Fidelity writes with ease beneath your picture
now that love is liquid and rusty chains flake
the colours of love I have for you in a confetti of rain.
Pollen dust hits the water where there is no soil,
swirling my Diwali firecracker in a festival of colour
to canvas, and then to the sky.
This is for a Holi day missed, a day Spring tested Diwali light.
I throw powder at a whiteness, and paint
my feelings. No one can censor this.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Seasonal Ajustment Disorder -edited again! ***
The air is warm, the cool breeze
chills, the sea swells. Surf's up -
tide's high enough for the crash of waves; low though, so the roll
and drag conundrums the beach. Sea's coming in, stones polished,
shells broken, mountains become sand - gangs of parrots
shell pine-cones, a flock of gulls caw...and a herd
of speckled beach towels don't budge an inch.
chills, the sea swells. Surf's up -
tide's high enough for the crash of waves; low though, so the roll
and drag conundrums the beach. Sea's coming in, stones polished,
shells broken, mountains become sand - gangs of parrots
shell pine-cones, a flock of gulls caw...and a herd
of speckled beach towels don't budge an inch.
KImono
Kimono, The Directors Cut, is lost - a version 06
Kimono
Don't say you will slip into something
more comfortable while I drink my milk.
Don't return in a Kimono of silk,
red lipped, chopsticks in your hair
and ask me to touch the material,
to feel the quality of the belt;
if my fingers smell the perfume of unraveling
or the stabbing silver hairpins
diving through the curls of shoulders
and one javelins into my glass,
don't stir slowly: it's so over;
I want something stronger
and pinch up my lip
like sushi, for a kiss.
Unzip me
quickly;
for only one bow
loosens the belt of the Kimono
Kimono
Don't say you will slip into something
more comfortable while I drink my milk.
Don't return in a Kimono of silk,
red lipped, chopsticks in your hair
and ask me to touch the material,
to feel the quality of the belt;
if my fingers smell the perfume of unraveling
or the stabbing silver hairpins
diving through the curls of shoulders
and one javelins into my glass,
don't stir slowly: it's so over;
I want something stronger
and pinch up my lip
like sushi, for a kiss.
Unzip me
quickly;
for only one bow
loosens the belt of the Kimono
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
The Magician and me
When crumpled papers rose and hovered the merry-go-round velvet brim of your hat, unfolding dancers in the lightening flight of birds, their spindle stretches were feathered grace -
still shot flickbook seamless movement in a thousand clicks of wing -
and I was a scruffy ball, sat on the pavement spellbound; you, shelving ambivalence, not only for the coins on the bridge, but for a glimpse of wonderment. "Never tell how", you had said, tapping your nose, "leave a smile for later", in no doubt that there would always be magic tomorrow - sure as a loaf of bread, a bottle of ale, and a coin for the tin.
"How on earth did she manage to get there??" Great views always expanded over the brow of this bridge. If this is our very same streetlamp, the echo of flagstone, we would have walked it; the silence, the climb; juggling music scores up the hill to a smell of kerosene; the alleyway, the archways of scarves pouring fountains from my top pocket like fireworks - fire jugglers running their batons over a skin of tongues.
I still look out for you at each festival bar, and one day, there you will be, drinking mead, telling tall stories; and I'll stay, lean against the canvas doorway of the marquee, for the one you tell about the disappearing scruffy ball.
jan08
still shot flickbook seamless movement in a thousand clicks of wing -
and I was a scruffy ball, sat on the pavement spellbound; you, shelving ambivalence, not only for the coins on the bridge, but for a glimpse of wonderment. "Never tell how", you had said, tapping your nose, "leave a smile for later", in no doubt that there would always be magic tomorrow - sure as a loaf of bread, a bottle of ale, and a coin for the tin.
"How on earth did she manage to get there??" Great views always expanded over the brow of this bridge. If this is our very same streetlamp, the echo of flagstone, we would have walked it; the silence, the climb; juggling music scores up the hill to a smell of kerosene; the alleyway, the archways of scarves pouring fountains from my top pocket like fireworks - fire jugglers running their batons over a skin of tongues.
I still look out for you at each festival bar, and one day, there you will be, drinking mead, telling tall stories; and I'll stay, lean against the canvas doorway of the marquee, for the one you tell about the disappearing scruffy ball.
jan08
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Motion, edit
Down the channels of The Yangtze, their Snow Dragon
Flower mountain rising to call them home, the stern
prow and bow of the boat slice an arrow through ice.
Motion melts and ripples
surf like mercury to the banks of the shore.
Towards her, he stretches thoars forward,
twisting the paddles back, thin and flat through the mist.
Each arm straightens to come back round, then angular,
dipping down, each muscular sinew of arm and back
pulls, to push the water solids to the past. Their
light surface scratches whirlpool
to swivel in the smoky morning air.
Nature is resting. There's a lasso wind
all ahead like hummingbird wings or the echo
of an absent car passing. Disturbed
they wait for motion to take them to the bend.
Beating wings and slashed air, something snaps?
Sounds of flat skimming stones and the crack
or splash of rope. Inquisitive eyes watch them turn:
The washerwoman and her dawn-light fisherman
notice nothing - their motion unbroken - he casting
lasso nets again and again to whirl and slap
a hand's circle on the hungry glass. And she?
Kneading clothes of dough against a smooth and ragged
rock, then the thwack of sun-bleached cloth against the air.
She shakes each to flutter clean in the slight breeze.
He pulls the oars again and rests. They pause. Their
liquid tracks meet, and they glide in the misty quiet.
A still point; a slow motion's moment of mutual respect
and the exchange of the slightest smiles to mark it.
Flower mountain rising to call them home, the stern
prow and bow of the boat slice an arrow through ice.
Motion melts and ripples
surf like mercury to the banks of the shore.
Towards her, he stretches thoars forward,
twisting the paddles back, thin and flat through the mist.
Each arm straightens to come back round, then angular,
dipping down, each muscular sinew of arm and back
pulls, to push the water solids to the past. Their
light surface scratches whirlpool
to swivel in the smoky morning air.
Nature is resting. There's a lasso wind
all ahead like hummingbird wings or the echo
of an absent car passing. Disturbed
they wait for motion to take them to the bend.
Beating wings and slashed air, something snaps?
Sounds of flat skimming stones and the crack
or splash of rope. Inquisitive eyes watch them turn:
The washerwoman and her dawn-light fisherman
notice nothing - their motion unbroken - he casting
lasso nets again and again to whirl and slap
a hand's circle on the hungry glass. And she?
Kneading clothes of dough against a smooth and ragged
rock, then the thwack of sun-bleached cloth against the air.
She shakes each to flutter clean in the slight breeze.
He pulls the oars again and rests. They pause. Their
liquid tracks meet, and they glide in the misty quiet.
A still point; a slow motion's moment of mutual respect
Friday, December 18, 2009
The kids I know and the upset chair
It is in their art, stories and poems,
and witnessing the good memories
we hang on the classroom wall,
so when a car backfires
and they separate or shatter,
there is the room they are standing in,
and someone there, in the far off distance,
looking at the moving stories in wallpaper, saying,
it's alright, we are all alright here now.
Do you see your chair? Take your time,
it's okay, it is waiting for you.
and witnessing the good memories
we hang on the classroom wall,
so when a car backfires
and they separate or shatter,
there is the room they are standing in,
and someone there, in the far off distance,
looking at the moving stories in wallpaper, saying,
it's alright, we are all alright here now.
Do you see your chair? Take your time,
it's okay, it is waiting for you.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Under the Oak
There was pleasure, praise, solemnity; horror, pain, and tragedy, drinking from the watering hole at Double Indemnity Creek. They began gathering; filled terracotta urns, burned Frankincense in the shade of the Oak and waited for a storyteller to spread her quilt out on the green. She came, her gait slower than usual, her red hands resting on her guts, her patchwork hanging from her shoulder - and she asked a little one to take it, shake it out, and make it smooth on the soft ground. Soon, men, women, and children from the river felt the sun hotter on their backs, heard the sign that the story was waiting, left their eyes on what they had been doing, and took their ears up the slippery banks. Some exchanged quiet greetings with each other; all found a comfortable spot or a square of the patch, and all waited quietly.
"Big Mother," a child's voice called out. "Why are your hands so red, there, holding your tummy?" and the child's mother shushed the child and scolded, "Hush! Listen with your ears, your mind and heart, child! Now is not the time for the questioning." The child, grumpy, closed eyes tight but placed little hands on a small swollen stomach, sweetly full of sherbet lemon dips bought with a coin from the weekend treat stop at Miss Felicity's general store in town.
From the eldest bough of the Oak, golden in the sunlight and moving to and fro in the breeze, was a rope swing. The child's Grandfather had weaved the rope from luscious grasses, and had dried and burned fourteen strands with wax and fire. And Grandmother had plaited seven in each, making two ropes for the wood plank of the swing. So well it was made that it had lasted lifetimes, and Sam, fed up with waiting, opened both eyes to catch the prop swinging in the breeze.
"Mother! Can I play on the swing while we wait for the story?" and the cheekiness raised gasps and whispers amongst the resting crowd. "Hush child!" the mother scolded, "By Jupiter be still! Now is not the time for fooling around. Peg your fluttering tent to the ground, and wait." The child, ashamed, looked down, and at exactly that moment another child, knowing that it would vex little Sam, got up grinning from a little square patch and sat on the plank of the swing. Sam, distracted by the movement, glared at the child and forgot the quiet.
"Mother! That’s not fair! Why can she play on the swing while I have to sit still, here, fiddling with stones?" Sam's mother, tired of these outbursts, raised her arms to the sky and cried, "By Neptune, little one!" but said not another word. Sam, black with grumpiness, closed both eyes tight to it all, and couldn't help but wish she'd fall.
Stubborn little Sam kept both eyes firmly, and then less firmly shut, until dancing light sparked and petalled each eyelid with trails and shapes. Sam heard incredible music lifting these patterned lanterns into the future, and forgetting a bad temper, smiled at the pictures created. At exactly that very moment, a nomadic old man and his friendly dog came upon the group under the Oak. He had brought boiled eggs and loaves of bread; glanced at The Mother, and shared them around to all at the gathering. Sam opened eyes and was delighted. A ravenous appetite had hit while dancing with eye-lit-lids, and after eating plenty, Sam pulled a golden thread of wheat from tiny teeth, and rested happy hands on a small, savoury-sweet potbelly.
"Mother! Mother! Life is beautiful!" Sam screamed, and the company, mouths full of egg and bread, laughed and laughed under the tree, until the leaves laughed along too, and the boughs shook, the trunk chuckled with fun, the earth moved, and the world spun.
When the gathering quietened and the tree stilled, the storyteller, with red hands resting on her guts, shifted slightly on the quilt. With expectation, all eyes and ears turned and fixed themselves on her open mouth, but not a word came out. Instead, a sigh; a deeply exhaled breath hummed around the crowd and stilled all noise. She lifted her red hands from her guts, rested them face up, and from her palms Sam's very own eyelid dance appeared in full, all seen, there in the palms of her hands - birds, monkeys, lions, snakes, and all the wonderful beauty, there in front of the eyes.
"Mother! Mother! Can you see it? It's fantastic – a wonderful magic show under the Oak!" and Sam's mother smiled, touched both shoulders and said,
"Hush, child of mine! I can't see wonder as you do!" and Sam's heart sank and nearly broke in two. "But, by Love, I do know child, it is you who is wonderful..." and Sam blushed deeply, and then smiled too.
apr/07
"Big Mother," a child's voice called out. "Why are your hands so red, there, holding your tummy?" and the child's mother shushed the child and scolded, "Hush! Listen with your ears, your mind and heart, child! Now is not the time for the questioning." The child, grumpy, closed eyes tight but placed little hands on a small swollen stomach, sweetly full of sherbet lemon dips bought with a coin from the weekend treat stop at Miss Felicity's general store in town.
From the eldest bough of the Oak, golden in the sunlight and moving to and fro in the breeze, was a rope swing. The child's Grandfather had weaved the rope from luscious grasses, and had dried and burned fourteen strands with wax and fire. And Grandmother had plaited seven in each, making two ropes for the wood plank of the swing. So well it was made that it had lasted lifetimes, and Sam, fed up with waiting, opened both eyes to catch the prop swinging in the breeze.
"Mother! Can I play on the swing while we wait for the story?" and the cheekiness raised gasps and whispers amongst the resting crowd. "Hush child!" the mother scolded, "By Jupiter be still! Now is not the time for fooling around. Peg your fluttering tent to the ground, and wait." The child, ashamed, looked down, and at exactly that moment another child, knowing that it would vex little Sam, got up grinning from a little square patch and sat on the plank of the swing. Sam, distracted by the movement, glared at the child and forgot the quiet.
"Mother! That’s not fair! Why can she play on the swing while I have to sit still, here, fiddling with stones?" Sam's mother, tired of these outbursts, raised her arms to the sky and cried, "By Neptune, little one!" but said not another word. Sam, black with grumpiness, closed both eyes tight to it all, and couldn't help but wish she'd fall.
Stubborn little Sam kept both eyes firmly, and then less firmly shut, until dancing light sparked and petalled each eyelid with trails and shapes. Sam heard incredible music lifting these patterned lanterns into the future, and forgetting a bad temper, smiled at the pictures created. At exactly that very moment, a nomadic old man and his friendly dog came upon the group under the Oak. He had brought boiled eggs and loaves of bread; glanced at The Mother, and shared them around to all at the gathering. Sam opened eyes and was delighted. A ravenous appetite had hit while dancing with eye-lit-lids, and after eating plenty, Sam pulled a golden thread of wheat from tiny teeth, and rested happy hands on a small, savoury-sweet potbelly.
"Mother! Mother! Life is beautiful!" Sam screamed, and the company, mouths full of egg and bread, laughed and laughed under the tree, until the leaves laughed along too, and the boughs shook, the trunk chuckled with fun, the earth moved, and the world spun.
When the gathering quietened and the tree stilled, the storyteller, with red hands resting on her guts, shifted slightly on the quilt. With expectation, all eyes and ears turned and fixed themselves on her open mouth, but not a word came out. Instead, a sigh; a deeply exhaled breath hummed around the crowd and stilled all noise. She lifted her red hands from her guts, rested them face up, and from her palms Sam's very own eyelid dance appeared in full, all seen, there in the palms of her hands - birds, monkeys, lions, snakes, and all the wonderful beauty, there in front of the eyes.
"Mother! Mother! Can you see it? It's fantastic – a wonderful magic show under the Oak!" and Sam's mother smiled, touched both shoulders and said,
"Hush, child of mine! I can't see wonder as you do!" and Sam's heart sank and nearly broke in two. "But, by Love, I do know child, it is you who is wonderful..." and Sam blushed deeply, and then smiled too.
apr/07
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