Here the capital letter hauls
There the comma fails
Here an exclamation of surprise
The pause is sick in my throat
I say a bleak hole
Swallows yoke and fell
And rules:-dots and days
The kiss on a cheek
And bison all in
And there surveyors stand
Readymade for reinvention.
Live without pretenses, live So that, finally, You draw towards yourself the love Of space, hear the future.*
One should walk along the beach
and see winter spacing itself between
people, but don’t fill in the gaps. Leave them
to chance and feel the sand between your toes,
sinking into soft ambiguity. Others may find your
path, step inside, perhaps, but keep to yours,
seaweed on one side and the tide, inching
closer, on the other until your paths
converge (it won’t retreat or apologise)
and your feet are fully submerged.
Your footprints will disappear without trace
and, finally, you can say I live.
I may walk this beach again, but, until then,
I live in the margins of time and place.
*Boris Pasternak, “To be famous isn’t decent” Translation by Bob Perelman and Kathy Lewis in Glad and Weissbort (1978),Russian Poetry: The Modern Period
The fairy was past caring
and – half-dazed – smiled.
Captain America swung on his thread,
ready to catch her. It was a good idea
to put the tree near the window. See the crystals
catch the light and the clouds.
At night, I dream of you. You do what I do,
which is odd, but the brain gathers
and tends to both memory and fantasy the same.
Nobody thinks twice or makes sense.
Planes carry on taxiing down country lanes
trimming hedges with their wings.