Monthly Archives: May 2010

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How do you write a tune in words?
Or, indeed, the smell of morning.
The sound of thoughts
buzzing in your head,
is it like a swarm of bees?
But ideas are silent
until they crash, and scream.
Not that silent after all.

I woke up today
and suddenly
nothing happened,
and everything didn’t.

So I had breakfast.
Bathed in new light,
robed in the rays of the sun,
I sat in my backyard,
with a bowl of cereal.

Two, three, maybe four bees
buzzing around my head
as if sounding my thoughts.
Or maybe, just maybe,
curious about my cereal.

So I ate my breakfast.
Humming the words of a tune,
enjoying the morning’s smell
and the idea of silence.

Published on The Literateur: July 2010

A(nother) reply

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For Alex, who is pedantic.

The apple crumble is landlocked, piled high behind the glass.
Closing time is an hour and a half.
I am not flying anywhere, nor am I waiting.
I am filling time.
Trying to care about printed words of stark fact and instruction which do not inspire my mind.

I am more interested in the cappuccino,
which is coffee by the way, just with added clouds of fluffy milk.
Perhaps not in Italy
Where Cappuccino is breakfast,
Coffee is short and black,
Sold in tiny little cups and drunk very fast.

I, However,
am in Leeds.
We northern folk don’t think like that.
Anyway.
The cappuccino is my sea,
It soothes and washes the shores of my sometimes idle mind
As I peer out from behind my dusty glasses I see the world in 24 degrees.

Yet if I was to use a wider view (perhaps a 42)
My position would be somewhat larger than life.

(RQ)

A reply

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This is my song, both strife and succour.

I fight for hope, for surety, for my friend, for the blood’s clarion call to the heart,
for das Ewigweibliche denied its place in art,
for my humanity, for tremendous sins and for gruelling virtues,
for everyman, for the voiceless call on the wind,
for proud mountains and for hallucinatory cities,
for shelleytolkiendylanbrowne, for ninareginajanisnewsome,
for all the future poets, for the tree,
for they who made me.
Above all for love in a barren landscape
and then for my empty self.

For the vessel which I am.

(MD)

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Do I dare?

You see, she is our mind,
our soul. Psyche.
But him, he is a rascal
on wings, a seducer.
They are both beautiful
of course. Perfect, one could say.
And yet…

Do I dare?
Do I dare reach out
just a little further?
She is so close
I can taste her lips
My arms around her
(x marks the spot)
hers around me.
She is so close
I can hear the drumroll.

And indeed she was.
She still is, still perfect
and perfectly still.
The mortal and the marble no longer
at strife.

Do I dare?
Do I dare give in
let him have me
let him love me?
I can feel his touch
the scent of his hair
and skin – and wings.
Oh, just a little further…

…and cut.

Lines Before (the) Air

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‘…ready for inspection’
crackles the voice from the speaker.
‘I can’t get to sleep’
hums the voice in my head,
‘I think about the implications’
It was a show on television
Or a guy with a guitar
..on television. In a show.
From a land down under,
a man at work.
Does everyone here let their mind wander?
There’s the family with kids
The babies with the bibs
The hen do group, all in pink,
average age: forty-two (I think)
the travelling couple, lost in each other
the teenage girl, who looks like her mother
a whole row of people reading The Times
(This is new, I’m using rhymes!)
‘…documents ready for inspection’
We’re all borderers. On the brink
on the edge. Ready to go.
‘I think about the implications’
It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning.
It is a gorgeous Saturday morning.
Where are we going?