writer, artist

wind through poplar silvers ear
lifts leaves turns them silver
sweet tongue whispers
words I cannot make
hold wide my ears to prayer
still I cannot hear
my own mouth comes :
blow through my hair
turn me silver
bowl me through this town
and out
the other side
to where the hookup
knows this hunger
keeps the food
and waits and waits and
counts his silver

Who knew everything would turn out so bossy ?
I’ve hardly walked in the door
When everything raises up
Comes tumbling to compete
Each voice loud:
Wash me up
Throw me out
Pick me up
And put my lid on.
Even the garden can’t keep its mouth shut.
If I’d wanted this I’d have had children
Or more parents.
I sit.
Day hangs in the balance
Balance tips and
We slide into evening.
Amid the clamour
The soul pulls out a picture
It’s of a tiny place north of here
Made of wood and along from anything
Here she says we can be free.
You me and your dog.
Here she says the three of us will lie on sheepskin
Take our turn to tend the fire
And when we’re quiet
We’ll hear the song of wolves and wind.
Of wind and wolves.
And that soaring will be our song.
And together we will sing.

Wolf throws back her head
Cries out in the infinite lack
The sound goes
Over and over against mountains
Comes back unchanged
No wolf no thing answers
Not even the north wind
For who can answer that ?

There won’t be an answer:
Everything we need to know
Is written on that first sound
That strange vowel of want
Offered and swallowed time and times over
By night
Which sits forever
Black and flung about with tears

Fact:
I want to get with you.
I’ve wanted it my whole entire life.
Which is why I spend my days looking to bump into you
My nights planning my days
And the places inbetween so restless
I’m delirious.
You’re so fucking elusive
I never find you on facebook
Or outside: don’t you like fresh air ?
You are like no one
And so refined
I’m wondering if you passed through a sieve – professional grade double zero – more than once.
I’ve never met anyone who makes me laugh as much
Infact you’re dazzling
I don’t know how you do it
Or how I can be more available than this
Writing it
And sticking it up here naked:
Together
We could make
A
Whole
New
World
Wow. I said it.
So how do I (stop laughing) get with you ?
All. The. Time.

Ducklings came today
New as pins
Fast as gold
And good as ping pong balls
Zipping out all over the river
I watched one bounce a foot
And land its legs splayed wide apart
Spinning in delight
Of feather and flesh and spirit
All combusting for the first time here
And I thought
Fuck the odds
The snapping turtles
The snooping dogs
The chance of death
Most won’t survive so what?
Perhaps it’s not about survival
Perhaps it never was:
There’s only now
And here I am
So watch me jump

I came past a cherry tree all out pink in flower
It smelled so delicate, so fleeting sweet
It reminded me of happiness
And for a second I was happy.
It got me thinking
How could I be always happy?
The answer came:
If that cherry tree was mine
And stood all day outside my window
That’s how I’d be happy.
A cloud came then:
The tree would have to blossom 24/7
I felt like crying:
I’ll never be happy and yet
I’m always happy
And the tree has nothing to do with it.
It’s just day in day out a cherry tree busy doing its own generous and ecstatic cherry thing.

Last night
I saw trees
Standing over rooftops against the blue bright night
Still like card
Yet so completely jazzing
I was stunned
Then I saw the moon
How is it I had never seen the moon
Except through borrowed eyes ?
I saw houses
Each brick burned
Laid one on top by hands from years ago for other lives:
I saw them moving in and moving out and sofas stuck in every doorway.
And it was against all this jumping blazing fire-in-every-atom life
I saw that every thought I’ve ever had
Every sadness
Every plan
Even all that thinking mapping furrowed so hard making sense
Has been so out of place
So entirely ridiculous
That I am blind.

 

 

It’s right there on the uneven line in the cobbly upcurve of that Beatrix Potter roof
And there again in the dizzy cherry blossom stuck ridiculous all over that tree
The one that will start blizzarding anymoment candyfloss pink
And it’s there in the roundy shapes of the bright white clouds bobbing all over the sky
I’m seeing it everywhere today:
The promise of a time when everything
Makes sense
And love rules
And what matters
Are the simple things
Like family
And milking the goat.

Last week I got hold of the longing for what is missing
I swear to God I saw it all the way around and laughed.
I bundled it used bubble wrap and put it in a box.
And sent it to myself
Special delivery.
Next day when the postman knocked
I had on lipstick
And smiling took the package, signed his screen
And nodded with a secret Oh I will when he told me to Enjoy.
I closed the door and stood a moment.
Breathing.
So this would be the day.
And this is what that day looked like:
Yellow, buttery. Midmorning.
If there’d been a clock it might have struck.
Eleven probably.
I broke the box
I burst the bubbles
I tore it open
And there inside
Found nothing.
At all.
I’m still trying to make sense of what happened.
On top of that
The postage cost a fortune.

Apparently everything you write down in a poem comes true
Especially – they say – if the poem doesn’t rhyme
Which is why I’m writing
In particular order none
Porsche, midnight blue (cream leather interior).
You.
Words. In wild new arrangement allowing new worlds, all worlds, possibilities, things, no things.
Flying things.
And ecstasy.
Of the endless, clifftop dancing naked kiss-the-earth variety
For all of us.
Quick sticks.

Oh and some music to go along with that.

The heart asked again today
If I could allow her sadness.
I didn’t say anything.
Just hurried around
Making plans
Planting sweet peas
Writing down words like:
‘Today I planted sweet peas
As lately there’s been a lack’.
The next time she asked
I said of course
And went up the road for cake
All the time wondering whose house
I might go round to later for a gin and tonic
Preferably I was thinking
Someone who’s ok with smoking
Later when the heart reached with her little fingers
For my hand
I was busy trying to download a TV show
Is there any way
She asked again
I could allow it ?
I didn’t know and I don’t know
And I still don’t know
But what I do know
Is right now
That little hand
Just resting there
In mine
It feels
Ok.

You. Are. It.
Look down
At each of your darling little toes
And know what every one of them already knows:
That You in all your razzle dazzle stardust
You in all your fear
You in all your great small greatness:
You. Are. It.

Last night I dreamt a little red fox jumped over the round clear moon
I was the moon and you were the fox
That doesn’t matter though
What does is that right there in that moon jump was the magic I’ve been trying to get to forever
I woke sad and made it my work to find a place on the earth
Secret cool and soft
Where I could press my self my tongue into her yielding body
And taste again
That seething teaming wild place where things get made.
Savage.
Beautiful.
Home.

You weren’t in the museum amongst the illuminated manuscripts.
And I can tell you, I looked really closely.
You weren’t in the vanilla chai latte I had later on in the cafe.
(The girl who made it could have told me that).
You weren’t in the gift shop.
Nor in the cry of the seagull on the roof.
And I (for one) couldn’t find you in the endless blue sky.
As I can’t see you now on these words.
Or in the spaces between these fingers which have been with me from the start.
So where are you?
I’ve made up my mind:
I’m going to start putting it about that we’re sleeping together.
How else – unless I’m spending eight with you out of every 24 – could I put up with any of this?

I just read a Rumi poem that pissed me off:
The one about the Love Dogs
About how the howl of the dog for its master IS the connection
Bollocks.
I can tell you right off:
This time around that’s not going to be enough.

 

up

i

Think: does crocus put the brakes on crocus?
Brave first flower.
Pale cup reaching, opening, gold heart first into the light.
Is crocus always questioning, ordering:
Not like that. Like this.
Purple, really?
White I think:
 Improve or die unloved.
Always angry mending
Until crocus has no idea of how or why or which way now.
This must be our Fall From Grace
This mind
This Think.

ii

Hard enough pushing through blank earth
Black with ice
Eyeless indefinable nosing towards something: light perhaps.
Hard enough without that voice:
what did I tell you?-see?-who can love you?
Hard enough
Yet not hard at all
When there’s no other choice and only one direction.
Up.

It’s late and the soul picks her sweet way through the debris:
‘I can’t believe you said that, ate that, smoked that;
of course they don’t like you; why would they?;
 look at the state of you’.
She picks her sweet way between smoldering rafters, 
over burnt out stories.
Through smoke and flame and the charred remains of what has fallen.
I don’t know how she does it,
but even her shoes stay clean.

Hard to remember always that we share a soul
You, I, the vicar who almost ran me over on his bicycle
The one who frowned before remembering.
Offered an ‘even vicars…’ kind of smile.
The one who might do a sermon on it
On patience at the weekend.
‘Even I’ perhaps he’ll start.
Ego speaks and soul separates
Into me. You.
My dog
The vicar.
On Sunday high up in his eyrie.
I’m wondering what remembering looks like:
Silent, infinite love-orgy
And what the password* for that party might be.

 

*PM me pls if u got it thx 🙂

Today my soul will not take flight
On flock of words to wheel and scatter
To make new shapes
Turn silver in the light
Today it stays down here sulky flat and dark as lead
It says it’s trapped between my body
And the earth
The thing is right now I can’t be bothered to get off it.
Maybe I’ll see how long I can keep it there.
Squashed.

Sorrow wants to know how we met and through whom and whether I’m actually entitled to know her.
‘You see’ she says in her softly voice
,
‘You don’t have a child who is dying
Your partner has not gone terminal
Your clitorus appears to be intact
And even the lump growing from your dog’s foot probably isn’t cancerous.
Furthermore’ she says skim-reading her notes,
‘You drive a car with the top down and eat a chocolate croissant whenever you feel like it. Even during Lent.
Well?’ She says looking over her glasses,
‘Have you anything to add?’
‘Probably not’ is the best I’ve got.
Sorrow looks at me. I look at Sorrow.
Even though my face is wet, it’s clear our meeting’s over.