an anthology of poetry October 2019
Hathor
For a thousand years
at the far edge of each sea
four pillars held up
the cloth of the sky.
Each year, when the seasons turned,
the stars of the Milky Way aligned, lighting the earth like day.
Here, Hathor lived under the path of the sun.
In the garden, in the sycamore grove
she met the dead,
dusty and tired on their long journey.
She gave them figs and wine
and ordered music.
Together they danced
until the earth’s rim shone molten gold.
until the dead, sated and restored, walked on.
A thousand years turned. And turned again.
The pillars crumbled.
The seas dried to mud, to sand,
blew away on the desert wind.
Tonight, I am travelling east.
In my own way, dusty from the road, and worn.
To discover
although they no longer blaze
at the turn of the seasons,
the stars have not forgotten Hathor.
The milky way still rings with her music.
What has died inside me
does not need tears.
It is tired from the long journey,
hungry for figs
and wine and dancing.
Light Keeper
Some nights the sea is still.
Moonlight lays an invitation
across the vast water
to the sky.
He cleans lamp, floor, brasswork.
He trims the wick.
Some nights the sea boils.
The wind screams.
Panes smash and
his cold fingers work through the night
to keep the lamp burning til sunrise.
Some days he walks the shoreline
picking through
flotsam and seaweed
discarded by the sea.
The men who live
sing of this sea
roaring for her wildness,
not the lamp trimmed, cleaned,
on the light keeper’s solitary vigil.
In the shipwreck book
there are no entries
for ships guided safely home.
Dancing
You watch him rock and stumble
When he's standing on the train
You tell me he's not falling
He's dancing to the rhythm
Of the music in his brain.
When my words get loud and messy
And they come out wrong again
Maybe I'm just singing
I'm singing out the verses
Of the music in my brain.
I know you find me foolish
I know loving me’s a strain
Maybe I'm not failing
I'm moving to the beating
Of the music in my brain.
You watch him rock and stumble
When he's standing on the train
You tell me he's not falling
He's dancing to the rhythm
The wild syncopation
Of the music in his brain.
Lent
MAZE
Seven rings
scratched into red earth.
The drumming
relentless on the journey here
crumbles to silence
in the desert.
One by one all my belongings
become heavy. Unbearable.
Reduced to the dance
my naked feet spiral in
smaller and smaller
than the eye of a needle
than a single grain
of desert sand.
WINDS
The four winds
snake across the desert.
Blowing straight through.
Ghost voices hiss:
Woman. How hollow you are
BLADE
Old blade
scratching back to
white bone
Old fingers
Laying bones on
red earth
As always
Bones missing
Bones broken
Spaces
filled with ten
thousand years.
In the desert
even fire
is brittle.
Devil wind whispers:
Woman
How can you make flesh
when you have no voice to sing?
Walk away.
And I will
raise red earth
scatter these bones
bury your footprints.
RAVEN
Too dry to bleed.
Red sand in my mouth. eyes, all my pores.
The desert,
burying me from the inside out,
fills me with the rasping caw
of sand song.
Even this I surrender.
Prayer For Mother
Based on psalm 23
At dawn the last of her night stars steer my path.
through the trees I see the way.
I see the way.
When the sun is hot
I rest in her green grass,
I drink from her river.
I am restored.
She lifts me high in her expectation.
She holds me close when I am hurt.
She talks me through my fears.
I have heard death’s low drum, but
She knows the smallness of death in the vast universe
and is not afraid.
She feeds me, she nurtures my body, she fortifies me.
Like a child I surrender
I rest my head against her.
She will bring sanctuary to my weary, weary soul.
For all of the days
of my life.
Barnacles
One day we might live on a boat
Just you and me together
To watch the whole world drifting by
The word that rhymes is ‘forever’.
Forever is a mighty long time my love
When we’re both simple mortals
But I’ll give you what I have to give
The word that rhymes is ‘portals’.
A portal that goes ten thousand miles
Will take a little adjustment
But I would follow you anywhere
The word that rhymes is ‘encrustment’.
Like barnacles on the bough of a boat
And awesome alliteration
Or we’ll die trying happy old fools
Surely nothing rhymes? But
the score remains
Love all.
Good Night
My bed is in another room
down the hall and left at the spoon
which should be fork but doesn't rhyme
neither does knife.
good night.
Plus forks are for roads and kitchen drawers
these are immutable cutlery laws
they do not belong in my hallway at night
neither do tigers.
good night.
Predictable Scissors
blue door
roses, terracotta pots
two cars
children
tall, long limbed
tennis after school
clothes from the better mall, further away
teeth clean and sensible
She
enjoys the library. A full diploma after all
those little things
good to get out
He
indoor soccer
the one beer
maybe a dentist
maybe a guitar
singing with a fragile voice
sometimes
Rob perhaps
rugs, throws
modern with country elements
orange accents
lamps for light pools, in-laws for Sundays
something different this year
a new anorak in lilac
stones and Tuesdays straightforward
garden centers, aisle seven unproblematic
Kafka avoided, cricket encouraged, the shoe cupboard
anniversary cards, ribbons,
predictable scissors
The Mountain Behind The City
Earth’s brightest children
how far you have travelled
on ribbons of clay
to shout at the wind
to roar at the sun
Faith moves the mountains
Faith moves us all.
I watched the first ones
dance and decree
that they could move mountains
that they could move all.
Where are they now?
I heard the songs
from the next ones who came.
And the next.
All the fire and blood to
destroy and rebuild.
I’ve watched it all.
Where are they now?
In your city. Around you.
Their ashes are here
in the mud of your bricks.
And now you are shouting
certain that you will outlive the sun.
That you will move mountains
That you will move all.
But I have not moved.
I have not moved.
Drift
The riverbeds shine silver
with light twice reflected - sun to moon to water.
You could follow these back up the mountain,
picking your way amongst the stones and rock pools.
Or you could turn around.
Pull in the oars.
After such a long journey in the sun,
you could rest.
In time, a flute would sing across the lake.
You would begin to drift.
Perhaps you would hit reeds, fallen trees, sand banks,
You could push back.
You might drift close to the shore,
to campfires of travellers pulled up for the night.
If they call out, you could bring in your boat,
share wine and sing with mandolins.
When the fires are ash, you would leave.
In time the sky would lighten.
In time you would come out on a wide river
to the flute’s theme
realised by the full ensemble
of the morning orchestra.
