Broken glass poems.

Meandering reflections of my late 20s.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Ivy

let’s catch sight of ourselves:

bones, brickwork and ivy

getting ever more tangled.

as green shoots descend,

clinging to the structure

of rising walls and rolling days,

then sometime in years,

when vines and stones

are one and the same,

when we both seem to shake

in the frosty breath of winter

and in summer’s dusty haze:

we will see ourselves,

in brickwork and ivy,

grown softer and much older.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

American Snowman

figurine of ‘we’

struck with numb hands

pushed into form

heaved into place

meltwaters flow

with silt and mud

that blue ice all

a fleeting grace

watchman for flood

coal-lumpen coat

lost below him:

just ash and soil

making snowmen

of white tumult -

staring into

their empty eyes

we said back then

stop a moment

behold the idea

here is his hat

no surprise now

when barren earth

is all we have

from this child’s play

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

we are approaching that time

unconscionable and stiffening

where the morning is darkened

and the birds too wake with us

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Visitor, Noon

What do I say?

Rest for now.

What do I have? This voice

can only whisper from the corner.

I don’t move like I used to. These steps

are stuttering in space.

I know.

Let me try again. I have space

for mind and muscle to make speech.

Now I don’t have yesterday’s time,

what do I have?

Rest today.

These joints are fused to the floor

and eyes locked to the ground.

Is there some of me left in there?

I know you see me.

You are present.

What will you do when I fade away?

Am I a question to which morphine

and substitutes of better times

are the quiet answer?

You’re not fit for existentialism.

There’s daylight to rage against it -

I am yet to be passed from present

upright standing sitting speaking

to a certain stillness.

There is beauty in the end.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Renewed Vows (At Kew)

We lingered by the pagoda long enough

for a warm caramel to fall on your face

in that evening’s early embrace of us.

All so still.

We saw innocent eyes in a flash and

a haunting lack of judgement: a badger.

He dared to brave the fading daylight.

He moved off.

Sunset seemed to wait for our arrival

to glint off the pond and the tower,

greeting in a crisp maple-leaf glow.

Gargoyles look on.

A star, like us, had risen and fallen

a hundred billion times in sequence:

now, your breath: shallow, then full.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Same Mistakes

what kind of man?

raising a typewritten militia

to aerate the blood

what kind of man?

grasping the new nettles,

absorbing their poison

what kind of man?

making oaths with crossed digits

in rooms with no lights

what kind of man?

stealing lies from yesterday

this kind of man

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

If you are into current affairs…

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Flashbacks of an accident, Winter 200•

tires skidding

on black-ice roads:

a lone cheer —

me, now grateful

to still survive,

hollering out

hallelujah

or some other praise

to forces strange

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

we are approaching that time

unconscionable and stiffening

where the morning is darkened

and the birds too wake with us

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Kids

it used to be so simple

hit the ground and roll

stand up and walk away

just a superficial scratch

when soft flesh struck dirt

piled earth beneath us

didn’t seem to push back

but rather respected our youth

rainy days spent under covers

seemed to be equal in number

to the breathlessly sunshiny,

uninfected by shape or routine

those were long days

stretching far into the distance

month, year unfathomable

beyond some quaint futurism

their jamboree of pigment

royal blue and blood red

made the heart and mind race

melting inertia into soft serve

somewhere, this world is new.

some wide-eyed, soft features

will today find grandeur in it

asking why everything is so bright

we should not say, as so many have

that some day those colours

will soften into unremarkable silence

we should say, paint with them

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Longer

It was some time before the light

could clamber

above an ever-taller urban sprawl,

daylight bouldering above buildings

aching to be seen

by a few hardy, bloodshot eyes:

some of us were waiting for a time

when the full moon

would be swallowed in an orange sea,

when the sap rising in the roots

would slowly sink

and the leaves would spread broadly

and when the day and night

in confluence

might infer two impossible futures.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Eclipse

plunged into charcoal singular,

spread across onlooking faces:

the quilted patchwork of knowing

a force of magnitude is at work.

our feeble eyes unable to bear it —

some rebel orbiter shaking up day

into night, in blue moon performance,

in feral wonder and humble fear.

to grasp cold knuckles and squeeze,

as solar night comes in chill wind,

just for a moment quiets the world

and we become stars, passing by.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Andiamo

hydrocarbon blue burns

leave a ring on my finger

the colour of palladium.

just some token of you:

as the ore was surely hauled,

I’d have dug for you, too.

rare earth soul, recycled

from prior grasping flings —

you rose to the surface

along with the tide water,

flowing with hurried truths

and gasps barely contained

and now swim or drown

as the current carries us

in beautiful strangeness

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Some Stream

A flood came forth

where before only clay,

cold and vulnerable,

had lined the riverbed.

vital and flowing,

bathing dry ground,

its arrival raised

every hair on my neck.

you were in every bend

and ripple there:

just as sudden and violent

and alive between my hands

as the clear rain

that rushed to meet

some wild expectation

of a bigger, bluer sea.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Same Mistakes

what kind of man?

raising a typewritten militia

to aerate the blood

what kind of man?

grasping the new nettles,

absorbing their poison

what kind of man?

making oaths with crossed digits

in rooms with no lights

what kind of man?

stealing lies from yesterday

this kind of man

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Boats Out

Wild knives of winter winding

Across some antique stretch —

The breeze mutters its regrets.

But this air is honing-rod clean

And the jetty is quite still:

No spite could busy these people.

Rivers are struck in metal contortion

Winding around the land’s neck

And challenging it to dam or drown.

The old shale shore is mute, of course.

Save for its crashing, bay-wide smile,

Daring the old sea to whittle it away.

[scribblesonbrokenglass]

Lunar

I suppose the poet is duty-bound

to write all those things

he could not say

when you were well and warm

while you didn’t tremble

faltering and retreating:

the poet now is duty-bound

to make gospel of your courage

reifying fearlessness

and while more space may be empty

your light will help it seem full:

you are my forever echo.