island House

A cricket rubs his legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are the valleys with crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More - big mountain; Knockmore - big hill.

Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the midgey convicts’ days are numbered.
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.

Over the fence, a donkey tears the grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
A steady brush of air between the lips;
The tips of the leaves twitter in the breeze.

A Staircase in a Foreign Country

It wanders up from stonework river-walls,
From the old town’s cobbled lanes –
From tourist traps and pork knees,
Sweet lager and plastic half-crowns –
A timorous, frayed-ragged stairway
With the best seats in the house,
A skybound place to level out.

In the market marble coolness
Of a new town office courtyard,
Skateboarding kids work magic feats,
Fleet foot street artists with coterie crowds
And no box office, ticking off the seconds –
Anticipation of each moment –
Ollie, bail and second chance.

There seems stability in the hills;
Peace at the precipice, a house of God,
Veranda over the roof-tiled canopy,
Where sunrise tries to catch one’s shadow
And send it out across the skyline.
Fingertip metronome counts off the beat
For skating kids in the blaze of dawn.

Shalechet

Leaves had started falling outside
In the late summer gloom of fledgling rainclouds
Reflected in foggy puddles underfoot.
We trooped on through, out of step,
Packs on our back and foreign coins
In our pockets. The first discarded leaves,
Big five-fingered horse chestnuts, face down,
Showing waterlogged veins in the inch-deep pool.

Jackdaws fluttered outside the gates,
Hoking at dirt, pecking at apple-cores,
Flitting off as we arrived. We ventured in,
Catching the moment in digital memory:
An irregular holding cell, walls that towered
At the end of a hallway that withered and shrank,
Through a door that led into sky-scraping judgement,
And the window that spoke of Saint Daniel;

There was silence in that room, space for silence
That loomed and condensed three stories overhead,
That rained ash-snow, staining the railway lines,
Unholy blend of hair and ground thigh-bone,
Snow on a mountain of odd shoes and lost luggage,
Marked in fading chalk with its last destination,
Deep darkened snow, overwhelming, drawing
The air from the room that had space for more silence.

I managed to open the door. Disorientated,
I took a breath to regain my bearings. Upstairs,
An exhibit that asked to be walked upon.
Gently stepping between grotesque iron faces, frozen in
Wordless death-masks, turned to iron and concrete;
I lost my footing, and the faces, disturbed, screamed,
Awakened, echoing off high walls, reverberating;
As I escaped I heard iron crunch and cry out.

A jackdaw flew home as we escaped to the surface,
Apple-heart in mouth, into the sunshine.
I put the camera away, resting easily between
Victuals, tour maps and a handful of foreign coins.
I couldn't help looking back. It was still there,
A multi-story building under receding rainclouds.
We walked home, out of step, in uncomfortable silence.


A Sorrow Burns

A vesperal flare in the reddening night,
Curled on the floor, half-naked, we lie
To each other, beautiful half-truths, delight
Daubed freely across the northern sky.
Drifting for now, asking nothing but the world
Leave us, all fingertips and tales,
Sun-fled and tight-lipped, too fleetingly held
To the warm, dull thud, too livid and pale.

And down, as needs must, as rainfall returns
Us to respective lives. Frail memory concedes,
And sentiment directs a crowd-pleasing reprise
Where our parts are played, sensationalised
By our favourite actors, the starring leads
In their picture. Somewhere unheeded, a sorrow burns.

Lucifer’s Song

God must be lonely; his only love
Proved temperamental,
Unfaithful, distracted by bright lights
And dreams that turned to sacks
Of yellow flowers at dawn.
God must be beautiful; Inconceivably
Beautiful, blindingly, hypnotically -
To create something so magically vital,
And not bottle it up, frame it, bind it;
But set it to the wind, with his blessing,
With demons and angels who dress the same
And never make their intentions known.
God was my love; I insulted him,
Blamed him, wept in confusion, in bitter
And speechless frustration - everything
They had told me about him was wrong,
How could he... I will write him a note,
A postcard, or a letter, if I'm feeling
Old-fashioned, just to say 'hello,
I understand now, I think, and at any rate
I'm sorry.' I'll leave the end blank,
Because he knows my handwriting,
How I cross my 't's; and if I don't
Hear back I'll know why,
And understand why God must be lonely.

So, Then, Tycho Brahe

On the hillside that overlooks city and sea,
I lie in your hand’s reach, nestling in
The soft grass, sheltered by branches,
Black blanket sky lit by freckles of light,
On the hillside just angled to lie and look up.

I haven’t anything to say, not really,
And the blathering stream and the bass-chorus
Owls seem more eloquent anywho, night-
Watchmen with three-sixty vision; I tell you that
I haven’t anything to say, and you’re quiet.

So I turn back to the stars, moving too slowly,
But moving, ancient light that confounded
Astronomers, fearing eccentricity, or punishment
For it, burning away their distance from God;
So they turned back on the stars, and you squeeze my hand.

If truth is heresy, Brahe can hardly be blamed
For a universe model that set sun and Mars
Toward fiery discourse – I say, and you laugh,
And punch my arm, which is confusing;
I can hardly be blamed if truth is relevant.

Errantium syderum – wandering stars
That threw the world into error, only needed
Correction, but correction eternal.
The tent-bed is warm on the hillside.
Mountains and shoreline, errantium syderum.

Crow and Phoenix

Crow flies down to the body.
Rain gathers in sink-holes, browning green earth,
Moonlight hidden by bloated clouds.
Crow pecks at the frost-bitten fingers.
Phoenix, old and diseased,
Bullet-ridden, one-eyed and weak,
Hops and flutters beside Crow.
Nuzzling his feathers, he clears his ancient throat.
“Shame,” says Phoenix, “There aren’t
Many left like this one.”
“Even fewer now,” crows Crow.
Phoenix stares at the corpse.
Crow says, “You will die.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Phoenix.

It's been great fun so far. Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Time Out

A new month, a new poem. Hopefully the first of many.

Burns

It was divine providence, synchronicity,
Along those lines. Fate made me miss
The appointed time, we met by pure chance.
Not that that means anything of itself,
But my mind likes painting over cracks.

I signed my name, detailing my confession,
A dim-lit night of bad wine and worse blood,
Delicate serration –
Not that it matters. That was someone
Younger than me, unwelcome in my hearth and home.

We took hour-long excursions to quiet places,
The wood-sheltered rivers I’d forgotten
Becoming their own tributaries as memory
Worked its home-surgery, witch-doctoring
Tattered parchment to smooth river-skin.

Each meandering Charles, each low-lying Lagan,
Each Feirste and Quinobequin curved
Away beyond kenning, carrying ballast downriver,
confluences of babblings and rapids
Recollecting stony strands at my feet.

At this turn in the river, in this auburn-tipped clearing
Where cardinal and blue-jay fade to heron and gull,
I reach my hands into the clear-dark freshwater
And wash the stale blood. Tent pitched on the littoral,
Water flowing past us, on its way to everywhere else.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

So, Then, Blog

It's not dead! Hurrah. Here's a poem:

So, Then, Tycho Brahe

On the hillside that overlooks city and sea,
I sit within hand’s reach of you, nestling in
The soft grass, sheltered by branches,
Black blanket sky lit by freckles of light,
On the hillside just angled to lie and look up.

I haven’t anything to say, not really,
And the blathering stream and the bass-chorus
Owls seem more eloquent anyhoo, night-
Watchmen with three-sixty vision; I tell you that
I haven’t anything to say, and you’re quiet.

So I turn back to the stars, moving too slowly,
But moving, ancient light that confounded
Astronomers, fearing eccentricity, or punishment
For it, burning away their distance from God;
So they turned back on the stars, and you squeeze my hand.

If truth is heresy, Brahe can hardly be blamed
For a universe model that set sun and Mars
Toward fiery discourse – I say, and you laugh,
And punch my arm, which is confusing;
I can hardly be blamed if truth is relevant.

Errantium syderum – wandering stars
That threw the world into error, only needed
Correction, but correction eternal.
The tent-bed is warm on the hillside.
Mountains and shoreline, errantium syderum.

Cheers,
Dave.

And there's more!

A Staircase in a Foreign Country

It wanders up from stonework riverwalls
And the old town’s cobbled lanes –
From tourist traps and pork knees,
Sweet lager and plastic half-crowns –
A timorous, frayed-ragged stairway
With the best seats in the house,
A skybound place to level out.

In the market marble coolness
Of a new town office courtyard,
Skateboarding kids work magic feats,
Fleet foot street artists with coterie crowds
And no box office, ticking off the seconds –
Anticipation of each moment –
Ollie, bail and second chance.

There seems stability in the hills;
Peace at the precipice, a house of God,
Veranda over the roof-tiled canopy,
Where sunrise tries to catch one’s shadow
And send it out across the skyline.
Fingertip metronome counts off the beat
For skaters in the scarlet fire of dawn.

Dear John, I’m leaving and taking the cats with me.

I never thought you’d say that it was so;
That with our finance you had been gazundering,
You went far further than I thought you’d go.

There were irregularities in our cash flow –
From our accounts, you swine, you had been plundering.
I never thought you’d say that it was so.

Oh yes, you’ve been found out! And now I know!
Just in the off-chance that you were wondering,
You went far further than I thought you’d go.

But now the acrimony ‘gins to grow,
The forecast of my soul predicts great thundering,
I never thought I’d say that it was so.

Our matrimony dealt a fatal blow,
Your plan was proof, aside from your small blundering;
You went far further than I thought you’d go.

So now you’re leaving, taking half my dough,
The alimony cheques will keep us sundering,
I never thought they’d say that it was so;
You went far further than I thought you’d go.

Thanks,

Dave

There and Back Again.

It's been too long.

Franconia

There is an old farmhouse, north of Boston.
I stopped by once. Its peaceful aspect caught
The scarlet sun’s swansong, the Appalachians
In silhouette as cricket-music fell.
Rocking chairs paced their motions, a little
Out of synch, still looking to the horizon.
An empty pantry, rusting range, wooden floor,
Wooden bedframe’s crafted skeleton, curtains drawn.

I read about death in an old comic book once.
It said that it wasn’t like a thief in the night,
Snatching you from your bed, leaving no trace but
A faint depression in the mattress and the smell
Of stale sweat on the pillow. It said it was more
Like someone you’d known forever, an old friend
Who stopped by every night, a loyal old friend,
Who picked up every thing you’d forgotten
You even had, so that it wasn’t there next time
You wanted it. And, that, over time, there just
Wasn’t anything left to keep you there;
You were the last thing death would take home.

There is an old farmhouse, north of Boston.
No one lives there now, the old man was famous;
But there is a clearing outside, and a path
Through the woods, passing cairns for forgotten
Little gods. You may find old photos,
Small foreign coins, footprints in the mud,
Roots weaving their stories in the earth;
And the spot, at a fork, where footprints end.

The Mountain

I

At the mountain’s peak, I stopped for
A while, cast an eye over the pines,
Rolling out towards vanishing
Point, layer over layer, rank
And file, phalanxed shoulder height,
Mottled units toiling under
Sylvan dictat. On north-eastern
Slopes, a fallen mount gasping for air,
Pleading with avian windpipes,
Tree-cacophony, crushed larynx,
Wilderness howl in falling twilight.
Suddenly the tree-pier did not
Seem high enough.

II

On the mountain’s side, verdant canopy-
Shelters, tree-grounded, gigantic fauna
Remembering Triassic brothers
In serenity and sanguine nostalgia.
The earth has ears, a heart, a mouth, bait;
Unrooted feet striding wordlessly, turning to
Constituent carbon, clawing through meat,
Unnamed vital organs, blood and carbon;
Hair falls out, becomes carbon, nutrients,
Teeth fall out, carbon (calcium?).
Eyes, tongue, brain. Carbon.
Soul.
Flight through treetips dancing on leafstages
Outstretched and dissipating further
Boundless offerings and earthtunes
Earth.
Knees soiled, hands caked in fecund soil;
Disgusted, croaking eyes observe my retreat.

III

On the foot of the mountain, my little fire
Cooks, browns tender meat, fresh loaves
And fresh produce for my pilgrim’s victual.
Lying on green mattresses, bathed in ember’s glow,
The mountain looks over the pale, rising smoke.

Crow and Phoenix

Crow flies down to the body.
Rain gathers in puddles, browning green earth,
Moonlight hidden behind jet blue clouds.
Crow pecks at the frost-bitten fingers.
Phoenix, old and diseased,
Bullet-ridden, one-eyed and weak,
Hops and flutters beside Crow.
Nuzzling his feathers, he clears his ancient throat.
“Shame,” says Phoenix, “There aren’t
Many left like this one.”
“Even fewer now,” crows Crow.
Phoenix stares at the corpse.
Crow says, “You will die.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Phoenix.

El Tres de Enero (for García Lórca)

Nieve cae, tranquilidad sagrada,
La zumba baja de la caldera
Hay la ruida sola.
Media-luz de la madrugada,
Nieva por aire negra.

El cielo cerrado tiembla,
Deslumbra la luna miedosa.
Quiero que quede oscura
Por siempre; esta noche plata
De relámpago y nevada.

[Snow falling, cathedral silence,
The bass hum of the boiler
The only sound for miles.
Half-light of the small hours,
Snow falling in black air.

The blanket sky rumbles,
Obscuring the timid moon.
I would it stayed dark
Forever; this silver night
Of snowfall and lightning.]

Thanks,

Dave.