25.1.2012 • Fantasie upon John Donneland II

Fantasie upon John Donneland II

sweet is another name for bittersoft; if you believe me,
stay and listen to a score more words of frets and necks with hands entwin’d and fingers touching,
a moment’s eternal circulation of your iris
while you wonder the seconds away, away, away
why stay, stay, a second more will break that chord
will break that cord that circumscribes your heart and hides me from you,
you would but blink once more, take a short, high breath
rise-and-fall, rise-and-fall soft murmurs of my sighs,
             I am no more, am no more
                          of the hopeful colours to your eyes

30.12.2011 • hipster girl

Because I dare dare not no more.

hipster girl

there's a little hipster girl
I met through a baroque
révérence to anarchists on a summer night
she wears jeans
but wears them well
(with a subtly enigmatic smile)
her hair changes hues as the seasons come and go

there's this little hipster girl
I met through friends that knew her not
she blushes every second phrase
but wears it well
(with a chequered shirt)
her hair half hides her eyes sometimes
almost conveniently

she's a weird mix, this hipster girl
unpredictably devious
the other day
she stole a packet of Karelias
with a smile I've made up in my mind
(I bet she hid her eyes with her blonde summer hair)
the other day
she took a thick black marker
and wrote BORING BORING BORING
all over my brand new diary
then flew away
in a normal airplane
wings and wheels and turbines and all
as if it were no big deal

this little hipster girl
she lives across the sea
and Shakespeare is so old
so predictably
unbearably poetic

her hair is brown now
like the barks of winter-trees
but still flows like the sea
between us

24.01.2012 • A singer’s complaint

A singer’s complaint

I wish I had a voice to sing my griefs
and griefs to sing
griefs that were singable
signable
but what petty purpose is inherent in this life
of easy negligence
forgotten diligence
words spread thin in a sea of words
every one making the others suffocate
for lack of limiting space
and for the excruciatingly quiet
desire
to fly

I say let those loves loved which you left behind
plot and play with plumes and plums out of their own exotic climes
let you for those loves loved in leisure realise their true place
let poetry be writ and prose expand
let roses wear their colours
and recorders forget their call
for alas
the only lovely play is hid behind the curtains of time
and I concealéd by the same

24.01.2012 • Fantasie upon John Donneland

Fantasie upon John Donneland

the night drags on mercilessly as any
day pitilessly asserts the omnipotence of Τime
breaks every sacred pact in the fleeting bastard’s name
not for cruelty but cool cold mercilessness as if
it were not so as if it
is not so that
my very bones feel the grinding of his teeth my very
heart is sick with self-inducéd grief
        for running from him
           like a coward
             and a thief

20.1.2012 • never ever did I

Variations on an old drinking game’s all-new variant.

never ever did I

never ever did I write a poem about you
when I saw you last
you were in your summer colours then
off to the far north
away from the recession kiln
and to the sweet care
of a cool summer breeze

never ever did I keep you in my mind
for days on end
in a ragged sleepless night
and in a calm autumn after-noon
a lollipop gone rogue
its stick lost
in a dance that should've lasted too long

never ever did I caress your face
lightly with my note-hard finger-tips
kiss your eyes into blushing
kiss your cheeks into burning
kiss your lips
in a little day-dream

15.1.2012 • elleipsis

elleipsis

ἔλλειψις, εως, ἡ, a leaving out, ellipse, in grammar;
an omission, or a want
a silence, lack
desire for something
long gone
or long to come
a void
devoid
of those
sighs which
if made full
it would invite
and which now
invite it
an ellipsis of sorrow
numbed by the lack of joy

~

I wrote a poem on declining wit
on footsteps in the empty house
at night, footsteps trailing
into the senseless silence
and unnerving quiet
of the ticking clock
(oh my poor dear old
grandfather-clock
who ticks dumb
agony into
your last
one-thousand
strokes
tick-tock
tic-
toc)
.
.
.

11.1.2012 • barren

barren

a silent day
speaks more words
than ten eloquent nights
that chatter all their hours away
in expressive soliloquies
and pregnant battles of wit and emotion

I walked in the wilderness
and through the valley of shadow
where the arid dust is the colour of ash
and the trees are white as death
no evidence remaining of their scorchéd leaves

I floated through the pale vale
of silent souls, of mouths sewn stale
and speechless in their awe and terror,
into the putrid petrifiéd earth
(the ground ground to dust a thousand times
clay'd in stagnant ponds of tears
fired in a steep-skyline kiln
far too hot and far too long
cracking now
licking the edge of the vicious circle)
and in there emergéd free
surrounded and contain'd
by rock and soil

One day I ran and ran and ran
and ran into the sea
and what games we played
the foam and I
the little summer waves
under the summer clouds

And then for ten
I spoke my soul out
to motion and to speed
and to desire and hope–


a barren day
says more than
a hundred fruitful nights