Freighter

It’s true, I can’t do emotion anymore | or perhaps only melancholy, which is a feeling slightly | askance from feeling | So, the ice comes in, the freighter | the freezing fog at the quay — then hitching | a ride on a lumber truck | anaesthetic | Patagonia

More a mood you say | You mean, “melancholy” | Our neighbours are restless, we have little in common | they die and so change | we appear to remain, but slowly, with the turgid evolution of the season, from the monuments of a humid summer | to the snow-plough’s fume of ghost | close to the horizon | we have died and have been packed up, our neighbours | are peeled gently from their shells, and their skin | tastes the air for the first time, their eyes | sip at light and close and open

I am afraid, inevitably, then, there is rain | and rain’s colloquial language | the simple ping and pung of droplets | hitting in an empty paint-pot | in the long grass, near the shed, DULUX Raspberry Bellini | and the esoteric spectre of the story | attaching to each object | how it spirals away in an x-rayed ammonite sprawl | our limited patience and powers of concentration | rendering it arcane and stale | ultimately | discarded

Like snatches of music you hear from cars, tracks | you don’t know and have no means | of identifying | the cotton wool on the manger, and the Virgin Mary in blue, with a missing arm: the Dominicans | We bang on the walls, but they don’t listen | so we frequent the seedier dives, then | as the spirit is rotated through an array of planes | as I come and you | don’t come | we are habitués of the chicest clubs | with their gorgeous backlit bars and restrained, sophisticated beats | I will die a beggar | it is | a matter of honour | so we try to warn them | but all we hear is their protest | they are banging on the walls, but we | must break up, and I | must go into my room with the harbour | at night | in southern Argentina, where our enemies are | and pray for the blank slate of sleep | and the clouded hands of dreams | appearing from the rain | to write out their mysterious messages | “At the mirror, with the lipstick — 999 Rouge Brilliant, by Dior” | and, as always, at the end | no one waiting

Is it an emotion? More a mood I say | The summer has a mausoleum | and bees leave their bodies with it | and the Palmerstons moved, and left no details | and it seemed strange we would never see their little white dog again, and then | as they always do | things turned out differently

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Rose

I was forever preparing myself for events that never happened | or, if they happened, were lemon, when I had prepared for rose | Equally, I was assiduously keeping records | of episodes, or objects, or feelings | that were lost, and could never achieve again | the state of actuality | Between these two cardinal activities — preparedness, and record keeping — much of my life passed | in apparent futility | yet, I was occupied and, to me, those occupations comprised | a form of hope || I am sure I am not alone in this

The god was so still, her concentration so pure | she was not disturbed | by the many buildings we put up around her | neither the temples nor the hotels | while we | for our part | always kept moving | and never noticed her at all | even after the fires had burnt out | and the wind had fallen | the ashes settled, the war finished | and the autumn day grown calm | she was there, but | eluded us: besides | we had our children | and our love meant rebuilding

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Shadows of midsummer

Shaking out a blanket, the midsummer sun / rolls from our keeping | in the commune of signs, light bundled with shadows / the sun waits to / shine into someone else’s eyes

The elongated shadows of evening in midsummer stretch | into the commune of signs, and become | what is needed or what | is let fall away…••

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The spoils

Dividing the spoils | sacking even this instant city | Strolling through a meadow | under a silk parasol | a little tipsy from the wine and her glances | the giant, Thought, was throwing out | all these tiny people | with their tiny | wars, tiny amours | like confetti from a pocket | the paper petals | lodged there | for months | carried into this moment | from a last year’s wedding

Arriving at a new love as at a new city | Consummating our relationship | like Lennon and Yoko at dawn || Rushed | to a scent of meadow grasses | brushing his fingers with her fingers | a hummingbird | somehow found its way into a cupboard and | died there, bashed in by its own fright and struggle | She was tipping out | the jigsaw of her past and hardly cared | to sift through the pieces, while all around | the butterflies were giving their lectures | on moments and change || The giant, Ignorance, loomed over them | and gazed | frowning | at the two lovers | stolidly | absent-mindedly | as if trying to remember | what he had lost

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Petrograd

Estoy cribando mis carinõs más puros
I am sifting my purest caresses
— César Vallejo

They hurt you. For a long time,
I wanted to hurt them.
But it’s too late for that now.
The years and my neighbours’ music
have broken my concentration.

I can’t sleep and I think of you.
The poem wasn’t made for hurt.
Why do we speak to the dead?
Speak from them, to them?

I had to leave your side,
but I’ll never leave the side of this poem.
It wasn’t made for hurt.
It wasn’t made for them.
It was made for you,
and I have sifted my purest caresses,
ones that none of their words could ever feel.

I think of you, and I can’t sleep.
They hurt you, and for a long time
I wanted to hurt them.
But it’s too late for that now.
It’s too late, and I know
if I never leave the side of this poem
I must make it for them,
and they will hurt you again.

I’ve sifted my purest caresses,
I’ll never leave the side of this poem.
I speak to you, but it’s too late for that now,
and the years and my neighbours’ music
break my concentration.

 

 

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from a.m. | Michael Ayres | Salt Publishing, 2003

Sirens, not singing

With no anchor, it is a ship, drifting.

With no captain, it is a crew, seeking orders | within itself. The ship is attached to the stars | by means of the journey, the journey is attached to the lack | of a port, the fact | of the sea.

With no sea, it is a wave | passing through space.

With no song, it is a Siren | mutely staring | at a Greek ship | the oarsmen rowing, staring back at her.

Its surface? Honed to a mirror’s facility (with no ship | drifting). | Across it the world is sliding | back and forth | we are so | used to the movement, sometimes | we hardly notice | how the cars slide, how the trees | slide, the | sky slides.

Nest of atoms | a bird has sought rest here, bees | have sought rest here | wrapped themselves in a limit, but the limit | has no limit and the bird | sings for no limit, the bees | are entered into the mill of their honey for no | limit. Sensing this, we hurry to call up beauty (with no | captain, by means of the journey) | we must lash down the stars, by means of the storm | we arrive at our wreck, the wreck | is attached to our | failure to land, to make | landfall. In a crack in the tree | hollowed by lightning | wild bees have sought their share | of the dream, the play | is attached to our orders and we, too, sing and surrender to the production of nectar. The dream | deepens and the ship begins.

Its surface? Impossibly smooth, across it | all the things of the world are skating, sliding, slipping. | With no end, the stars are attached | to the burden of the journey, by means of the journey | the new day is sought, the sun | attached to no limit | burns and we stare at a Siren, crouched | on her island of bones. She looks | tortured, by means of her silence, her pain | is amplified and her routine | of agony and thirst | strikes us mute, we | feel sorry for her who would | by means of her song | lure us to her and melodious | slaughter, with no | song, she hungers and, parched of blood, writhes, it is | her part, therefore, it is | our part, with no | play to enclose us, only | the song of a mistle thrush | in a landowner’s woods | only the soft | assemblies of the bees | making of their hive | a nest of atoms.

With no voice, it is a song | attached by means of the journey to | nullity.

With no anchor, it is a wreck, drifting | by means of the currents, it is a wreck | drawn to an island, compiling a home.

With no song, it is a voice | croaking. With no time, it is a clock | neither still nor in motion, it is no clock, attached to the wreck | by means of a nullity | with no voice, it is a song | wandering, seeking a throat, with no | anchor.

We row, and our ship | resides in the classical | we row and our hands | no longer blister. When we come to an island | to find fresh water | a new | order of paths begins, we sing and surrender to the consumption of nectar, with no | limit, we | move on | the island | is attached to the stars, and the night | holds us, but is no mother. We remember the Siren, we forget | our purpose in coming here. The purpose was attached | to the moments, to commands, the moments | have slid away | across this, the surface, the commands | have been wrapped in leaves, and cooked | on a wood fire, we may call this | an idyll, we may make this | our hope. In the morning | I remember the gates | to the village church | the steep damp | green of English age and timber | of graves | slumped and leaning, sliding | with the ivy across | this, its surface | the song of a mistle thrush | from a landowner’s woods, by means of a memory, I am attached | to a past, I recall my labour | to reach the next lover | how she waited for me | by means of the journey, how as she waited | by the old church gates | she held in her hands | a small song | wrapped in lilac mittens, so my youth | slowly escaped me, and I woke | alone, on the island, how I slept | by means of a nullity | how I forget.

Its surface? Infinite, with no subject to geometry.

Its surface? Infinite, wrapped in the clapping | of slender hands | clad in lilac wool, and the cold, damp | northern air…

Its surface? Finite, a clatter of limits falling, in this case | like sticks from a bag.

With no praise, it is a pure | song held up | I hear the oars | biting through waves, by means | of the dead, I | clatter on my island | this is what I own, I long | for the voice of a mistle thrush | can’t you | hear?

Her lover is unshaven, his stubble | scratches her cheek, he has no | aim, he drifts through life, looking for thrills | a humble beast | researching the next | source of his slavery, she | sighs and orgasms, he | grunts and falls | back into that space he | only recently vacated, has it | changed? | Attached to no | thoughts, he is herded | slowly through malls | slowly through offices, toilets, beaches, she | despairs of the love | she has come to feel for him, this | jovial | slave | cigarette in one hand, phone in the other | ordering drugs, grinning with such | pointless boyhood, where can she | go that is not | this ruin?

In a storm, the thunder | sets off car alarms | right down the street and in | neighbouring streets | the rain plunges and the horses of the rain | gallop faster and faster, for a moment | she loves her fear and the chance it gives her | to leave her heart and be another.

The rain goes on falling, has it lost all its horses?

He chomps his lips and murmurs | something fretful into the ceiling, churns and | slips off back | down the burrow of his warm sleep, and she | is left waiting on the surface. The room | is very still, except for the rain.

Through the semi-darkness, she looks down at him.

The dream deepens, and the ship begins.

 

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from the sequence of 100 poems, sentence (2012–2018)

Paper cities

Paper cities are burning, you bring the fire yet do not feel the heat: our city stands, not yet a paper city.

Pleasure barges and speedboats, yachts and oil tankers, on the black currents of type all sway to the tides and the signs mourn their own beautiful simplicity.

We are more complex as our powers of solidarity wane, and the battles grow digital and thus may be switched off or put to sleep until the morning.

Love, that most harassed of signs, at once reinforces and undermines our complicity in acts of breaking up and walking away, not seeing, finding ourselves unable to care.

It is a puzzle that grows more pieces, a desire outstripping our will: we wish to value each other highly, yet our principle means of contact is commerce, and this process bends away like a river, and forks into such intricate deltas, we set out each morning yet never return, the water is lit to solder and strikes of silver, losing us in its adventure, victims of episodes and anecdotes, lacking a comprehensive theme.

As we go deeper into the mine in search of wealth so it takes longer to return to the surface where we seek to afford the air and shelter.

By artificial light we see all things, and natural light becomes almost a legend to us, who toil to survive and for whom the leisure of the sun is a luxury.

In the gardens of the master’s house, the light is too bright and the poverty of the hours grows onerous for those who own time and yet can find no use for it.

The old poet has become an embarrassment, filling his pockets with sugar lumps and drinking leftovers, haunting a café in which he no longer recognises a single tune, disowning the words he once wrote to tie a war to his own mouth, and to tie his mouth against yours. Bards are passé, and the leopards hunt, still, if they are permitted, so… who cares?…

I fold up a burning city and walk through my city.

So I rent the sun and wonder how much it will cost for an hour of the moon.

 

 

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from the series Silver of the mine of gold (open-ended: 2013–present)

To be like them

Smell and weight of the limousine | so slowly acquired | a monument to put our moments | gliding | through traffic | dusk and the rush | hour a retarded pell mell | the lemming bias of humanity | an ocean in a cask… | Mama with the pearls and heat, Papa with whiskers and Karelias | strolling through our mansion hours | white Carrara overhead | underfoot | a pillar and portico | stone purpose | even in the humid air | of high summer | a ponderous cool | depositing through stealth | a mineral power | in the palm trees permanence | in the ether | reside | Cracked open | like a luscious egg | the value of all the signs | set floating | Grief a while | felt strong | our tears were forts | but they soon fell | to the bailiffs’ orders | Ignorance passed | and with it | innocence | Among the slaves | expulsion | the passing on | of secluded gardens | cast out into belonging | our indifference thrown | from different heights | down to true indifference | the sea not wanting its waves | but calling them back | not wanting its waves | but calling them…

Ruin ruined | and injustice shared | We were sent, as we deserved, into the country | to labour and | to struggle | In a nightly | cocoon of sleep | changing | no butterfly | though | ever emerging | because we were doomed | to wake | and not see through | the process of transformation | Marooned in daylight | sometimes my thoughts | went back to the capital | and the old life there | Silver bombers came | irregulars | fought across the graves | sometimes for weeks | to take a snatch of land | to own and to hold | Battles | of mindless gorge | bodies trampled | to mulch | We fled | the system | When assassins came | we escaped by | lying among the dead | pretending to be like them

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Diamond garret

Personalised shipwreck | Monogramed fever | Did you receive your invitation to the debacle?… | Giving form to the mist | cars moving slowly | carving from the sun | some slanted shine | stroking the cat’s belly | putting off a decision | My diary is full of intimate bric-a-brac | not much to do with hearts and minds, at least | not directly | Trying to link satisfaction with the emptiness | not succeeding | Rents going up in my Ivory Tower | the landlord | never fixes the plumbing | and Jean-Luc says | it’s cold in his diamond garret | Meeting my wife online | shall we join the riots today? | The fire | wasn’t invited | but came anyway | how the ashes left | nobody said

Shaping the mist into pines and horse chestnuts | Packing my case with solitude and bottles, aspirins, books | It was a land of judges and perpetual trial | the only way not to get arrested | was to keep moving | We went through some dangerous country | took passage on unlicensed steamers | sailed at night | slept in airports | bus-stops | under trees | on strangers’ floors | threaded our way through epidemics | saw the sheeted bodies | like ad hoc pharaohs dumped | in rows by pits | marvelled at the innards of pomegranates | drank fine Colombian coffee at boulevard cafés | under pale blue and white striped awnings | discussed praxis and ontology | and we learned something every day and we learned nothing | You carried fire in your bag | we never noticed | To care is a lie | I said | I even half | believed it

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Model no. 44

The fever makes | certain | decisions for you | A bird, trying to build a nest | inside a flame | So the carpet is carried from | Askhabad | across the border to | Samarkand | protect it from dust, from sunlight and | brigands | And what is the pattern in the carpet? | Your face is | scraped by a razor of heat and glow | you won’t | reach your next birthday, now | And they say, and they say, This piece does not belong | in that set; and That piece has no business | here | grouped together with the wind and felt | Maybe it’s a Model 43.1, or | even more recent, a Model no. 44? // After death, your body is different | they dump it where they dump | the surplus fruit, in a | small declivity among the rocks where the snakes | linger and the scent | is sometimes overpowering… | It will be | a shapeless night | stack the spheres | of the moments | one on one | the tower | grows but | everyone knows it is useless (Such is your poetry) | and you wonder, idly | close to midnight | were you to fall in love in this state, would that | be a form of falsehood? | How is it done? | Three tiny eggs | of China blue | crack and out | creep three young birds | how may they live | inside the inferno? | It is their home, and | none other will do, they cannot | survive elsewhere, and as we put our | ears to the walls, and the sweet little bells | ring faster and faster, we | cannot make out | if that sound inside | is singing or burning?

At times, one must simply submit | to circumstances, and allow them | their reality | You are not strong | You are not free | You do not | know where you are, or | where the sun will hold you, tomorrow | The fever | sips from you | a pot of fire | and the wind | makes the awning flap | as if the tent | were a strange bird | and wished to fly | above the snow | beyond the limits of your fuss and fury | You lie | hapless and your edges | flow like the shadows | of candle flames | The peace | succours you | and you rest your head | back on the bolster | Isn’t this | a real thing, too? Is it really true, the only way | to open these eggs | is to break them?

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)