Apollinaire told me to ‘kiss only in elevators
when you become old’, supposedly to
remember the feeling first felt
-of the stomach churning with
enough energy to produce a pearl
Hey love? I don’t know how this ends
Tourmaline eyes, you are
dancing on your own to Carole King
lit by the amber glow of the jukebox
while we sit around tapping our
fingers awkwardly, not having the courage
to come dance with you (lest it
become all too clear how inferior we
really are next to your slow liquid dancing)
So we down another drink to
dull any feelings of inadequacy
You placed a part of Apollinaire’s window
on a lamp post, since it had
served you well. And I could have
cried when you told me I
belonged in Paris.
Thursday 10 June 2010
0104
the queen’s birthday passed
there on that bench
where you touched my arm
and everything changed
winter passed and
you are no longer here
wrapped around me like the twine
you use everywhere
-but it won’t lead me back to you
in this city everyone is tall
and I don’t even reach their elbows
looking for a thread
of twine to pull
and lead me back to you
0104
September skies
the terrace floorboards creak and groan
seems like me, they don’t want you to leave
you know I’m right, beyond these bones
and houses disillusion reigns and reminds
me of a time when you turned back to trace
those words into the moisture on the window pane
-words like now and time new and touch
and how you hated the strong heady smell of
jasmine in summer it made you spin when
I wore some pinned in my hair
but I always liked it
-words like sigh and hands wish and stay
I watched your shoulders as you walked away
but now those September skies
don’t mean as much these days
seems like me, they don’t want you to leave
you know I’m right, beyond these bones
and houses disillusion reigns and reminds
me of a time when you turned back to trace
those words into the moisture on the window pane
-words like now and time new and touch
and how you hated the strong heady smell of
jasmine in summer it made you spin when
I wore some pinned in my hair
but I always liked it
-words like sigh and hands wish and stay
I watched your shoulders as you walked away
but now those September skies
don’t mean as much these days
for caspar david friedrich
she asks me what use are words to her when
the perfect place has none
and mentions that if you
just separate yourself into
the seasons you become scattered
like a ruined cloister graveyard in the snow
and can begin to see that
poetry is nothing more than
words in a jar
melted wax on your skirt
a poor companion whose words fall short
a wisp of a dead man’s hair found inside
some second-hand coat pocket
and when I find my voice I tell her
that it is a fragile touch
a lantern hanging from a tree
a corridor with doors to the past and
future at either end
and a universe in
twenty lines
the perfect place has none
and mentions that if you
just separate yourself into
the seasons you become scattered
like a ruined cloister graveyard in the snow
and can begin to see that
poetry is nothing more than
words in a jar
melted wax on your skirt
a poor companion whose words fall short
a wisp of a dead man’s hair found inside
some second-hand coat pocket
and when I find my voice I tell her
that it is a fragile touch
a lantern hanging from a tree
a corridor with doors to the past and
future at either end
and a universe in
twenty lines
something soft (for Kenneth Slessor)
something soft stunning supple
eternal
survives silent keeps nothing
not even the years
lingers limber
perfect and just
sparkling kissed
gloved weightless
mute fair
soaked in sun
knowing loneliness is like
salt on the tongue knowing
something
soft something
stunning something
supple something
eternal
0901
herald
your heart is made of moss,
mine of mud;
together we breach
the silent gawking
with a look, a beatific look
to counter the cynics
and i knock the
ashtray over and sigh
-it's too early for promised
late night conversations
and drinking
situations
we are dry
mine of mud;
together we breach
the silent gawking
with a look, a beatific look
to counter the cynics
and i knock the
ashtray over and sigh
-it's too early for promised
late night conversations
and drinking
situations
we are dry
four
I had that dream again
last night,
where my front tooth is
reduced to a stump, and
the fragments are lodged like quartz
in my strawberry chewing gum.
I'm wide awake
by the window and
the light outside is
that shade of blue we can't pronounce.
I get the fever to leave
this city sometimes
with just the clothes on my back
and come home to you,
but I find myself
just sitting here
listening to the antagonistic hum
of traffic and drunkards
on the street below.
I've been awake too long
and I hear their staccato
shouting, but
I'm too weary to care.
last night,
where my front tooth is
reduced to a stump, and
the fragments are lodged like quartz
in my strawberry chewing gum.
I'm wide awake
by the window and
the light outside is
that shade of blue we can't pronounce.
I get the fever to leave
this city sometimes
with just the clothes on my back
and come home to you,
but I find myself
just sitting here
listening to the antagonistic hum
of traffic and drunkards
on the street below.
I've been awake too long
and I hear their staccato
shouting, but
I'm too weary to care.
Wednesday 9 June 2010
village
here in this house i peel
potatoes with a knife
place wood into the fire
plait a little girl's hair
and focus on the layers
of crumbling paint
watch my thumb blister
from the burns, arch my
neck towards the mountains
and wonder how you cope
on your end with all
the humidity
there is room enough here
for both of us.
potatoes with a knife
place wood into the fire
plait a little girl's hair
and focus on the layers
of crumbling paint
watch my thumb blister
from the burns, arch my
neck towards the mountains
and wonder how you cope
on your end with all
the humidity
there is room enough here
for both of us.
good to know
It’s good to know that you
aren’t the person I
will be most happy with,
and my children won’t look like you
or shrug the way you do.
We won’t stay up till dawn talking,
dancing in the kitchen, red wine lips
or console each other after a crap day at work;
run around new cities
nor hide in the pockets of old ones;
light each others cigarettes and
grow sleepy in the back of cabs.
You won’t make me cups of tea
while I remain under the covers,
or read me parts of your favourite books
as my head hangs over the mattress
and my arm rests across your stomach
I won’t remind you how brilliant you are
when you feel so insignificant,
or sing the wrong lines in songs
to try coaxing out that grin of yours.
There will be no midnight walks or
stumbling up stairs, no hand against
my back or oversized jacket on my
shoulders. Arguing in supermarkets
and sniggering quietly in art galleries,
rolling eyes at parties and blinking
too much in the bleached sunlight.
sprawled on the fuzzy grass in the evening
while our friends are across the road at karaoke
waiting for us,nor fat raindrops
under heavy tree branches that hang over us.
No wondering if
everyone feels this way or
is as lucky as us, and our voices won’t change on
the phone to each other, growing soft and playful;
It’s good to know
I have been spared all of this
because it’s not you these things are meant for.
aren’t the person I
will be most happy with,
and my children won’t look like you
or shrug the way you do.
We won’t stay up till dawn talking,
dancing in the kitchen, red wine lips
or console each other after a crap day at work;
run around new cities
nor hide in the pockets of old ones;
light each others cigarettes and
grow sleepy in the back of cabs.
You won’t make me cups of tea
while I remain under the covers,
or read me parts of your favourite books
as my head hangs over the mattress
and my arm rests across your stomach
I won’t remind you how brilliant you are
when you feel so insignificant,
or sing the wrong lines in songs
to try coaxing out that grin of yours.
There will be no midnight walks or
stumbling up stairs, no hand against
my back or oversized jacket on my
shoulders. Arguing in supermarkets
and sniggering quietly in art galleries,
rolling eyes at parties and blinking
too much in the bleached sunlight.
sprawled on the fuzzy grass in the evening
while our friends are across the road at karaoke
waiting for us,nor fat raindrops
under heavy tree branches that hang over us.
No wondering if
everyone feels this way or
is as lucky as us, and our voices won’t change on
the phone to each other, growing soft and playful;
It’s good to know
I have been spared all of this
because it’s not you these things are meant for.
mix tape
in this room there is
space for you yet,
beyond the silver foil
on the walls, between the
cracks of stained Victorian floorboards
(after the flood the roof caved in).
Your feelings too retracted, once
I reached the same page you
were at.
Melodies fill my head, but I won’t
allow myself to give them to you
just
waiting
for some semblance of
reciprocation.
space for you yet,
beyond the silver foil
on the walls, between the
cracks of stained Victorian floorboards
(after the flood the roof caved in).
Your feelings too retracted, once
I reached the same page you
were at.
Melodies fill my head, but I won’t
allow myself to give them to you
just
waiting
for some semblance of
reciprocation.
an afterthought
The lightbulb shrieks at me
inconsolable that you’re
not here
-lightweight.
The room goes dark, save
for your memory;
smoking in my armchair.
Am I cursed to always
be around the distracted?
never a time to shine
and dance around my room
(boysenberry lips, sleeved heart)
always hoping,
dark eyes overlooked
featherweight.
inconsolable that you’re
not here
-lightweight.
The room goes dark, save
for your memory;
smoking in my armchair.
Am I cursed to always
be around the distracted?
never a time to shine
and dance around my room
(boysenberry lips, sleeved heart)
always hoping,
dark eyes overlooked
featherweight.
Dickens
my gloved hands purple,
raw while you steam yourself
in the tropics, birdsong;
idle, taking no control
I will not call for you
damn you to hell; your
mousey ways
and half-truths
ruin me as though
you think I cannot tell,
artful dodger.
I laugh and make imaginary
space for your desk and things
in a room you will never inhabit
as though it is some incentive,
as though
you will fall for it
(hardly).
raw while you steam yourself
in the tropics, birdsong;
idle, taking no control
I will not call for you
damn you to hell; your
mousey ways
and half-truths
ruin me as though
you think I cannot tell,
artful dodger.
I laugh and make imaginary
space for your desk and things
in a room you will never inhabit
as though it is some incentive,
as though
you will fall for it
(hardly).
17609
when I open the parcel
and lift out each item
I press my face
into their textures
....smell sunshine, your small hands
long dark hair and sad eyes
in the silk and cotton.
I think of you;
carefully, how carefully folding
each piece of my former armour
in my last life,
to send to me in my new life,
which is so full with very separate
seasons and skylines,
and then the salt crusts
under lower lashes
-because now I have Europe, but no you.
I catch glimpses of you still
first thing in the morning, or late at night
-in shop windows walking home
when my guard is down.
Here there is no bleached sunlight
but still, small hands,
long dark hair and sad eyes
that live amid the folds of silk
and cotton.
and lift out each item
I press my face
into their textures
....smell sunshine, your small hands
long dark hair and sad eyes
in the silk and cotton.
I think of you;
carefully, how carefully folding
each piece of my former armour
in my last life,
to send to me in my new life,
which is so full with very separate
seasons and skylines,
and then the salt crusts
under lower lashes
-because now I have Europe, but no you.
I catch glimpses of you still
first thing in the morning, or late at night
-in shop windows walking home
when my guard is down.
Here there is no bleached sunlight
but still, small hands,
long dark hair and sad eyes
that live amid the folds of silk
and cotton.
circus freak
you paint me not
as a muse, nor sleeping maiden
but a bearded lady in a hoodie,
dolphin smile, with stubble
The imagery suits
-circus freak me; grotesque carnival of
such strong emotions I feel for you
(they always come out
the wrong way and you
cannot match them)
On the street I hear a girl; crying
or laughing? I cannot tell, such a fine line.
At least, you painted the
sadness in my irises
just right.
as a muse, nor sleeping maiden
but a bearded lady in a hoodie,
dolphin smile, with stubble
The imagery suits
-circus freak me; grotesque carnival of
such strong emotions I feel for you
(they always come out
the wrong way and you
cannot match them)
On the street I hear a girl; crying
or laughing? I cannot tell, such a fine line.
At least, you painted the
sadness in my irises
just right.
Helios
I wear your jacket now
in the absence of your arms
around me. The one you brought
once to keep me from shivering
(to keep me a while)
sitting on the dewy grass before dawn,
talking while waiting
for the sun
before realizing it was far
too cloudy to witness the
Anticipated Majestic
Daybreak.
We should have listened
to the gods
there and then.
in the absence of your arms
around me. The one you brought
once to keep me from shivering
(to keep me a while)
sitting on the dewy grass before dawn,
talking while waiting
for the sun
before realizing it was far
too cloudy to witness the
Anticipated Majestic
Daybreak.
We should have listened
to the gods
there and then.
Goya
When reason is awake,
stuff and sweetmeats cannot touch it.
Idealism gets beaten out of you eventually
by abhorrent reality
only to return
-murmured in hindsight to a heavy-lidded friend
(laced so weary and wistful at how things
should be instead of
how they really are)
Reason sleeps and desires emerge
-the want for truth (so different from a reality)
Sunlight yellows the pages left
open too long by
carelessness
and I cannot shake this
feeling that you
are leaving without me
stuff and sweetmeats cannot touch it.
Idealism gets beaten out of you eventually
by abhorrent reality
only to return
-murmured in hindsight to a heavy-lidded friend
(laced so weary and wistful at how things
should be instead of
how they really are)
Reason sleeps and desires emerge
-the want for truth (so different from a reality)
Sunlight yellows the pages left
open too long by
carelessness
and I cannot shake this
feeling that you
are leaving without me
Nocturn: girl smoking in stairwell
wrought iron tattoos its curving form
temporarily on the wall
against my own crouching silhouette
my sad lover,
I inhale and exhale
-guilt and ash
at the things I do not know how
to say to you
will it suffice;
my first awkward words
uttered in years
and I cannot move my
mouth in the shapes I need to
I write quickly
before the light goes out
leaving just the embers in my hand
and then I must go inside
to you
into the woods
architect of misery or
architect of longing?
stacking post and lintel numbly
-leaving out the keystone
so the whole arch collapses
at my feet
(am I a forest to you)
I look out into that forest;
at its heart there is
no light from where I stand
but that doesn’t stop me
wanting to walk
deep within it
maybe when I reach the
middle to look up
there will be
light and birds
after all
not just
the immeasurable
stillness
Hermione
over coffee with
her it occured to me
that i must have
missed the transition
of when Hermione
turned into a realist
and now i
see nothing
of her i recognise anymore
except
the slight spring
in her chestnut curls
when she looks at
me
dissaprovingly
her it occured to me
that i must have
missed the transition
of when Hermione
turned into a realist
and now i
see nothing
of her i recognise anymore
except
the slight spring
in her chestnut curls
when she looks at
me
dissaprovingly
little pockets
this is what matters most:
a fleck of gold in someone's hair
-watching the skin heal after a burn
The mad dash as the train pulls in.
The last line in a Woody Allen film
-people breaking up into mobile phones
tripping over cobblestones
(little pockets of the city only found if lost)
The prominent line of the jaw when he is thinking
-a silent, tired community of workers heading home
believing the ability to sing will make everything fall into place
The wind chiming above King Street
-a lady's perfume making you hungry as she passes
(the unfathomable possibilities of twilight)
a fleck of gold in someone's hair
-watching the skin heal after a burn
The mad dash as the train pulls in.
The last line in a Woody Allen film
-people breaking up into mobile phones
tripping over cobblestones
(little pockets of the city only found if lost)
The prominent line of the jaw when he is thinking
-a silent, tired community of workers heading home
believing the ability to sing will make everything fall into place
The wind chiming above King Street
-a lady's perfume making you hungry as she passes
(the unfathomable possibilities of twilight)
like a peacock in the snow
trees lining the city
streets in their
concrete shackles
(make my own ankles
feel heavier)
and if you look up long
enough you'll
see a face you know
(keep looking down)
decipher a wordsworth
poem in 35 minutes
(look down)
smoke it right up to
your fingers
fruit in my hand is heavy
ash on my lungs is heavy
streets in their
concrete shackles
(make my own ankles
feel heavier)
and if you look up long
enough you'll
see a face you know
(keep looking down)
decipher a wordsworth
poem in 35 minutes
(look down)
smoke it right up to
your fingers
fruit in my hand is heavy
ash on my lungs is heavy
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