andy and kate.
kiss of sea.
the weather in
you you you you you.
photograph of the wind.
My wet feet mark "cold, cold" within white snow.
On white snow slowly melting light snow falls,
the parachutes of wet snow re-thatch thatch
and ice the Japanese trees,
white on black,
while I must walk to work to buy new shoes.
The winter and the thought of you approach,
a cold nip to my bud in either case
a rose-bud in November air again,
a thin weed sprouting in a bulldozed place
This is more to me than you
as everything of us was anyway
but I am he, who once looked in your eyes
and said I loved
though you did not believe me, I would say.
andy and kate
i walk upstairs
following the love.
even the mug,
hid where the love was.
for a moment, while i am away,
they do something beautiful and furtive on the stairs.
it is my darkness
that attracts your light
I drown it.
she decorates her eiderdown with nightfall.
it is my light that holds
flutter round me
Andy plays with the dog.
'"Yes, I know" goes the dog' thinks Andy.
'Yes, I know' goes the dog.
kiss of sea
slow day sinks to seasons that still carry me
(a soft dream)
lie away in dreams
i weave my wishes round you like a kiss of sea.
My shoes are old and lax, like cardboard boats,
each step wrings a croak from weary toads
a ragged snake has caught each at the throat
they wander, but cannot escape the roads.
We get along together pretty well
all three of us in need of some repair
but all souls suffer on the roads to Hell,
and suffer on the roads back out of there.
Unknown we were who flew the wave,
unsure we felt it load and bless
unthankful us with what it gave
unasked, a fearful tenderness.
And I can feel within my mind
a need to break the dream, unless
I cannot pass the wave I find
a fearful unguessed tenderness.
And I alone,
I smile to think of you,
I'm happy for a while.
I wonder if I'm waiting,
and wait alone as everything you do
seems set to celebrate love,
or let go.
Well I'm bewildered, dazzled,
led and landed
long before I even tried the bait,
I wait here then, for nothing or an answer,
(dancing at the edges of your dream)
while you perform the miracles you do :
exploding bright inside the ache of fate :
the unexpected you.
Warm together, two of them enough,
and perilously close again to love,
looking at the truth within a kiss,
love belittled people dangling legs
above that fearful precipice.
Deep in prisons,
there you see the truth;
gripped in the iron clanging of the state
the furtive underground builds up its laws
and seals its echelons
and rots in hate.
Men imprisoned organise a world
where power's naked,
while in the world they came from
disguise and use and tame the same force.
The fault's in men,
men force it on themselves,
we've had enough of men, oh god, amen.
Give the world to women,
eradicate all and renew again.
A mirror to drop into.
witness to my troubled sleep,
deep solitude I sense in us together,
you a refuge and a refugee.
You are redemption, and I send you word
of gathering storms of starlight in your sky,
for you are one (or all) and who can tell ?
I love you.
Well I heard we drop forever into deepness.
The lamp-post and the wind and waiting here
for this or that, the life that darkness brings
the slow supremacy of softness
and the vague sound of faraway things.
long tracks laid out reach her away;
the white dot at the window,
a vast red disk of sun blears down on me.
'It isn't right,
she shouldn't leave at all
and not like this.......'
Love stretches with the miles,
We are both halved,
our life and laughter
the train is gone.
long tracks reach her away,
the white dot at the window,
on the sea shoal.
stars too small to see I saw before I switched the light to write it.
Do you wonder what you're doing ?
Justice is a necessary lie
since nothing's fair in life,
or fair in love,
and some of us live, and soon all of us die,
and that is all,
and that is fair enough.
So only what you are is what you own,
and when you die,
and die alone.
to dance a little,
live for life instead,
nothing's ever fair, my love, so there,
but nothing that's alive is ever dead.
three sonnets to a dead god.
This will not live, since everybody dies :
the world will end,
and this dry ink
expresses nothing useful, though it tries,
and everything decays.
It's true, I think.
I've time to write these words, and time to stop;
there's little more to tell 'posterity',
(why should it listen anyway ?)
our few small pebbles in the endless sea.
But she is beauty !
Mortal and unwise
we sit and talk, not for eternity,
but here, and real;
I see her through these lies :
it matters since it matters now,
She lives quite outside this,
through each short breath,
and life is not complete without a death.
failed love poem
She is beauty
as I say she is
and she is
and she is light
she cannot be limited to this
and could not be contained by words I write.
I could not summon to another's mind
a vision of the way she is,
she dances through the webs that I design,
the poem echoes with the light it lacks.
(She transcends this.
She stops thought in its tracks.)
Verse lends her no life not already hers,
the deep soul of herself flows on and back,
leaves nothing here except a set of words.
The poem leaves her real
and leaves no mark,
goes flying on one wing into the dark.
WE ARE ALIVE NOW !
and that's all we've got.
(I can't keep her alive in measured rhyme
candling the aching void of time).
And where are they ?
those priceless persons that his proud conceit
proclaims he'd prison up from death ?
Can you now say
they're perfectly preserved ? They're kind and sweet ?
They lie still and quiet.
ways they moved and smiled,
the things that lovers notice,
those slow games,
that eyes and silence play,
There's a while;
a long day with the weather.
will still remain the truth.
The god is dead.
the blank page spreads.
my ears squeal, deaf to anything but ink
laid gently for no reason here.
My mind is arid, and this is no rain.
The parched brain sucks at fear.
I want to say
I wish it wouldn't happen,
but I'm sure it would
and if it will or not,
and whether it just will, or if it should;
I love you
I'll be sad to see you go.
I am not worthy of high sorrow.
A charming old tweed man comes in, wearing a handlebar
His friend is carrying two tyres.
Perhaps they are a tandem.
The weather in
It falls on prison streets;
grimy windows lock sleet out to melt
excluded from safe fridges.
some exiled drunks,
each clothed in his warm buzz,
move secret journeys on.
The city settles, sighs,
taxi cabs slice black strips through slick glaze,
each cat is its own jungle,
lush in tarmac dark,
from urban alleyways come strange, high, shrieking cries,
I lie here in the humming of the beast.
Outside the window,
each lamp-post is alert,
car-light shadows lurch searchbeams above me;
come to me peace and love me.......
on warm evenings when my heart is happy
the sound of traffic soothes me like the sea.
The faint twist of it in air,
the blissed and wish of it in smoke
invests the coloured world with now
like curtains that we enter through
drugs days to dreams
drops dreams to us and drifts,
(light lifting at the edges of you.)
Train blurs trees,
the rails unwinding,
hurls through night
snakes long on silver streaks
it shushes tunnels
streams past boxes
echoes bare black platforms stung with light
makes solid places angle and depart,
shifts through time
in river segments
locked on path
holding me and her in one bright square.
hole is where she was.
come she back
light bursts open,
flood of her.
wrap sleep in fur balls.
A fading light falls cruel on
the scrubby bushes of this wilderness
hold hordes of birds that sing an April dusk
while buds fill green and flowers shine to darkness.
Light sets thick,
and grey clouds shade and break,
lit with its own depth,
this red-edged blue
as one star opens, liquid crystal sound
of birds sinks silent,
streetlamps stud the land,
and underground trains rumble underground.
you you you
You love you plunging sacrament you want
you open secret, you incarnate screw,
flesh heaven this song ache of me
is you you you you you.
Photograph of the wind.
Birds supervise the mad leaves in their flight
which scatters reckless from the pointless rakes
of cold men in cold weather;
Autumn falls through Autumn.
A lone, bewildered tourist walks or stands
at Marble Arch, and traffic traps him there
separate within the aching wind
as everything is skating on thin air.
Well, warm round thing,
it seems we're here again
my brittle light, enriched and filled by you
swells beads of amber sweetness
which is love,
to feed our growing friendship,
which is true.
A thought of her in hollow bells
and marks the passage of the year,
this emptiness, this sadness leave no doubt
of our connection,
as my heart beats out,
and echoes with the thought of her.
Witch-hazel eyes, a perfume lingering,
this silence is in me, the world is loud,
a memory dislodges, opens out,
is you like dreams are you are everything.
A memory of how you smile and touch,
no memory could ever be enough,
I know you love, I know you love me, love
and I love you exactly twice as much.
When you speak of past affairs
an echo of mortality
frosts the instant brittle,
shows me time,
pinpoints this little room within the city.
Ragged dawn creeps open
spring flops out,
bold daffodils are drooping on limp stalks
the ragbag crows caw,
wheel above bare trees,
I make obeisance with crow-talk.
Crows over Iford
the whale-backed downs,
the whale-backed downs flow softly into mist
it is a time for silence
and a woman's hand trails through this spring.
Pirate crows curse dawn and her faint promise.
Trees store libraries of darkness in a thin embrace,
in ragged chorus
chant the name of summer in this place.
Sunlight hung through mist gilds green like gold,
grass and stone;
air ripples to the distance,
invoke a lazy god with purrs and moans,
repeat their spell as shade piles under leaves.
Doves lull time, they summon memory,
halt the moment, hypnotise the sight,
Summer plumbs a sunlit well in me
that plunges back to dove-chants, and to sunlight.
The landscape in the mind holds such a scene,
refracted and distilled within the brain,
and this is an imaginary time,
to be recalled when it recurs again.
A white track pushed across green rolling sea
Time and matter are themselves reflections
certain things are absolutely true......
Earth and water gather up and shatter
hidden from me by the words I say
and the salt spray
mingles with the
We used to chant of Ho Chi Minh
and Mao Tse Tung tripped off our tongues
how gaily we rejected sin
when we were young.
We saw what tied our parents down
and offered heresy and flowers
that silken net has caught us now
and it is ours.
That revolution never turned
those who stayed freaks are oddities
all our friends are dealers in
Even satire is not pure
John Birch is in league with Christ
Luther King, nailed to the door
We are all for bailing out
but cannot find a parachute
is this what our
sentence is :
we must commute ?
The Rolling Stones have gathered dust
We're left with no alternative
when all our dreams are gathered up