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all of a sudden passion suddenly

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The Physicist Remembers

He'd lost his sketches
for the first atomic bomb
on the tube. Felt them
explode halfway to Aldgate.
Emerging like astronaut
from the station, he wore
a shawl of rain home.
Thoughts spun in the
cyclotron of his skull,
the plutonium of faded love
chirping when he slept
in front of the telly;
the last gasp of a mushroom
cloud sighing in an ear.
 
Raindrop

The hospital suffered a heart
attack and each ward shook.
Pills stammered on bedside
tables, ECG's mimicked giant

tsunamis. Lost in the vibrations
was a poem that thought it
was a raindrop. Its original
words had wanted to hear

the emptiness within a human
heart, so it swapped places
with rain jumping out of a palm
of cloud. Caught in the noise,

it fell backwards, into the soil,
the darkness, what had gone.
 
forcing a poem is something
like raping the willing;
neither finds satisfaction
in the absence of realism.

denial, nihlism
along with crusted components
of past love make up
a collage of fantasic illusion

first, these planets lined up
for moments and made perfect symmetry
in a world of total dis-membering
(the limbs were trees in a landscape of flesh)
and so it went,
was created by god in seven days or so,
maybe less if my memory serves me,
instantly, compelled to serve you
so much more than your belly could hold

for a time, you were the meat on the tines
of a shiny fork
it was like the fish and the loaves
you never diminished, not outwardly,
not in 2d
bad rhyme again and again,
conjunctions of words set up to
discribe how all power was held
in your left hand

to be that almost-everything
something close to it, close to spinning fan blades
close to the shutter at the speed of black and white light
more words trail off into
a fanciful distance
the secret is big as a fist
in the blackest ink yet
and i'm a lifer now
but didn't think about how
it made you one as well

my only solution was what i did;
the ultimate homage and carried away
keepsake, its the only way i'll have you with me.

and it will have to do.
 
Observer

Fashionable black and white
skies have not been seen
in months. Cameras of feet
record its loss with a singular
stomp. The moon, that lone
observer to these events,
sleepwalks across the sky
before tripping over foothills
of cloud and cracking like china.
Families stash away unwanted
memories in the safehouse
of its bones, dragging it
into a colliery of night, hoping
it will drift downwards,
that some underground doors
will slam shut and they will no
longer hear the final cry
of a canary ringing in their ears.
 
vampiredust said:
Observer

Fashionable black and white
skies have not been seen
in months. Cameras of feet
record its loss with a singular
stomp. The moon, that lone
observer to these events,
sleepwalks across the sky
before tripping over foothills
of cloud and cracking like china.
Families stash away unwanted
memories in the safehouse
of its bones, dragging it
into a colliery of night, hoping
it will drift downwards,
that some underground doors
will slam shut and they will no
longer hear the final cry
of a canary ringing in their ears.
Click to expand...
i really enjoyed the visuals in this piece - many i'd never read before, so original to me. the one that strikes me most is your 'colliery of night' - the contrast of the vivid yellow at the end with the thick black is startling. thankyou
 
Growing up on a plain

We used to picture ridges hovering
on the horizon, snaked wall
monuments on the edge of vision,
anything to stop us sliding off
the curved earth.

We used to lean forward tip-toed
to feign angle against the road
and walk huddled, to hide
from empty miles behind
wheat stems, to cower
from nosy crows,
and give weather bereft
of the element of surprise
a fighting chance.

We used to lay silent
side by side in the perfect center
of everything, and wait for someone
to screw the lid off
the sky.
 
Liar said:
Growing up on a plain

We used to picture ridges hovering
on the horizon, snaked wall
monuments on the edge of vision,
anything to stop us sliding off
the curved earth.

We used to lean forward tip-toed
to feign angle against the road
and walk huddled, to hide
from empty miles behind
wheat stems, to cower
from nosy crows,
and give weather bereft
of the element of surprise
a fighting chance.

We used to lay silent
side by side in the perfect center
of everything, and wait for someone
to screw the lid off
the sky.
Click to expand...
I get claustrophobic beneath tall oaks and broad-leafed sugar maples
green blots on a sky should only be caused when removal of sunglasses catches vision unawares
cities are easier to bear in some respects at least balcony overhang stays off the street
where I can stand to watch a cloud curse the sun or feel my makeup fight the rain
 
Liar said:
Growing up on a plain

We used to picture ridges hovering
on the horizon, snaked wall
monuments on the edge of vision,
anything to stop us sliding off
the curved earth.

We used to lean forward tip-toed
to feign angle against the road
and walk huddled, to hide
from empty miles behind
wheat stems, to cower
from nosy crows,
and give weather bereft
of the element of surprise
a fighting chance.

We used to lay silent
side by side in the perfect center
of everything, and wait for someone
to screw the lid off
the sky.
Click to expand...

oh my ... all of this, takes me right in so easily, but the last verse - it's enormous!
 
The Snow Diary

Snow slipped out of the straightjacket
of my diary when Father left. Morning

came and I found tracks on its pages,
along with a fox peering at me,

wandering why I had never noticed
it before, why it had never

been so cold before.
 

Xenophobe

Before daybreak, pockets of dark
hid in narrow streams running
down gutters. Yesterday’s shame,
cut deep into their faces, will flow

into the sewers. The sky will peck
at them, swallowing their corpses.
Our children will eat their memories
and it will blacken their skin. No

soap of moon or stars will wash away
what has been branded on their bone.
Language cannot forgive. It absorbs
and can only speak our echoes.
 
sixty spinning tooth tiger
cutting long pieces into short
the hand is qucker than the eye
and the tiger is faster still
 
Puppet

Between a pair of lungs
swinging from the dome
inside his chest, was a
postcard of Mont Saint

Michel. Explanations
for these kind of things
are far and few between
the coroner said. Perhaps

he wanted to be a priest
and tried to wade across
the heron-grey channel
from the mainland, eager

to prove he might be able
to separate it on death,
not realising his bones
cannot be reanimated.
 
For a sculptor I once knew

His wife gave birth
to a different Achilles
each year,

so he lied
when he kissed her
on the coral of her neck
and said I love you,

chipping off their heels
when she slept.
Even now, he hears
them clacking

in a box marked
safekeeping at the back
of his studio.
 
Unsalvageable

Barracuda-rain dined
on the unsalvageable
body of a '77 Volvo.
Wind slipped through

its bloodied floor.
Roadkill imitated
an albatross, making
a good luck charm.

I swallowed its rust
when I sank, feeling
my body's rising tide
rising everything

but my heart
to the surface. Asked
karma for a refund.
The hurricane said no.
 
champagne1982 said:
I get claustrophobic beneath tall oaks and broad-leafed sugar maples
green blots on a sky should only be caused when removal of sunglasses catches vision unawares
cities are easier to bear in some respects at least balcony overhang stays off the street
where I can stand to watch a cloud curse the sun or feel my makeup fight the rain
Click to expand...

Oooo! I love this.
 
Carousel

Seamus Heaney has a gramophone
lodged in his throat. You can listen
to its music whenever you read
his lines. No explanation has ever
been given for this phenomenon.
I've often thought that he was born
with it, and his parents, thinking
his Adam's apple was just large,
not bothering to delve inside
or put their ears close, letting
their hearts dance to the sound
of a fiddle being played to the tune
of the troubles; a carousel of memory
spinning, never letting go of its needle.
 
The Particle Writes A Love Poem

Careening into a wreckage
of sunset made us escape
our cloud chamber bodies.
Tiptoeing across the stars,
we never noticed tracking
signals following our scent.
Let us slam into each again,
be reborn paradoxically.
 
pain pushes
pleasure pulls
I am split
by sensory memory

made immobile
by two minds
in opposition
to bare facts

further input required
to add enough weight
to cause enough imbalance
to move on
 
Grandmother's Dementia

Labyrinthine rain
highlighted
her madness. O
brown-eyed sky

why did you
have to leave me
by the window
with my glass of milk

and water-clock
of hope?
 
Don't
Don't bother with a word
when a kiss will do all
a mouth can offer
it sings
taste buds chorus
with every move
of texture against
the backdrop
of your perfume.
 
Depictions


Sugar grains swirling
in a Starbucks mug.
O how Vietnam fell !

*

A stable of talking horses
in a coffee shop.
An unseen blacksmith lurks.

*

Ferns resist the acidic
cold. Tuna can caskets
open underground.
 
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