Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Old mine vs. new mine thing | How the | carved starlight | in your lobes | cracks with sighs | an exquisite | emptiness, the forest | daunting but primeval | gushes with potential | memories | Nights in quiet | gorillas’ eyes | pink, shot-up | vivacities of parrots | tossing into the dawn their “no, me, me, me!” squawks | while | in milder climes | the moon is late to leave and in | the untended garden | dandelions feast on the remains of lawns… || Pleasure’s | exhaustion | sets in | park the car | feed the heat | spend the day | dozing and shopping | and, when, later | crowds gather round | the accident victim | the angle of the sun | is different but, in the main, all | things are equal | we know | after each disruption or virgin | chance | there is a kind of | settlement | the establishment | of uranium or tin or gold || That’s how it is, they’ll say, just how it is || In the old mine | a hermit silence appertains | to footless tunnels, rusted machines | even the spiders grow shy | it is a question, what may | root itself in the void, if anything? | while in the new | whispers patrol your ears | talk of bars and films and hope | and what we feel | so deeply speaks | of an uncharted beauty | prepares to use us, and the divine | senses we discover | in exploitation | spill out their breaking secrets and sing••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)

Advertisements

We began with the interlude | The audience looks round at itself, pores over programmes | Soon the great work will commence once more || With the silence of statistics | sixteen per cent of the country | 4,000 children every year | the water rises and | the concert hall duly shrinks | into other matter || It was not your daughter who drowned, it was not my | land stretching on, monotonously, so flat | to the unwatched horizon

When the music begins | it fits you to its purpose | and your lover, your home, your career | make a terrible and poignant sense | but only | inasmuch | as they are | conducted by the music | ordered through the music | suspended in the music | and when the interlude comes | suddenly the floating | building of beauty | falls back to earth || and your waiting watch | starts ticking again | Then, the silence | of a great flood | takes on a | terrible and poignant | salience | and the nature of the water | is changed | as water must | seem different to you | as you drown || How quietly the land | unfolds itself | the rooks | carp and curse | It is a long time since | I gazed at the | lie of the light | pooled | in a small | dell in your wrist, and | the big mirror in the old bedroom | has the complacence of an empty plain | Here, there are no deaths, and | life is uneventful••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, March 2013)

Helplessly beautiful | A wave bearing wreckage | Clothes thrown around a room | Nothing a voice can do about this | Making these foolish moments, spaces inside your heart | you don’t notice as they form | don’t need to understand, and | yet, always afterwards, only ever | want to get back to

Uneasy spirits | Boats in a rising swell | tug at their moorings | Horses of nerves | start to run and then halt | uncertainly | it seems | for no reason | Children sleeping | in the clothes their parents bought for them | Butterflies | stirring in cocoons | Bodies | carried in smoothly rolling hearses | Tides | bringing us home | Watching it all | fall apart | yet | make perfect sense | Drawn in | Set out | Sitting quietly as | the high turns | low | Being what you are | observing a piece of paper | lifting and settling | in a draught | Following a calling | Unable | to stop feeling | Seeing how | the sea whorls, how gravity | drags | Belonging to the same | life as the snow | flakes | blown by the wind | past your room | through streetlights and car lights | Being together | Gaining only | more lost control | The spring | goring it all | the bull | torn on the blossom | of its own horn | Touching her face | with the tip of a finger | Not knowing | how it will end | A moment of quietness | in between storms | Unavoidably sensitive | made to be fragile | Made to go on | Thoughtlessly new | Helplessly beautiful••


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

Returning to a distant colour | Blue of the drained lake | Snow on imaginary mountains | the real snow | melts | Each day with its end, and the holes in the air | you slide through | Fugitive pianists, an old lover with her long fingers | Stir-frying and sorting | Trying to record | all the steps to the impromptu | haze of that evening | Weighing the mist | and the laundry | Common things | glowing | Your children | roll all their dreams towards the morning | In the stream outside, small pebbles | roll to | the blue | calm of the lake

Hands touch in | lost addresses | We mislay the mountain | find a button | Raw umber of wet mud | where fish flip and writhe | Cracked | map | and Angie almost 20 now | Baked soil | where the mercury | reaches | bones like keys | She comes | to the wedding | says little, is she | happy? | His scent, rich, pregnant | like a text | fresh from the press | We chart the sunrise | file the moon | Scales | bob and float | Phone calls to | pools of blood | Each day with its end, and the holes in the air | you slide through••


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

Taking more ghosts, the crook of the elbow | river of the glance | The centre is empty, so was the periphery: the mid-part? | empty, too… | You mean, you expected me to…? | Did you really think that I would…? | Goods stacked in the warehouse | moments stacked in a clock | You go back over the same ground, ants, rind | of a sweet watermelon | slop of pips and twigs | from ash trees | Morning raises its curtains on | the bench, the waste bin | but no actors come on stage this time | What were you thinking? | Why would I…? | Hidden, private play | obscure scene | even to the players | Planes zigzagging over the ocean | Taking a real gun | to the photo-shoot | Gestures, so heavy, they topple | like eroded cliffs | Ghosts, with no | haunting | River with no sea

You speak with forked tongue | She thought she could come to the end of her solitude, but | she let the crowd go a different way | she always takes | the quietest path | slipping left | The doomed mingle with the civilians | The privileged | look out at us from their | palace of lenses | studios with shadows of | lamps, aura of gold and plenty | of time | At the picnic, he cried and his daughter | played with the velvet pigs | too young | to notice | Your eyes don’t see your memories | nor your hands | touch the flesh | of what you lived | The wind | packs dust in its bags and | takes it away | the lipstick | crescent on the elbow, too••


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

Building a fire bridge | where no other | bridge may be made | the footsteps | are flames | and the crossing | is burning

Soft | spots | on speckled | foxgloves | across | By fire bridge, we travelled | by connecting, creating | the other side | Pistils | Murmur | Honey••


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

Beware, my friend, of people who mistake | the map for the land | Shun their company | or indulge in it only very carefully | for in essence all they do is waste their time | She broods on the secret of herself | as anyone does | but it’s her I notice | And so the sentences roll out | it is a meeting of sorts | the policy is shaped | night over the desert sands, dark Arabia | In an era of multiplying hatreds | fortunate are those who may live peacefully and read books | So sorry to be late writing this letter: if only I could tell you everything | but the carriages wouldn’t couple | the moon was full and very bright, they say | it isn’t mysterious

It wasn’t that we lost our way, so much, as that | there wasn’t a way | We slipped into a side street | like unwitting spies | Jojo was funny, as ever, he said | Someone must know where Costa Rica is | adding | Costa Ricans, presumably | Earlier, in the bedroom, as we untangled ourselves from each other | the mosquitoes were terrible | in the gloom above our heads | mothers flew, freighted with our blood | for their young | They had measured the sun into its correct position | the angle was bad for us, making it hard to read | Words aren’t the finished products | you said | They’re always prototypes, blueprints — they never turn out as we planned | Two months later, they closed the border | the victims on the wrong side | The map is not the land••


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

Corridor into mist and |

Also, the walls like mist | a mental point they | blur and lose | relevance | quite radically, so as to | flirt with cessation | of existence, the new | subject has arisen || All day dismantling | a former owner’s | pattern of the past | it is the | intense, vivid | thorny | detail of one’s own | life absorbs | our attention || Sheared | perception | spinning slowly out of | control | the place she | sips at her drink and | gazes vacantly | around the pub, on the other side | of the fork | entirely other lives are being | pursued, in there it is | Sagittarius and roulette, the | anxiety over diagnosis, the figures refusing | to add up || Back, back, then | to the corridor in a building | the school you attended when you were 5, or | the hospital where she | was rendered | a pharaoh’s | daughter by the thousands | of bandages | Touch the | tiles, hold the | edge of the | yellow plastic tray | notice | the swirl and | root of the | smoke from your cigarette, it is | the detail of the detail of the | detail | of everything belongs to you and | can’t be given | to others, or | taken away by them | and in | precisely this manner | Venus rises and the morning | truly begins••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, March 2013)

Setting out, late, to a new location | what will our thoughts do to it? | Putting the past “behind us”, and “looking ahead” — the space of time | naturally | set to the arrangements of our bodies | a geography of toys | the landscape seen through a show | of magic lantern slides | or lit in the optical theatre | a scene in a diorama | Death, apparently, is utterly blank: no one | goes there | Featureless, and uninhabited — not even a desert | or an icy pole, not even | the perfect emptiness of a summer sky | We collapse the tent | of our orgasm | the orchestra | packs up its instruments | the choir | checks times for metros and buses | the angels | instead of singing | put down their lyres | switch on the TV, turn | to cheetahs or Brittany or guns | And the new location | begins to slide towards us | the pink blossoms on wet black tarmac | through brief, abrupt rain | outside the club | where they have good DJs, a great | sound system | or the caves where the hermits live | refining their spirits | unquestionable, because they have no answers | biding their raw | jewel of time | in an insurmountable privacy | and if it isn’t futile | to visit them | neither is it | non-futile | in any case as we gaze | into their indecipherable isolation | our thoughts turn | to the one | crucial, inexplicable thing: the next | moment of leaving…

One of those evenings where | the past is ahead of us, the future | punctured | has deflated, shrunk | the white apartment complex | fringed with green palms | square windows lit irregularly | is an intricate arrangement of solitudes | consumers | digging their separate burrows | through a dark, rich earth | no one, ultimately, owns | Our thoughts | shake the crowds into their echo armies | idle | split off like the fragments of a firework | We put up the tent of skyscrapers, planes passing overhead | we will live here for a little while, we think | and the thinking | arranges it | Death, apparently, is utterly blank: no one | goes there | it is always in the future | and then, as if by magic | always in the past | in either case | it is an imagined country | measured, you may think, by the loss | we feel or the loss | we expect | or believe | or desire | other people might feel when we have gone | There is a sound of gunfire | of shells bursting bricks and mortar and plaster | out of the shapes of minarets and spires | to clouds of dust and the slumped | geometric intestines of rubble | these are the signs | that tell us this location is old | it is time | we left | and abruptly | as the bombs | start to fall | the musicians, packing up their instruments | no longer belong to the orchestra••


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

One side slides down closer to the earth, the other | side rises towards the sky | Inside breast pocket, scarlet: volcano | Check | Right between the eyes, flecked pink: volcano | Check | Carrying my grave with me into November, sometimes | your grave, too | A handful of soil, too, enough for violets, primroses, sweet peas, is it | enough? | I wanted to ask the German woman to say sehnsucht to me, to | say gemeinschaft | and on such tiny, tender things | I base a heart, call it | my heart, today | The signs they painted on bridges, throwing your years under trains | One of the graves | is heavier | and grows heavier still in spring | None of the volcanoes | are extinct…

Towing a wreck behind me, hawser over my shoulder | Somewhere in the tangle is the ghost of the storm that broke the ship | and in the echoing carcase of the ghost is | the soft tumult of a breeze, air fronts, pressure, just before | the storm began | I comfort myself with names, “Gangster of Tweed”, “King of Bohemia” | but buildings only have exits, now, is it | my age? | Built antlers out of the side of my skull | a cottage where we hired some time and loneliness | all the loneliness in our grasp, near the sea and towards the end | of September | Lost on a dirt road, in a fly-over state | looking for stress factors | a way back to where | we already stand | Enumerating the fingers that are yours | checking and checking | Threads made of eyelids and glances | hold back the darkness but when | I am at my most tender | invite the darkness in and let it stay••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, November 2013)