Thursday, 4 June 2009

Like Number Nine Buses

I don't know where these popped from, but scribbled them down before supper:

Seasonal Clockwork, Relative to None

Colliding worlds together just for hell -
Humane experimental particle -
Bombardment a la grand scale.

Our Complicata, taut with cracking buds
Now brusquely trained against the apple tree
Adorning that original misdeed

With smooth potential of a hundred blooms
I sit and spy your creeping detonation
While serpents crawl the corners of my eyes

And Eve slips silently from bush to bush -
This foolish universe, a childish keepsake,
Unseemly as the years slice off the loaf:

So many buttered toasts consumed;
There is no holding principle to share.
Gravity has reversed its pull again.


Sonnet

Upon a russet blanket in the sun,
Performing thought dialysis for kicks,
Expunging conscience's thousand pricks,
And letting gentle new thoughts run;
Remembering sagely life is ever fun
So long as all those varied, mindful tricks
Are kept in shape most suited to my mix,
And all my aims sustained so bold begun.

But this is only good for little times.
The longer course bewilders at the thought;
My career's arc so dismally now wrought -
Always a nadir up ahead: one climbs
Again that well-accustomed slope,
Refuse to quit; refuse to sit and mope.

-----

edit: just found this one from a few months ago.

Holocene

Extinction happens when the zone of comfort
moves faster than the beech-mast sprouts
to maturity, lets drop
the next generation at the farthest twig
or blob of birdshit falls
at the farthest range of the wood pigeon
or these days, with the clever
monkey fingers of men
planted where we like
if the red tape of 'native' to 'south' or 'north'
can be cut

grave of vanished neolithic men
who still walk among us all

lobster in the pot, dreaming
of cheap warm seas
package deals
dozing in the balmy water

those stones, field-plucked, pit-dug,
a corner lopped here and there to fit
laid down in shallow lagoons
paddled by forgotten feet
of long-lost fabulous animals
diplodicii, extinct,

yet again, we are their 5th cousins
several times removed, and so
family in a sense of the word

rudely dug-out chambers
by men during that time
of discovery, sacreligious
unearthing of the dead
by roots of an invasive weed

barrow three times older than beech.

1 comment:

Alison Rising said...

I love your word choice in your poetry. You are talented for sure! "the clever monkey fingers of men..." Great stuff!