Archives for posts with tag: hypergrammar

Nostalgia… | Memories like mountains, high peaks | snow-bound in winter | The bent | boat of her body | drifts | you are inside, another, a smaller | vessel | And all the animals? | Only the unobtainable | possesses the true | cruelty of beauty | in a French hand | The grasp | weakens, and the dream falls out | rolling across the floor like a ginger | cat’s eye marble | The place | you are trying to reach | is in the past | but don’t give up, isn’t the past | within you? | Lost kingdoms | Undiscovered graves | Hypothermia sets in when your body temperature | drops below 35°…


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, October 2014)

Falling into a light sleep, take someone | with you, touch of cool | snow-shine fingers, fresh | rustle of young birch leaves | under a blanket | with the hoofs of blue reindeer | crush crush crush of steps | parting in | dividing paths at the heart | of a ghost | dripping | clock of meltwater | and the white-painted room, really the first | colour of spring | a faint | taste of kirsch still on your lips, who | put it there?


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, October 2014)

Common kisses, and kisses in common | a dry kiss, moist kiss | kiss with kirsch, Lucozade, apricot | Schnapps <old man, remembering young caresses> … | Buried, far down | the first kiss | still | lights up, under the ice and the rock | bumps back into life | after its long sleep | while in the cold, clear | streams of their blood | ageing children | begin to sense | a new use for lips | find a fresh path | to an ancient thirst…

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, October 2014)

All things are gateways, and merely lead to other things
— Michael Ayres, Dustless

Denial of service | We never see | inside our own eyes

Floating desert | Wrap the moon in a passing heart | Waiting for a cancelled flight | The crematorium in mid-summer

Are you thinking?

Folding empty clothes | A polite sandstorm of the streets | Commuter days, the lost children | Hidden in plain sight | ghost trees chattering with voices | a pale dust | where roses flourished

Servants, more noble than their masters | Haze of blueprints | anglepoise | architects’ pencils | doodles of spooks | memories of Iraq, Palestine, Saigon

Folding a darkness | into an emptiness | into an emptiness | into emptiness

How will you connect them?

Waiting for her | A chain café | macchiato and Guardian | illegal logging | degradation of coral | no further inference to be drawn

Answerable to another moment, she can’t reach where she already is, having | already left | folding an emptiness | into a darkness | into a numbness

Under a leaf | in a window-box | in London N1 | the gates of a cocoon | tremble | pushed from the inside | opened from the outside

Guessed presence | Bird singing | from the ghosts of trees

What were you thinking?

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, September 2014)

<last days of summer | Cambridge | 2015> clinging

A serene wreckage | A ship of flowers | the dry | carcases of wasps and bees | kings and queens | come apart from their coffins | and the coffins | memories stirred | start to remember | their cedar, remember | their oak

In-fill of heat | Allotments round the back | of housing associations | Pocket gardens | Sunlight


The water cold, the mariners | bracing themselves | for the long swim | to no known shore…

Lovers, too

Young children cry for the continents | of mothers and fathers

Floating clouds of islands…

Broken transport | sheds seeds of journeys | and arid beachcombers | study flotsam and jetsam | washed up from | lost voyages

Late literary lion | where castaways | plunge and tumble through surf | towards hot sand

Sun’s mane

Sun’s roar

Jungle lifeline | compasses | drift to the bottom of the sea

The naked | reach for their clothes

salt in their sleeves | and in their hair

they tumble half awake | into a mainline station

The north | calls…

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, September 2015)

The children had a secret base | a private harbour for their fleet, an island | in the long grass || A secret base is an important thing, like memory or a heart | a place from which you may launch your operations, or retreat to, if things do not go quite to plan | They had strategists within their ranks, and visionaries and engineers | Among their vessels were strange submersibles, which left trails of milky phosphor in their wake, and sported weapons as elegant and apt as those | of duellist swordfish and narwhals | ships | Verne would have adored | or tyrants | died for || They knew the land | and with intricate measures of reconnaissance | kept watch | on the moving forces of neighbouring states | and devised | elaborate systems for sending messages | They spotted things the adults | overlooked | details | of a knee-high world | and read | their spies’ reports | coins gleaming in dirt, and | from the wasteland of the nettles | the jagged white butterflies’ | semaphore | They kept their knowledge safe, encrypted in special codes | cached in bottles and huts | scattered in locations | around their hidden island || Yet, for all of this, their intelligence was limited, and they did not foresee | the source of the catastrophe | that would befall them; nor, at their age, did they suspect | the threat that | impends above us all, and which | conceals itself in emptiness || Stunned, and open-mouthed, in the dust, the blades still wet, they stared and inhaled | the haunting waves of summer breaking | over the bared ground | and almost drowning them | in passing scents of new-mown grass

Basking in the ocean depths of words, sharks of silence | wait out the centuries and feel inside them | and their obdurate bones | a kinship with the dinosaurs | The day arranges its pieces, calm and composed as ever: the time of your next appointment, the svelte procedures of superconductors, laughter after the light-hearted demonstrations of my genius, and the snake’s tongue glimmer as the lightning | slips back to its secret base

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, August 2012)

Golden dregs…

{no one writing | the obituaries of | grasshoppers or | mayflies}

You put my body down | We have called to the stones for so long, and now they have come to us

Gross and gorgeous | I | roi soleil | across a room like a | sea | The sunken | galleons of my thoughts | drip and spew pearls as | they are salvaged | This is my Levée, you may attend, only | be quiet and | suitably | blinded | as I | rise

Do you remember when | waist-deep in ocean waves | we held each other, and the Pacific | urged us up and | down | so we | stood on tip-toes, and had no | thought of the snow?

Dawn’s lapdogs

Yes, unfathomable…

I can’t count the paths I took to get away from here | So how is it | I am back?

We put our | threads of | electrical | diamond fuss | between | stone |     and |     stone

{cobweb in the frost, February 2009}

Exiled to the past, and buried in those graves of words | which, for so long, had no need of sense | the childish legionaries climb out | and hand to me their stage-set stones | vouching for their innocence

{rifts of time between | moment |     and |     moment || grief of ego, thoughts of you in swirling snow}

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, August 2012)

Like a drop of ink | diffusing through water | in a warped | glass bowl | we | swirl round each other

Lying in your arms, I fend off | far-off | brutalities in the world, the | lost and the lonely, the | disappeared | despised | the abandoned

In love, embrace them, uneasily | half | hear their voices, because | I feel the breath carrying your voice softly | as it | brushes my ear, and | surely by these acts of | tenderness and selection, are we not | inviting others | closer | asserting our | covert humanity, which is | a quality we share, like a language | meaningless if | hoarded only by | one?

Too | fragile | these little forts of | skin and glances | who can hold them?

Their spindly gates | smashed by a | stroke of fortune, the | tiny mines in the blood, a moment’s | inattention | the path in the forest not leading | where we expected, the first | typhoon of the season…

To shut them out, to enjoy | ourselves alone | we kiss, but | what kind of kiss is that | that stops only on two | mouths? and does not | invoke a | sweeter and more desperate | bond?

To keep the strangers out we | hold each other closer, but | even in that quiet | enclosure | or rather | perhaps | at its heart | I hear | the new voice of the old | stranger inside me, the one | who was alone and found | in the emptiness of a floating life | a friend

Trying to carry the weight of the stars alone, to hoard them or to own | their light – a sad, heroic, futile fate | To reach their meaning, we need | just a glance upwards as we | shut a car door, or | for everyone to share them by | carrying their word | together for a little while

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2012)

I dream of a silent world, such a one as might exist | on a deep seabed, miles below | the surface

{Some things can only be reached | by dreams}

Inaccessible, and yet utterly mundane, perhaps it was a place of happiness?

懐 [natsukashii] || between the seashells | and the sea || Our mouths | our lips || a time | of | cicadas and drought, an end to school…

Is it so far off, that silent world?

Isn’t there a moment | as you’re translating | 懐 | to English | [natsukashii, ‘nostalgia’] or | vice versa | when “it” | is | in neither | one tongue, nor | the other?

{has left English, I mean, has set off for, but not yet reached | Japanese?}

A time, too, between || all things || when your love
has left one moment | but not | yet | arrived | in the next?

In these slipping senses | we once passed a summer || A place like the silence, now it may only be | reached by dreams

Great summer clouds | passing across a high blue sky || Our throats were dry | even though we | kissed

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2012)

Abandoned | cities of the heart

The empty rooms, decorated with photographs of the dead, the wallpaper | dated to a sunken decade | all | flooded | by the waters of silence and passed time

Places lovers tried to keep themselves | in reach | with lovers | sought to | keep pace with each other | though one was forever | running ahead, losing | touch

All the gestures are archaic

Immersed in nostalgia, in a green summer, traffic lights turning from amber to red | the ghost cars and | aphids | queue for the translucent | door to the past and, under the smoggy, humid stars of dusk all | eventually | go through

These streets have petrified, their map | outdated | sits in an atlas in an obscure | second-hand bookshop which, itself, has turned to stone

Through all instants, the sublime | glacier of the ages | seeps, carrying and freezing | each delicate and each | monumental thing, even | our | dreams

Here, at the centre, where the statues of | broken-nosed | soldiers and | laurel-crowned | poets and | late-coming | angels | convene an atmosphere of | stoic endurance, the | mayfly atoms of | forgotten moments | tremble and float

Of course, here the traffic is at a | standstill | and as you wander, searching | for a way out through those | same | translucent doors, you start to | lose track of time and | cease to recognise this | shore by the | interior ocean where | all your drifting life has fetched up | in pavement cafés and on | dusty ledges behind | the broken blinds of the windows of | obscure museums

Your friends and your lovers have fled | the punishing | heat | and even the strangers, too, are leaving, but you | drawn to a detail | linger as | the night and the day | melt into one | silent | modern | event

Abandoned | cities of the heart

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, June 2012)