Swans’ furious wings
in millions, in violence,
landing at graphite bay
sunder to a feathered lather,
light as beer’s head,
on the strand.
And so it is,
the fury of nature
that batters and drowns
next day
is a plaything for children,
froth to blow off their palms.
Her breathing
shallow, laboured;
life hanging
from a fraying string
and I searching for the right words,
the last words.
What are the words
that should sail the auditory canal
into her final minutes?
What can I say
into the turbulence of her breathing
to repay her love,
allay the fear,
lessen the hardship?
And now, years on,
trying to remember what I did say
as she bobbed on the tide of her dying;
moments when loving care
was reduced to the most caring words;
trying to remember if I had the words.
The wind from the west made the trees uneasy;
a glowering sky heaving pent-up violence;
the people on the seashore shrinking
to tiny letters in black print under Himalayan sky;
the ocean stepped backwards into distance.
Cracks of lightning shattering heaven;
fish, metallic splinters, breaking the ocean’s hide,
falling back, fragmented anger;
the bellowing cumulus thunder;
a hole in the far horizon where the sun hides down a burrow.
On this empty page,
I suddenly see your face,
a watermark.
Time-drained,
blurred features, mute;
loved face.
Memory,
a boulder dragged behind,
still sweeter
than vacuity;
so smile,
holographic smile.
I put my back to it, push the boat onto the limestone-coloured sea,
where the water takes it onto its own shoulders and I,
with feet firmly dug into the ribs, can row into the eternal.
The sea slams against the hull with my every stroke:
the clockwork of the ocean, of the universe,
inseparable from my blood’s tides.
I trust its speech resounding in the hollowed chest beneath me;
I believe in the anointing of my face with brine;
I get the measure of myself from none but the ocean.
Her eyes bombed out,
mouth a crater,
rubble her skin.
The war on her face;
no matter what face,
this face will always be beneath.
These, millions,
devastated landscapes;
and hers, to have and to keep.
You climb and climb,
see the detail of your everyday diminish;
climb higher, higher, see it disappear.
Mountain ranges, rivers, plains, cities;
the coastline, the ocean spreading away
to another continent, beyond continents.
A world of craggy peaks, sky and sun;
a horizon-less vision, earth into universe;
awestruck, rooted,
you marvel at the infinity of your soul.
Camera,
transport my skin of bones
to the breakfast tables of the first world.
These legs, arms, ribs
without muscle or flesh;
lay them there, inedible stuff.
Your readers, in the salve of their pity,
may impress themselves
with the rawness of their reactions,
be moved. And, yes, I understand:
with the turning of that page, the bones
will be returned to my private ownership.
The bed clothes
white clouds, and
her head, an abandoned object,
thrown upon them.
Behind her shut eyes,
who knows what stirs
though still,
so very still.
Brilliant sunlight, gleaming snow;
a new morning, a new earth
except for the trail of footsteps;
some philistine has damaged the canvas.
On closer inspection, a parchment
rich in some Neolithic script:
multiple series of tiny arrows speaking of gods,
grandeur, confusion, berries perhaps.
Bird prints, their writings
on the mysteries of a new earth.
I 'm a sucker for Pink Floyd and those beautiful guitar solos. Sometimes I get a longing to hear them, then light and sound are the same. If you fancy listening try https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uchUg0AKcAU
Gilmour Guitar Solos
Played that guitar with its mouth gaping
teeth spilling out
spinning resorts
high as cumulus
sharp as rain flints
molten fingertips pulling notes
drill-bits pulverising the starry skies
steel tear-strings’ cut ends
whipping around
stratospheric
granite blades
alchemy
wisps into blue.
T'ang Dynasty poet, Li Po, is said to have died in 762CE when he fell drunk out of a boat trying to embrace the moon.
The enamel white moon made a ladle on the water.
Li Po, a tick full of wine with a romantic heart
rowed his boat up the long handle towards the bowl,
from which light poured bright as molten magnesium
and with the fondest memories of all his loves,
fell into water with arms wide to embrace the moon.
The embrace was chill and shivering; there was no light,
but, deceived by his last lover, he fell through that glory
into the dank cavern that takes us all to our final knowing.
High up above his head the light continued to beckon;
it beckons still to wine-drinkers with love in their hearts..
Last evening I gazed into water,
water gazed into me
and first to speak,
‘you’re lost’, he said.
The eyes seemed empty
to be unthinking,
but they were
and the message was full.
‘Both of us then’, I said
and his eyes were in mine;
I moved along
because he was troubling me.
Words,
swallows not trains,
swoop and dive;
blackbirds
lassoing the world
in their song,
trout leaps
through rings
in the river
sings;
not trains
no tracks,
but flies
flickering
light and sound
and swallows
swim
and blackbirds
lasso the world
in their song.
