Poetry's got talent (a selection of recent work, commissions, etc.)

Wood

Whirl, leaves, see
the old trunk, the other

side, eyeholes
barely wide, light

licking up the rough,
a springboard shoots out

to hallow weld, the
fallen wood cruxes

dig into dark green
nothing but bark,

rivulet-dried
hard to the sap –

the other
side, ditch,

scurrying woodlice,
soulless scrub
some-one else's pile.



SNReview summer 2012

Cordoba

 
Lucio is eaten away by loneliness. La Calahorra
is a house of dialogue, and birds
full of chattering trees, at midnight the slats are occupied.
 
Beyond the locked gates the ghosts of the murdered,
exiled and persecuted, slip though the shadows.
hyacinths grow through cracks streaming with blood.
Roll up your sleeve, show me
the number you escaped from, those I have fled.
 
                                                    I turn round, caught
in an intricate nightmare of whitewashed walls, twisting.
My silence broken by squeals of anguish.
I toss and turn in my keep, decisions I cannot deny.
Dragging into the cold light, huddled in hurling crowds,
all doors shut and barred. Hold your tongue.
 
                                                 Who owns
the wreckage of lives. Memories, names,
this book of soldiers’ home snaps, this Talmud class
chilling eyes of vanished worlds.
 
          *        *
Darkness falls on the Guadalquivir,
a woman’s dark hair and the river
half naked, half dry
runs through the rushes, over the river bed.
 
I sip rough red wine, black as venous blood,
stifling the long night. Words
behind reveal blind attitudes,
and silent spirits of life
 
this hill, those black shadows,
leaving footprints in the dust
of these hot burnt hills
blown by the only wind left.

Sentinel Poetry Quarterly

 

Three poems for Pharmacopia

Crudum

 
There was a young man called Lordum

whose object in life was to fool’em

so he could swear like a plebe

he mixed spiders, knuckle and weed

and downed it with a hefty dose of Crudum.

 

 

 

Fragon

First, close crop your head, then

Rub on Fragon to remove

Anxiety, nits, sunburn and

God knows what, finally

Oil your noddle with formula

Nafrog, makes hair stand on end!

 

 

Loflazepate

Loaf, lounge, scratch your pate

This is the remedy Loflaze ate

Unfazed, you lope, flat footing

Round the question do I take

No account be rendered, this

Act of resistance, reading, mate.

 


 

Moonscale

 

Delicately fragranced

the outline of the shadow

you cast

 

clarity through the window

frame

 

this untouchable light.

 

Blackstained, the ground

silk has no centre

 

the shining field no before

no after the fence.

 

Horizons eliminated

the stark relief

of twisting silhouettes

 

evidence

the existence of light

clouded for an instant.

 

Inclement poetry magazine


 

Down south

 

Your age is hidden in the whitewashed

cracks of the wall,

wrought iron balcony spraying

flowers over broad streets flowing

between the high solemn hives

of the emperor's plan, squares full

of assignations, a thousand

crowd the pavements, grandmothers

like clusters of sugar, gossip

 

        *        *

 

Your age is hidden in the sweat

of the Barrio's flaking paint,

ghosts of the beggars

who live in each dripping alleyway

under tarpaulins of linen, slanting

shadow across Roman ochre

luscious vegetation windows

 

lamplight only in the heat

where footsteps,

stuttering darkly through the night,

lead nowhere,

take me, take me to that sea

of rushing faces, waters that surge

 

 

Inclement poetry magazine

 

 

 

Why

joyous

 

he strode

across the stones

 

feet sore

days stretch forth

 

out of solitude

 

 

 

Why

 

the kindness of man

 

he stood before

the gates

 

savour

fast-pacing thoughts

 

freed

 

 


 

 


 Why


time and tide

 

resolutely upbeat

for this is eternal

 

there is something

behind the look

 

go for it, that's why

 

(Series for Transignum, 2010)