Blast

cumulonimbus squall

of a headache

tore me out of delirium

to blister pack paracetamol

choked almost

that raw pharmaceutical taste

mug of tea

apple spiced

wishing the phone

would cease

exhausted now

as silence fell

I took to being asleep

with tainted tongue

and abstract thoughts

Whistle Me Away

when apes discover genocide

I wonder how long I will linger

on the verdant green and blue

insulated by my own sickness

that brackish bile

of human contempt

apes will sing not our mythology

but one of burnt forests

and dried out lakes

human carcasses so vile

carrion crows refuse

to dine without the thought

of consequence

and I will lie down

human leaf litter

becoming fertiliser of the new

season a generation

or era where the truth of nature

will win

Chris Lawrence

Eggs….

I broke an egg

soft boiled

watched the yolk

spread

in the whorehouse

of my soul

i thought

of my yolk

spread

over your breast

as I kneel

and urge

over

your sleeping

shape

my mess

your anger

limp disaster hung

itself

on my brittle facade

you left

exit by the door

i now look at

knowing

this egg will

not taste any better

 

beat me at the 4a.m read

i see a page that gives
words once as progeny
becoming blue scented nothing,
perched over it
in a damp saffron autumn
umbrella a discreet protection,
i had bathed in those dreams
yearning to be magellan
seeking
beyond the evil trolls,
petals in the forest
delicate uncut,
giving kisses on the souls
which resonate to those who are dead,
strawberry meadows
by the river
tiny seeded red,
dont go asleep
or you will miss
the elephants post themselves
about the pillar,
returning the hopeless
as is the passionate,
consuming beyond sainthood and glory,
arriving back
to a turned page
with fingers that have ancient tremors

je suis charlie

in those glancing shadows
of inky truth and pattern
there would be no ennui,

condemn not capitulate

to the bugle call of atrocity,
it is only anarchy
not religion,
that has to be illustrated

by pencil sharp sword

render and portray
a prophets wisdom abused
to generate and perpetuate
a list of abhorrent terror
activated by those
with misguided sense of being

steady hand describes

that no single act
will be unaccounted

a channel for truth

that should not be
a satirists end

#je suis charlie
#je suis ahmed

sunday whirl

Denise Levertov – Olga Poems

denise levertov olgas poems

dancer 95

violin bow cu through gelatin
as outstretched arm
folding it under her chin
tremor of strings felt in her loins
of love beyond passion
love beyond denial,
for this man much older
who watched damp eyed
each point and step
holding pose for sulfur flash
yet moonlight and day
better illuminated
caught in a dark place
yet so natural
she would ascend
imprinted and recognized
after camera covered away
she danced
knowing now also caught
on paper in charcoal
it may of been the end
but she reached to the future
moving expressively
beyond fantasy

art, photography

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas

Degas self portrait 1895

Degas self portrait 1895

composer, music

Ernest Chausson

Helen Hahn performs Ernest Chausson Poeme Op 25

Ferenc Juhasz – Birth Of A Foal

As May was opening the rosebuds,

elder and lilac beginning to bloom,

it was time for the mare to foal.

She’d rest herself, or hobble lazily

after the boy who sang as he led her

to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.

They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,

the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.

Then the mare lay down,

sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.

The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows

surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.

Later, when even the hay slept

and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,

the foal was born. Hours the mare

spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.

And the foal slept at her side,

a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.

Straw never spread as soft as this.

Milk or snow never slept like a foal.

Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,

waved at the world and skipped away.

Up staggered the foal,

its hooves were jelly – knots of foam.

Then day sniffed with its blue nose

through the open stable window, and found them –

the foal nuzzling its mother,

velvet fumbling for her milk.

Then all the trees were talking at once,

chickens scrabbled in the yard,

like golden flowers

envy withered the last stars.

Gyorgi Petri – Hanging Question

Here I’m sitting on the bed,
I can see all the way out to the doorway,
I can see
my wintercoat, my hat,
my scarf
on the hanger.
Why not
my wintercoat, my hat
my scarf
sitting here on the bed,
and me hanging
on the hanger?

Would they watch me?