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These
poems were written around Christmas 2015, a year
in which much happened. I thought I would have to
summon the courage to write them down. As ever it
was they with grace who summoned me.
Banner So have you gone, you’ve
finally gone I know. Under my rolling
thumbs Another rain tallies You stare from the
princely rail Down a summer side To the slow-moving
matinee Where a tangle of
children holds up A banner for alms: Can we go mum can we go Into a silence of
scissors Some youthful hand shouldered
snow Breaks your vice versa Asks to say hello
Up
Law Hill Not now Who knows when we’ll crunch the same white numbers the same
prepositions Up Law Hill behind us the mast ahead the field dumb with sheep. One
hundred two hundred. Slow like fairground horses o My love I am not here I am there in the soft
lanterns
midwinter of my rainbow colours
have you heard Snow posts words In the commentator’s coat
hanger
mouth Clouds rise out of the
saddle The camera believes in us It’s why we run Found
Picture O and it makes the bones so
sore to feel How embarrassed I was at
the very thought Of disowning all the
downtrodden days That lay me next to you,
the slick perfume Of your gaze and the spring
tide stealing Us both from the toes up.
How embarrassed Indeed. I knew one man
capable of it. Divine He was. And those that came
after, flat pebbles Thrown by curious hominids,
that bounced off the big megaliths, they
were men too. Men And women who dipped their
pens in the great Dragons of light. I admired
them as well. But here I’m with you on this
coastal plain, perpendicular. My big box head’s been
centuries lost in the garb Of the benevolent masters,
all the good lines Are breakable, my
implement’s unsteady and anyway The wordless edges of this
wave and that are busy Eddying at my feet. Penelope
Running Penny may I call you Penny?
Perhaps You’d be happier with the
pigeons Under the eaves where not
even Laertes Would think to look you out While you faithfully
unravel Someone than me less
leadered will perform the utterly
thinkable
so When dear Odysseus returns
and the blinkers
are off I’ll miss you Penelope
running
Between home and the dark
songs that
pitilessly Carry you away Francis
Cadell on Iona Something exploded
generously On East Bay
something
happened To change the paint There are all But the innermost sounds
and
signs The rocks wordless beasts Bury in a powdered canvas Their heads come over all
hushed. A bright-eyed field paints
me real From this field nods green
the scene Already in my eye a picture
ending Before it begins in the
time before time A cool feline asks: is
there laughter In what you say to your
hiding gods? You take in the kelp the
bladderwrack Salt grass erupts in the
breaking garden
Blue.
Orange Answer. Will the question
ever
go
away If it’s what I’m hearing
I’m hearing The moon up to high jinks White in the sounded blueness Enough. Francis are you
selling well I’m shamed by your ending All that poverty
The orange and The eel-black lineage
coming
back
to earth By the under dear Of a high-arched
tableside Ocean
of Longing I’m pretty sure this is all
Because you exist it’s only I Want to burn the hillside
entire Every tidy heathered knap
buckshee
sap I’d gladly pour down the
neck Of that silly man of yours But then the least balding
of The tea time chimpanzees A propos of Harpo’s outsize
hat’n coat
indifferently Slopes for a pint In me kindling An epipelagic light of dawn Crests the brae of those
big goodbye
gangster
shoulders Waves A stiff neck above the art
Trapped in my frame I dream of childhoods A buoy hauling the glue Bones of a horse Across skittering pier
sides You Puffing your last puffaw The roped hands easy in earth
in water Rocking the ship’s bear-toy
on your knee
Like the tide By the rocks of Malta
a
wave To learn not all of nothing Of nothing
[Red] Red holds light Cloud above the thumbnail Peaks
O
so
prophetic
prophyletic Doyou write poetry yourself Sitting at your cool cat
table Lick your lips for the pink Undersilk
sweet
meats Of the mildly talking rooks Is your hot head from the
tiger’s flame I
envy you The half-light Half-life of language (What was that again about
The island)
Send me a postcard from
your
edge Sir please do
Lost
Album Tracks of the
70s How good to hear from you
it’s Been a while does the
trailing sax Of unsilence still get on
your nerves Wasn’t it a form of
loathing don’t be Afraid remember you are
also here To be entertained there will always be Enthusiasts for spinning
humming Crackling in the
undergrowth of sound Yes I walk the backbeat
county ways still Receive the cold kiss of
the abstract implement Ghosting on the coastal
path unsexed By the civic placement of
metal benches That fairly freeze the bum O for A soft-mouthed dog to flush
the bird Root-a-toot brother galoot
whose shoes His deeds never quite
matched I’m
happy You’re welcome any time
with eyes blind I’ll keep looking over my
shoulder
guess Against the cool pane whose
lips
hissing Furrow of youth that
stopped being your
place And mine The
People On The Lawn The People On The Lawn Were invisible weren’t on First-name terms with the
dead Waved maniacally at passing
cars Said their goodbyes by
postal ballot Nodded at the thinning poet Made their own darkness Were uninterested in the
light from Liébana Fished in their youth Won countless Petrarchan
laurels Woke themselves from
pisspoor dreams Suffered from chronic
distraction Never knew what they’d
missed Owned a blind telescope Slipped into mythology Were doomed to love’s
sequel Called the Fire Brigade Admired the body’s
embroidery Were as pale as hosts Held one end of the silver
braid Thumped their hearts in
prayer Broke wind inside the city
walls Wore rust petals in their
hair Struck coins Launched a mouse hunt Tied all their loose ends
with logic Were exposed from mid-thigh
to shin Understood betrayal as a slow
circulation in the veins |
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