Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

It is easy, after all, to imagine for years | the wrong why and wherefore of your life | to imagine the path you’re on | is different to the actual one | and late | in the day | it may occur to you | perhaps you’re not that nice person in the mirror, but someone | else | someone harder? meaner? lesser? | The white statues in the park | athletes, gods, philosophers | don’t see the slugs on their eyes | the moss and lichen on the plinths | beneath them | Can you remember | the faces before the cracks appeared? | Those were old times, the years of Soyuz and Apollo, and although | we thought them young, then | they were always old | because now | we live in an era | where time itself is old, and can never be new again | So thinks the senator | carapaced | in her droning limousine | and glancing out at wheatfields | where a light aircraft might crash | she gradually loses heart | and settles herself to the fresh corruption

We are lovers, at heart | for the time being | And so of course there are politics | We’re not so young or naive | to think our love | has no place to keep under the stars | that there is | no grand scheme to which we’ll fit | our trembling solutions | our shudders | of animals yoked | to angel drivers | our personal style | It’s tempting | admittedly | to take our play for the only | play | refuse to accept we are merely | parts | and we sense that we have author in it | at the very least | a touch of genesis | Across the surface | of the moon | the lunar module glides | the infants | of an explorers’ age | unwind their air’s umbilicus | and float in space | swaddled in their clunky suits | conquistadors of vacuum | Because these are new times | and the quiet moon | reflects the sun’s loud | light in the eyes | of slugs crawling upwards | into the chiselled hair | of athletes | gods | philosophers


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2015)

In the bushes, to assist the ravens, a thaw was picking and pecking
— Pasternak, The Last Summer

He dreamed of renewal | in a cramped attic room | He’d seen a film by Atom Egoyan, where | in a gale | saplings bent and flexed, but the old | tall trees | grown rigid with just being | broke and fell | He woke stiff | Icicles gathered themselves | like memories accumulated over years | like pearls, like axioms | The dead had built up such a charge in him | had invested so heavily in his morose demeanour | the solid ghost | of Mr Punch | battered his fragile head insensible | or very sensible, he was | not sure | both? | neither? | She made him | understand the winter | He found himself | in a strange town | in a strange country | a godless man | praying for a miracle | it had | come to that | The end of love requires | a sacrifice that love repels | His memory had become a morgue | stacked with unclaimed bodies | he wanted to | claim them | as his own | one at least | to establish | a clear relation | The swords wait for the bulls | in the matadors’ season | The moon | waits for lovers | could he | be numbered | among them? | From a cramped, crow’s nest height | he looked out | over the streets | it must be | Easter, or some other festival | he thought | for | as if in an animated | fairytale | the spires emblazoned by the frost at noon | turned the cold clear view | to blinding babel cuts of jewel | and across the rooves | in a silvery, pulmonary stream | there came the distant sound of pealing bells

Rooks picking across the ploughed field | in early autumn | the sunlight very still | the day very still | and my heart very still | very beautiful | A photographic stasis in the spirit | at once precise, fixed and mysterious | because your eyes are on it, and you are thinking | making | wondering?… | The turned earth a rich brown, the rooks, of course, black | very harmonious | very suitable | A place | once more like a photograph | comes, and comes again | call it a name | call it your name | The new beginning rests | at once resigned and yet querulous | in the essential inconsequence | of all human ends | She came towards him, and her tiny smile | blown on a fine draught of atoms | made him want to hope again | and for a moment | in that mountain country | rendered the mountains negligible


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2015)

I am pretending to read a book | I guess you are, too | Then I am pretending to write a poem | It is like digging a grave | in the earth, cut worms writhe | form odd loops, pink or strawberry katakana | flip a cedilla | look again for the earth, and not the beautiful sunshine of mid September | we so love and fear | losing | It is the grave | for us | but not for the worms | the ceremony for us, but not for the gravediggers | they clean the blades of their shovels, park the excavator | round the back | it is all a question | of priorities | I roll the huge, dumb ball of the day | before me | its skins catch and tear off | You pretend to be sorry, but you aren’t, you can’t be | We pretend to meet | to converse, to reach | conclusions | But there is no body to put in the grave anymore | You pretend to cry, but there are no tears | falling from your eyes | I put down the book, or pretend I am | putting down the book | I pretend | to maintain my façade | for a while | I smile at your jokes, and you know they’re awful | so they’re good, really | The day puts off being a ball, and becomes a few folds | of darkness in the sleep | of your consciousness | there you see worms | glistening in the rain | so many, you can’t | walk across the common, they frighten you | For my part, I fall down the stairs | and damage my spine | and as I lie helpless, from the side of my head | out comes a little parade | of tiny goblins | squabbling and boasting and squealing | and they make their way | in a ragged line | across the floorboards | you see, I can’t | keep them in, after all these years | of pretending | I think my neck | is broken | what a relief! | Then we pretend | to take the librium | we read our books | and we really read them | we really go through the words | in order | sentence by sentence | para by para | we really are reading | and at dusk | just before we turn on the table lamp | the farm is suffused by a magical stillness | which is really precious | and we really | will store these moments in our memories | so that we are, in some way, justified | in believing that all we have pretended | is actually valid | our presence | may be imagined joining | some vast, enigmatic reservoir | of events | a place we are stored and somehow | come to again | like that pond in the forest | in childhood | Meanwhile, you pretend | to say my name | and out in the fields | of rich, moist loam | freshly ploughed | the goblins’ voices | diminish to a pretence | of vanishing | and I | pretend to finish this poem


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

Incommunicado | guts of the peach, the slow trickle of raw juice | catacombs | of isolated moments | the number of cut diamonds lost | in an earthquake | The unspoken things, in other words | A menace hung over us | a terrible menace not to do with poems or | readings of poems | close readings | critiques of poems | theories of poetry | manifestos | reviews | not directly associated | with purveyors of landfill | or the dull, somnolent music | from the aged quartet | at the academicians’ ball | some minuet | gas for butterflies | Chatter increases | but nothing will distract | Milly from Sal today | Kris from Ben | Smoke over the bombed buildings | seems smug somehow | the “I told you so” fires | the “chickens coming home to roost” | reference to ice ages or dinosaurs | Beasts | assemble | And you never call these days | not even on a destroyed phone

Not juice but blood | Would you like to see with the eye of a god, omnisciently | all things from all times at once? | Torn from the bowels of some old ark or other | creatures of every kind | ripped the heart out of the vessel and the mountains never reached? | no dry land | for those helpless fellows | So Milly is so deep into Sal | and the shadow passes over the city, the noise of the families, at last, begins to calm | Taking a plane to a foreign land | and Milly so desperate | with Sal gone | feeling that all the tiny cogs and wheels | holding her nerves in place | were coming loose | a giraffe might really be on fire, how | would they put it out? | No one had bothered | to inform me of the situation | and I was at home | reading International Mulch | the sound of banality | in the service of entropy | Some say the disaster will | come from volcanoes | Others, just from plastic bags or a particular type of wasp | Thin, thin, thin air | Don’t tell me you called, and I wasn’t there?


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2014)

Having hunted | all the lions of summer | the lines extinct, and the songs | fossils | I come back to you | Making a career | of the impossible | and you | are impossible, the volcano | is mute and doesn’t breathe, we tap it | eggshell | its porcelain temple | gives off such a sweet chime, is that | death? | is it | puberty? | Exquisite | to the heart | I am mute, my voice | has gone into the stone to wait | the wings | are not the wings, now | you have no end, and | here, I come to it

Exquisite | to the spirit | always the hands await us | Touchless | Skin of bisque, whipped whites | of eggs | cirrus clouds | The headlights come on in the early evening | inside them | a suggestion | of fluffed | feathers | secrets of the dovecote | under the hands, and back | where the skin again | is related to fire | The dead | preserved for a little while | mew to us, the living | We crumble their ash | to powder, in the wind | while in their nests of spires | old bells creak and swing | and the ground | like love for the first time | lets go of the sky and begins | to tremble…


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2014)

Like an old tale | Like ice, forming over the hole | in the ice | where the victim fell | to dark | Those were old winters | deep and long | Mankind | was ruled by the weather, then | Accepted | Cowered | Survived, only | Waiting | was real | If there was such | a winter of the heart | division would mean | division | and hope would be | the recovery of the body in spring

Really dead things | frozen | beyond the touch of voices, or even | of silence || Keep calling to keep | hearing an echo | Fall quiet, and the echo?…


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

People on a beach gazing across the sea | eking out the summer | in ghosts of sunlight | what are they doing? | They are both fretful and patient | as if waiting but not | sure why | ready to go yet | lingering | expecting no change | as the waves | rise and fall | approach and recede | though?… | The horizon oddly | satisfies them | with its gray-blue haze | its pure | irresolution | And when they look away, the people | in a far-off, unsure | place in them | sense lapse | a small undocking | and concede defeat, albeit | in a battle they never | knew they were fighting, and in a war | so subtle and nuanced | it possesses | the lightness precisely of a forgotten thought | and the slow-moving grace | of a lonely god | passing monumentally by

Sometimes, when I think I’ll never love again, the landscape grows quiet in me | and I feel the ebb and flow of the years | making an ocean | of each moment | and a blank calm | like slate | imbues each object | so things rest | around me | as if awaiting a hand | to wipe them clean


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

Drifting points |      | Stars, hand trailing over the side | of the yacht | a lick of alcohol | on our lips | the kiss | stained with depths |      | Shore, the repetitive surfeit of the waves | we cannot | process the boredom or the grandeur |      | Moment of haze | we grow unsure | of how we came to |     | this lost position

|     | Fugue state | Walking slowly through a new town | not recalling | getting off a train | or driving |      | View down the street, the sea | bay with gulls and frangipani | jacarandas | figs |     | Encompassing | nothing but |     | Erotic dew | stirring | the sheets | whirled into | a white topography |      | Restating | a loyal return | sure | this is our story: love, not just | a private tale |      | Snipped thread |      | Hushed | before the traffic | builds | on the Eastern Distributor | Southern Cross Drive |      | Taking a right | into sudden |     | Youth, dawn, arriving

 


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

We ended up once more in the last days of summer | Our hats too small to hide a rabbit | and T shirts, no room for doves | But the shore had room for the seawaves | and you could still laugh at me | and my pompous waffle | and I was happy | We lay on our Sindbads’ bed | and played with cigarette lighters | span walnuts round and round | on the hotel’s glass table top | waited for the love to come again | and the love | came again | We felt peaceful | Windfall plums’ slow pelt on cracked tarmac | over those days | summoned us, passive magicians | to perform | our weary magic | and in the evenings | we read Blok | and wondered about the grief of the cranes | who stream overhead and | feel no grief | Though we are not destroyers | we were renewed | and, after resting through into the autumn | set ourselves to the new destruction


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2015)

He came into my life, I don’t know | if he ever left it again | The light on the jetty, going on and off at night | and the lights and sirens of the ambulances | many years later | there is probably no thread | there is certainly another world, immeasurably greater | and you live there, perhaps? | The green of the bones | and the parachute heart of the plunge | into the rock pool | does he ever remember those days? | — which means, I suppose, rebuild them? | You can only have | a slight part in this, it’s just that part | is everything | For the rest of us, there is only love | or whatever we hope | might justify our days | And perhaps not love

There was a succession of very hot, very still days, the kind of stillness that often | precedes a storm, but for us | no storm ever broke | and the stillness became an element | part of the furniture of our expectations, a right | We used to go to the swim-hole | they used to quarry stone there | were the reserves exhausted? | So many bones, they’re not important bones to everyone | or if they are | only obscurely | like water slowly filling a system | of underground caves | We are beyond strangers: do you own mirrors, do you often look at yourself? | Perhaps you’re blind, and only know mirrors by touch | the smoothness and coolness of the glass against the tips of your fingers | he won’t care | there isn’t a connection | a way through for him: he | had mirrors, he liked them, or at least | wasn’t afraid of them | Good for him | You have a theory, I imagine, to take these things away? | Floating | existing in the brilliant | crack of the thrill | flirting with the moment | the ‘chute doesn’t open | the water shot up like a vaporous | exclamation | and broke the summer | over and over again | Perhaps he leaves all the time? | And this | is his way of leaving? | At the corner of Full Moon St., in August | it will do for me | not perfect, but reasonably blessed | the best available, and the last | Everywhere, subtly, has its claim | to life’s priority | to being the only | place of its kind — like the Atacama for instance (the world’s driest)


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