Monday, December 21, 2009
As promised, here's the second of them two poems I promised. Still haven't thought of a title. The lines should be staggered slightly, Mark Doty-style, but you'll have to use your IMAGINATION.
The music is skipping, then the radio
goes livid with interference. The waiter tinkers
with it briefly, then leaves it to its silence.
The tea is nut-brown and body-hot and on the wall
on what passes for a mantlepiece
is a mug, some candles, a wooden
mule, a vase with purple-black flowers
and above that the painting that caught
my attention: a single raven
silhouetted against something like
twilight, the oyster-blue of dawn or just after
sundown, between two splintered trees
and another raven half-
lurched into shadow. The first raven
- centre stage, our raven -
is peeking back across its shoulders at some
signal maybe, maybe some threat. No sign of you
yet, and in a minute you'll be late. It's nearly dawned
on me that ravens' eyes are on the sides
of their head, the whole body at an angle
when a draught shifts the fire of the candles
on the mantle and there you are
with your hair raven-black and silhouetted
against the silvery dusk outside the door
Thanks for reading,
Friday, December 18, 2009
I have a poem to show you! And another one that will come either tomorrow or Monday, depending on when I next get to a computer. Neither of them have titles yet.
She is watching for you from the tree-house.
Judging by the tulip-blackness of the sky,
the corona of moonlight, you are late.
The ginseng root in your hand has come alive,
and when you touch the tree with your other hand,
too patched and grubby to live, and all this
luminous scrub, these overdone set-props
seem too flat, too farfetched, will you filter
back to life where her snoring fills the morning
as if she's angry to have missed it,
and all things seem connected to that
one abrasive sound that breaks from dream,
because air would no sooner meet your lungs and leave
and not believe your body something sacred
than you would stop her goddamn snoring.
How can desire live in what's perfected? Root
yourself in the pillow, the wet jewels of her sweat,
when there is nothing between you
but the bundles and nooks
of the blankets and a little human sleep.
Thanks for your patience, it's been a while.