30 July 2014

It is late

Even the swans have folded their wings
and bowed their heads, the lake is getting solid
again, winter sits on a perch and contemplates
the hour. Once when I was in Semonkong I saw
two royal snakes romping in the twilight, playing
a game I didn’t know with their tongues. That day
I wrote the first line of a poem I never submitted
for publication, as the snakes vanished down the banks
of the pond, leaving only an image of their unfinished
painting on my page. It is not late to sit here
and listen to these woods, to water freezing
with shapes of crystal on its surface like snow
coming here to die. A light opens its eye
in one of the flats overlooking the park.
It’s late for the deck chair left alone outside
for those who cannot bear the dream
but wander from it to a soundless night.
I have no doubt that this is part of a plan
to make the world a better place, because
I believe in things that sense will let me have,
the odour of sex in the trees behind where I sit
despite the message of the world that it is late,
petals of flowers closing hands to keep the day,
the feel of a breeze against arms, face, this hunger
in my mouth. No, it is not late to start feeling bold.
I’m going to sit here awhile and take into myself
whatever I can from this moment, leave all false-
hoods behind, at the mercy of the natural dark.

29 July 2014

Tuesday poem: Paris

lies nude on the banks of the Seine
during Paris Plage, emerald hair splayed
over the gardens of its hips. Then, at night,
the bright can-can of thighs. A street leads
to the suburbs which rap has marked
for destruction, but whose pulse
in small crests on a screen lingers on.
A phallus towers to the top of Paris,
the alpha of alphabets, suffered into iron
by women it makes giddy with wine.
The bald head of Sacred Heart stands out
white as Greece, powered by knowing its city
invented the tongue, before men knew
what gave rise to spring. From my flat
the skyline is a bar chart like a row
of boxes. This, too, is Paris, with its best
intentions in a grace, and whose gardens
flow like hair with flowers in it,
over a hunger for sex that summer
puts in our blood. I long for the months
after October, the advent of Christmas,
bulbs to light the Marchés de Noël.
A new world inside a safe distance.

Enjoy more Tuesday poetry here: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.gr

25 July 2014

There is a party in my throat

~after Charles Bukowski

A colony of cells is squirming in my gullet,
but I pretend not to hear them
and dream instead of a meadow where lights
blind me, and other shafts flee a cloud to new
horizons, to other streams, a growth in a throat
of merry cells that plan to party like it’s nineteen
ninety-nine; and because I hate their jubilee
I pour single-malt on them to shut them up,
but they soak it in and fornicate some more;
I made their bed myself, of clean, pressed mucus,
fed them beef and wine on Sundays after church,
bathed them in champagne at the end of the month
when the mood was high, and wads of banknotes
bulged back pockets and made men act like boys.
This tumour, along my throat, lesions the root
of the tongue and scuffles into my mouth,
but I have no intention of letting this happen,
not till it’s time to go on, for worse or for better;
there is a polyp in my mouth that I got from sucking
cigars like nipples. A hologram of God stands
beside my bed, but I don’t care; I should rejoice
perhaps, because part of me wants to. Perhaps
the only choice left to me now is whether to will
some or all of my body to science; or none at all.

Don't