Sunday 30 April 2023

Paint Poem


Day Thirty

I like a poem because it's not like a painting.
Because I'll confidently cradle something
stainless; hold the exceptional eye of it,
which is sarsen grey. It's accurate masonry.

A poem is trapezoidal.
It will sit on the ground, you can walk
around, point prosodic
right at the solidity of the stanza.
The straight line in a meter, go -
run your thumb assuredly
all along the perfect surface;
Any line with a defect
lies forgotten in the quarry.

That's why I like a poem. At least
in theory, shaped pure and
fine-finished as a citadel.
But I wonder if Machu Picchu thinks
- or even knows - about the faults
in her foundation. She's sitting up there
on the nerve of a natural defect,
and she don't give a damn.

So I did some painting, to be like the Inca.
To be painted, myself, whimsical-like.
And the acrylics were so alien, they
were such a clamour of colour, they
were howling! All striving -
Idiots! - mucking and muddling
and setting themselves too previous.
I almost kicked over the easel.

But, like the Inca, I learned
a bit about building. About drainage.
I began to see the sky bloom purple,
fruit ripening in stone,
an uncertainty of green in the grass.
I built something new, and I found 
I did not so much mind the cracks. 
Okay, it's a little skew whiff.
My brush, he forgets the meter;  
only knows a ruffled rhythm 
of colour, that might?
breathe life to a sarsen stone.
Even, perhaps, in purple tones,
refute the sky and its blueness.
So step back, squint your eyes;
It looks just like a poem.

Saturday 29 April 2023

The Underestimated Lettuce

Day Twenty-Nine

People call me

The Underestimated Lettuce

Not out loud but

I see it in the way

They discard me from their burger at the barbecue


Friday 28 April 2023

An Uncoupling

Day Twenty-Eight

With the tiniest throbs and wobbles,

the Moon is slipping from our grasp.

Incandescent with rage but

carefully swept clean.

With a very precise curve,

she might make herself invisible

or a puff of distant gossamer,

perfectly arrayed for the creation of stars.

She has suddenly found out about the wind,

setting hurricanes to spin off like tops.

In some sense, gravity does not exist.

It makes the Moon no less interesting,

or odd, just more explicable.

The work of science is at an end,

like confessing a murder.

How stupid of me not to have thought of it -

the single best idea that anyone ever had;

to merely predict future events exactly.

She won't reach the Oort cloud for another ten thousand years.

Assembled from notes in Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.

The Fox of Gluttony


Day Twenty-Seven

It had been a hot day

And Lizzy was glad she'd worn linen.

Having put in a jolly good shift, soon,

the sun would be heading for bed

and the blackbirds, 

with the conclusion of their encores,

sang Goodnight, God bless.

Then, a peculiar quietude

slunk into the evening.

As though the venerable ash

had taken up, lightly, a knife and

crystal flute, and tinkle-tapped the day.

There was not a soul at the bus stop.

The air hung, as if trampolining.

Into this stillness, there sauntered

a fox. Brazen as the moon is full and

russet, with a deadpan panache.

From the clasp of her jaw was slung

an extraordinarily plump hen.

The fox noted Lizzy by the bus stop.

And seeing there were no buses

nor cars, nor dogs, nor children,

and seeing that the dusk was ripe for walking,

she stepped oh-so softly into twilight,

taking home her remarkably fat chicken.

Wednesday 26 April 2023

Portrait of an Un-known Woman


Day Twenty-Six

Let me exhibit a woman,

it's not important who.

Notice her hair has altered since

it was familiar with my fingers.

Her cheek is very bare, due

to the removal of my thumb.

Don't you think it's troubling, how

her glacier eye will not meet mine?

Just forget about who she is, and

don't ask what made this

wrinkle manifest.

All I know is a cruelty

around her mouth,

always asking

Why did you not kiss me?


Tuesday 25 April 2023

Cactus Flower


Day Twenty-Five

I'd lain so long, bones in the sand,

desolate. Bloodless. How - 

a morning mutes the half-light

(just twinkling) 'til

the detonation of a blackbird.

Such a fury/joy eruption, I've

not felt since I was startled

by the cactus flower.

Clarion plume from the habit

of a Mandarin duck, fanning

an eye (sudden) at the sun.

And I blazed orange,

like the cock-of-the-rock, and

gnashed my teeth white-

hot, delirious with

the waxy fat of a succulent

squeezed between my fingers

(juice running).

Come dusk, the show was over.

The flower left me

mute as the morning,

A palm full of spines.

Monday 24 April 2023

Q Review


Day Twenty-Four

Hello and welcome
to the Capital Letter Review
The issue is Q.

A letter of élan
accented French
with an august axis
distinguished from your
humdrum Cs or Es.
The undisputed
aristocracy of alphabet.

But we're so font-full,
some have begun
to doubt this heritage, 
feeling words
containing Q
carry a certain pretence.
Younger generations
increasingly observe
its reliance on u.

Let's look at Qs on the market:

The Georgian Q
It sits, a
doltish dog, asking
Shall I fetch a u?

The Courier Q
Just look at this loafer, this
Four-twenty surfer, just
Go get a job
(and a u).

Old-man Arial Q, who
has strayed the nursing home
stick-leaning, wondering
where'd I put my u?

Our quarterly review has qualms
About this quaint and quirky quantity, it
Hardly qualifies quintessential, say,
Even within this quick quintuple, it's
Quietly become quite antiquated.

Let us be honest
with letters
it's all about character.
This convoluted O, so
co-dependent is
redundant and rare but
It's hardly worth
waiting in line.

How Q pales in the
high-kick dynamic 
of wonderkid K
Awarded five-stars in September.

Paint Poem

  Day Thirty I like a poem because it's not like a painting. Because I'll confidently cradle something stainless;  hold the exceptio...