April 22, 2007

It waits in the mirror
like a photograph you were cut from.
It is the dark plane behind your curls,
the blindness you unfurl to, tentative
as a boy by a cliff edge testing clouds
for firmness like fruit that poisons

once in a blue moon. It offers and you
feel barbs itch to root inside you
and lay bloodworm eggs, the opposite
of wings. Sometimes it takes shape,
when the shell teeters to crack and pour
or when you are stilled enough to hear
feathers wake like a rift in dukkha.


You always wanted that mannequin. The one
from the charity shop, cheap and battered,
just a torso and head, but somehow

complete. I bought you the silver wedding dress instead;
you desired that equally, but it didn’t fit you.

You loved it still and hung it on your wall
like the wraith of a mirror, and when you were drunk
you’d put it on and dance with your head
held as rigid as a ruler, then fall

legless, arms lost in fabric, body still
in twilight, curves as hard as nutshells.


April 2, 2007

Every poet must write at least one poem
about poetry. It must fail beautifully.
It must exalt at least one cliche.

Where to begin this doomed romance?
As usual, with flowers. Poets often write
about roses, because they resemble

hearts unfolding. Poet’s hearts
are ripe arrows. They yearn like exit wounds
waiting to happen. Poet’s hearts

are pomegranates. They squish easily.
Their revenge is to leave
too many seeds in the teeth.

I wasn’t awarded ‘blog of the minute’. It is the first of April.

I lack a sense of humour, so I will just point out that somewhere, probably in sheltered accomodation, some poor blogger is slitting their wrists after the single ray of hope in their miserable existence has been blotted from the now-merciless face of their suffering. Not me, I hasten to add. I just had chips and then I wrote a poem.

I am easily pleased.



April 1, 2007

I’ve just been to see The 300, or 300 or whatever. Fascist and often weakly scripted but fun enough. Earlier I visited a monastery.

Apparently my little breath of ether has been appointed ‘blog of the minute’. Ignoring the possibility that this award is an attempt to cast aspersions on the stature of my readers, I am now basking in my brief soak of glory.

Thanks to whoever is responsible. I may get round to another poem this evening if I can quieten the inner voice screaming ‘SPAAARRRRTAAAAAAAANS’.