Not these darker, hidden things

The above-titled poem appeared in The City Fox magazine a while back, pages 14-15. A beautifully illustrated issue which I hope you’ll enjoy 🌸


Illustrations by Laura Bennett  

Advertisements

Atelier

It’s raining quicksilver blankets speaking of whimsy but I know what they are thinking as I, slowly drawn into the clouds drifting over my little nest of wood and glass

and scraps of fabric

wish my wings visible, insolent children pleased to escape the confines of my eyes from which memories trail ghostly fingertips across the rolling sky like fine wool put to the skein so easy to turn a mind like the mourning billow of sheets on a craggy moor

where the fire’s lit

heralding damp winter days to come when you’re not quite ready for all that yet. Not willing to resign yourself when

the beauty is still too resonant to slip like eels into the melange of melancholia’s weave and become embroiled in far away glances and gauzy sighs, so maybe

I should take down that painting

hanging there and finally commit those remaining trails of paint to its questioning fibres or maybe I should just lay in the pools of bright colour forming little skins on the palette, I am not quite sure

never

quite

sure

and perhaps that is what it is to exist on a day like this

Does God wear socks?

Jacques_Louis_David_DAJ007

Just look at him laid out there like some

long lost God in nothing, not even socks all

perfect and alone in his ebbing

contemplation while I look on wishing I

could slither into his sphere

of thought, a silk scarf drawn

over his back with no painted red

nails to score my notch or leave

the slightest trace of desire that

drips from freshly washed

hair and thighs with not the faintest

aroma of how a woman wants.

 

No

 

let me just watch like a secret and breathe

the moment into myth

(painting ‘Patroclus’ by Jacques Louis David, 1748-1825)

Sylvia

Bleached-moan-bone knuckle-tree flowers
skulk over skull-stony roots, granite-cold with permanence
amid misty swathes of cotton-grass, the tenderness
of grave-diggers humming water-hollowed rock and sleepless moss
Under the crab-apple she lays, she lies, a laze-stricken Lazarus in deathly completeness
forever, now, wholly fractured among us piss-ant poets
wholly critiqued and human. Holy

Melancholia (or, when you become winter)

Beautifully Bruised (on Exmoor’s Dunkery Beacon) – A Poem

Death followed her there, in burnt-umber magnificence he lay
scorching away all trace of the living, the Baron of barren

nestled in the moor’s shadowy cleavage, the sea, slab of icy steel
on which she floats, a cadaver awaiting post mortem cuts in the cold

tissue-paper skin, exposed, beautifully bruised inside
On a crag, a hawthorn tree bent in toil, an old crone scratching

an existence, mocking with bony fingers, arthritic
cackling in the wake of each zipping car, people rushing by

in other worlds, fleeting dervishes
not noticing her, high above her sorrows, above the cracks and

folds in the landscape hiding crumbs of despair, disappointment’s litter
A derelict mouse, a tiny bird’s jutting ribs the gateway for crawling things

Tiredness calcifies her bones as she lowers herself, serenely entombed
in the briars, the gorse and sprigs of long-lost heather

letting the moss creep, creep over her mouth and eyes
filling her lungs with cool sweet green, always touching her