‘This Poem is Not a Pipe’
There is a gap in the world where things fall through;
bicycle clips, and leeks, and off-cuts of astrakhan,
frogspawn, gravestones, and the lids from mustard jars.
There is a place in the world where smells wait;
asparagus-scented urine, coal-tar soap, and mould-spotted copies of Proust.
Salmon leap. Flames flame. Small girls feel the mud between their toes.
a bit of fluff.
———
The ghostbird, ears wide for mice,
drifts through the seasmell.
One lapwing, startled, wakes. Clouds break
and moonshine whites the waves.
A far police car sirens
as dark moths twist above the marsh.
I couldn’t post this last night – freezope seemed to be broken. I basically took a day off anyway…
There was a young man from Bangkok
who had a remarkable clock.
It kept perfect time,
had a beautiful chime,
and at midnight it knitted a sock.
no title.
—
long is the albatross : the song of men
diminishes : the candlefish burn bright :
the roses hiss and crackle in the night :
a blackbird coughs, splutters, begins again :
the dolls are weeping now : tectonic plates
buckle : harmonic resonances pass
around the surface of a brandy glass :
cocooned, a liquid butterfly mutates :
the trees around Sao Paolo glow with flocks
of angels : Glasgow seethes with feline lust :
the upper atmosphere sparkles with dust :
and everywhere the ticking of the clocks
O for a beaker full of the warm South
Surely sashimi is a haiku on a plate;
the dark translucent red of tuna, soft in the mouth,
and edged with green wasabi.
It’s tempting to believe that cultures
tell themselves in food; to dip a spoon
into a gumbo thick with sassafras
and claim to taste the swamp,
lynchings and jazz.
In austere Iran, land of sun, cement and ayatollahs,
black-veiled women make
coffee fragrant with cardamom,
tea of rose petals or aniseed,
lamb with cinnamon and apricots,
saffron rice, sweet and jewelled with fruit,
and, with everything, green herbs – coriander, fenugreek,
tarragon, parsley, mint and dill, in pilafs, omelettes, yoghurt
and, on the table, bunched to chew with bread.
‘Crow’
Dark as the sky and strong as salt,
the oldest of birds is Crow.
His name is death to all who live
in the trees and the snow.
His beak and mind are sharp as flint
and subtler than the breeze.
He calls the thunder, and his song
is the falling of trees.