On the fingertips of a spiral arm,
one of four hundred billion gleaming points
orbiting a centre we’ll never reach
whose glory broadcast for our reception
before the dinosaurs passed. At its fast
heart beats an unseen singularity.
There space and time have collapsed, conceived a
nothingness, deleting solar systems
as a candle deals with dust, oblivious,
mindless as the place where prayers go to die.
Please don’t ask why. Why should there be a why?
Just worship what there is. The stars are just
recordings from the sky in silent screen.
They could dead by now, and we so small.
‘Why is it,’ he asked, ‘when I ask British
people ‘How are you?’ they say ‘Not too bad’?’
So I told him it’s part of our culture
as if to express any joy would be
just showing off and letting the side down.
He is Indian and held my hand a
bit longer than British guidelines recommend.
It is too close, too pleasant a gesture
and could be construed as intimacy
but I did not let go, as I should have.
And so I rambled on about our ways
but could not say why I am struck like this
so grateful for a touch, this honest warmth.
‘I’m not, then, not too bad,’ I said. ‘I’m great!’
I’m very happy to report that one of my sonnets has been published today in the wonderful online mag Amaryllis.
Check it out HERE
The emerald plumage clawed at my eye,
bright peacock green, the dent beside the door,
damaged migrant, back from its winter home
like cuckoos do, eyes peeled for likely nests.
Now my phone, buzzing like a robot crow
for attention. ‘I know. I’m on my way.’
although I am not moving, ‘Yes.. Chicken.’
It is! It is! It’s him behind the wheel!
‘OK. I have to go.’ Too late. The slam
is followed by ignition and… he’s flown…
leaving a churned wake of head silt settling
like a shroud of seed on a bluebird’s grave
as outraged pigeons scatter to the roofs.
‘No… Yes… I’m here… Just chicken then?… OK’
filtered brita water, this is first, displacing
any air that’s in the chamber, measured
quite precisely by the levels printed clearly
on the window on the side of the machine.
my automated hands take down the airtight
white container and i count out three round
spoonfuls of the coffee, ground, like earth
into the filter. i’m not there, i’m in
the air, transported by the ritual i ride
along the syllables inside my head
while moving through the stations of the process
metered by my breath. i flick the switch
then fire is cabled to a hotplate and the
water sings of time and transmutation.
My lover snores beside me in our bed
while I, my back toward him, scribble notes
tuned only to the thoughts inside my head
(My muse is pleased by this and no doubt gloats)
as traffic grumbles past and now and then
a siren woohoos like a camp banshee
whom God has given wheels and speed, my pen
unflinching, scratches on to quatrain three
where great profound important things are said
about the issues that affect us all,
but think instead of pies, the cost of bread
and what that noise is coming from the hall.
The final lines are done, their meaning clear
and yet I feel I’m missing something here.
Today I took a walk up to the beach
all by myself, to face the Atlantic,
not like the surfers do, all challenging
but like a supplicant, with reverence.
This if anything is our creator
breaking like a wet heart upon the sand
oblivious to its driftwood offspring.
The exciting thing is knowing all this,
not bothering to share it with the world.
Let them keep their dry bibles and baked words.
I will hold this secret for their children
and the vision of their joyful fathers
skimmed like flat stones over the thoughts of God.
Cold, I am told, does not really exist.
It is the absence of heat that we feel.
Cold is the natural state of it all
and we can’t handle it without warm clothes.
There is maybe no such thing as evil
just the absence of goodness in the world.
It is the lack that bites in negative
aching the white to black and black to white.
Heat will seek out cold and try to fill it.
If one puts one’s finger on a cold pane
the heat will drain away into the night.
Later the window will be just as cold.
I think of this, holding you in the night;
the heat exchange, unseen, keeping us good.
I hold you out at my arm and thumb length
the way a long-sighted man might inspect
a business card or a passport photograph
but not because I wish to check these things.
You are a replacement angel I think
sent by social services in grey times.
Somehow you alter my chosen depth of field
and step closer, pushing my elbow down.
Sometimes the moon moves closer to the earth.
There is disruption, oceans rock like old
people in chairs. Waves beat like flat wet hearts
and all our atoms yearn, lean, just slightly.
Don’t come closer, angel. The tide is high.
Stay there. Shed tears of light, my satellite.
Seagulls carry the souls of dead sailors
glad overflying the forgiving sands
crossing flightpaths in a random parade
that makes some sense on a basic sea level.
So I welcome their cries. They are unchanged
from a back-in-the-day less conscious life
honking lazily like melted bugles.
He could be there, a free wheeling pilot
skimming the same sea hunting for his friends,
or else he’s with the coal-dyed cormorants
dreaming of mining for fish as they hunch,
wrinkled men gripping slopping pints of brine
clamped on to the crags fearing life might sink
again, like the level in an old glass.