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Nine Poems

The Island The island is sterile trying to wake itself with the sound of song The island is in turmoil all its songs confused scratching, layered, barbarous The island is beautiful where it is not suffocated by encroaching blankets of trash The island is kind the warmth of hands exchanged the heartfelt sharing of sufferings The island is maybe worth saving An Abandoned Poem A bad in a squall of rain The body feeling heavy again As the world wheels lost in madness again Trapped inside an illogical brain The face of the sky is colourless, cold Like a diamond remembered somewhere in the soul But revealed to no light, feeling forgotten, old Old as the horse left to die on its own A Satire The buxom girl in the red dress is tired of pandering socialites. She would be by Euston station, propositioned by crude drunkards, the blare of the lights and stream of traffic oozing its way through the metropolis like a coarse projection of vomit. Where are the grimy backrooms, the low-lit lights jutte...
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New Life

After birth, illness. The nerves get bad in a squat hut with poor candles to keep the shadows alive. And dust stirs in the dark sacrament of night sending flickering shivers through the earth's lineaments. She sees the vacant stretch of stars vibrating slightly, like clues, or taunts from another world, and feels distinctly sick. On the seventh day He rested. Even He felt tired, tired of all the shuddering atoms in the corrupt strata of creation. She collapses, and for the first time, after long delay, the desert sand feels the blessing of her tears.
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Unwell

When I feel unwell the raw pollen of germs flooding my body God shines through a crack in the universe Suddenly something of His Nature is known Unable to hold the world upright an outer shell of vulnerability a slight shaking in the hands knowing the pointless necessity of martyrdom A poor beast's dreams interfere the thinking Notes on the nature of reality made shorthand never to be understood again Then memories of Ireland   the crossing to Rathlin the feeling of tossed sickness   and the fresh salt spray making the face worth living in        open vaults of air fear in the water and joy in the light Running the gauntlet of feeling unwell always makes me wish I was with you
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Winter 2019

This is going to hurt not having you not being me (the one I was before) The stupid forgetting of the brain the stupid revelation once again of cold cruelty of Winter Birds' notes die against a fathomless of trees, the colour-joy being shot bloodpulse colourpulse eyepulse a ritual by a Japanese lake in december to bring awake the spirits of the passed and children making games out of expensive shapes Departure has its metallic taste, taste of the soul weeping    crying for holy wounds to make the world blameless again
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October Rain

Like termites under glass, Saint Thomas keeps us safe. The yellowing of the year is like a recompense for some dim act we barely remember now. How funny how the conscience, or denial, does not sour.      Klonk     klonk goes the hour that sends the rats into the maze. No matter how clean we are, each cleansing comes as a shock. This is the realm of colours splashing into each other like boats splashing into maelstroms. We ask for Homer's hands to build us a solid narrative from lightning, rock and bone: splinter us past the Odyssey's orbit into countries unknown, trapped in light trapped in darkness trapped in yellowing words, words too lightly akin to leaves turning slowly to mulch. We shiver in guilty penitence as God lays Winter's fires; the whole world holds its breath, counts its small blessings, and into the blank wall of sky sends its fragile prayers.
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All Your Hills (a 21st-century poem)

All your hills, composed, might I say, around a memory you had of triumph. Human statues battering each other, the sanity of power writ large, seeing from here the cowering cottages dug into the hillside. What a difference your absence will make, so dogged and so human. All your hills, stretching out to the calm, clear waters of a submarine sky, emollient and abandoned around the edges. Intuit the sleeping hordes of your country , prayerful to a stretch, extending glacial feeling. All your hills, arising in layers of golden platitudes, the sun and stars awaiting your maximal riposte; the flocks of cadavers discipling their way through mazes of sleep and half-decisions. Even the wolves now know your words, the bas-relief decree. All your hills, deadlocked in time, to be duly decomposed. A soft chorus of sighs rises from the sleek tenation of sleep and the virile world decides it has better things than you.
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September Rain

      Some of us have found our homes. St. Magnus breathes the stone that lies next to a prayer. The rain in her hair posts a look to the island shore lost in the mist, the spirits of kings coming and fading, their voices subsumed by the wind.       In a refuse of morning, a sad-eyed man sits in an English slum and wonders how exile could be imposed before birth. Hands must wait to touch the old kirk doors, eyes must wait to see that most magnificent glass.    Meanwhile, he hopes the September rain will come to anodyne him, cast him into a state close to forgetting.
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