A very simple sketch of one of natures most magical contraptions. I also see them as portals and traps, something I've communicated here.
Cobweb
The hypnotic, maths-precise spiral hangs
In premonition of moth, midge and dew-drop,
A death-continuum live to chance, a trap of intention.
At its’ centre the cannibal jailer,
The captor
Whose sticky scurry and devouring frenzy
Remain changeless, unchanged
by variance in necessity or want.
Creation’s bored doodle lies sprung, baited,
The barb-wire in a no-mans-land
We will never enter.
I spent absolutely ages trying to get this one right, and I'm still not there yet. Its about a train journey I took from Devon back to London, and the psychological effects of winter. The weather seems like a constant battleground, and this is an attempt to rationalise that view.
First Cold Day
As our seats for winters Panzer-attack
Scuttle over Wiltshire, the sibilant chill snarls
Through framed-doors;
We, ignored incidentals, trundle through the wind-din,
Seasons erupting around us. The sabre-blade ether
Is alive with a brittle sheen:
Out bows autumn,
Rusty umber intermediary,
Whose exit leaves motion forbidden
In the absolute-zero stillness, edgy
Like a pre-brawl bar, its tension
Permeating the train.
The leaves auburn inferno,
Al fresco, sweep back to the skyline:
Giant black spiders of birds nests rest
In the dew-shot light around their wooden webs.
On the platform,
Diesel stained air astonishes
And feels brittle.
One season has ruptured into another
Whose Roman man-of-war spikiness
And pre-gene vernacular are more than familiar,
More than known.
Here, in the trenches of the warring seasons
The cutting gusts are gunfire
And settling snowflakes the embodiment
Of eleventh hour armistice.
Heres one of my speciality Nature/Surrealism pieces. Dusk seems to me to be a very poetic time of day, and heres an example of that. Evesong
Birds call. I rest away
And eventually escape the tangle of sun
Knotted before me, drowning in its' penumbra,
My last breathe's now dust
Carried with the clocks ticks
On a breeze burnished with honey
And cut wet grass.
Slowly, the drowning sun sinks
Below the horizons' choppy lip
And a ghost-moon rails up
To gulp down the milk of noon
In climbing, being made solid
More with each risen inch.
Nights' Sisyphus hoists once more
His dumb load skyward to rest
Among a shatter of stars sprinkled
Like mirror-dust into ink.
This is my attempt to beat that old devil of writers block- I knew I had something to say but couldn't find a suitable form, so I just started to write about the weather...
Rain-flower
Hardly has the rain begun
Then the minds shoot comes to bud-
Pithy energy starts
At the skulls base before spreading
Forward to the temples and pupils,
The fledgling life delicate
And tenuous as a rainbow,
No less full of hope.
Slowly, with the uneven creep
Of starting-to-cool lava
Each minute finger unfists itself,
Haemorrhaging purples and blues as it goes:
More and more and more and more
Colour bursting into existence
Until a violence of yellow is revealed,
Smash in the centre, brimmed to overflowing.
No matter how many days weigh down
On this, my minds freshest bloom,
The sepia-wilt of time passing will not rob
Its' brilliance or exuberance-
Its air no summer breeze nor enemy
Winters gusting, rather my own senses fed it
And now capture it in constant genesis,
Never to be destroyed,
Never really having existed.
This is a landscape of the Australian landscape I wrote for a friend who lives there; I've also tried to comment on our relationship with time.
She
The sun scorched horizon creeps closer
With evening, shunned by the sun and its servants
The distance lessens until the lip of the world
Quivers, and disappears.
Tinder, bush and scrub lie waiting for the morning,
Scowling at the lack of water.
Night-noises crawl from holes and nests
And the desert convulses with whoops and cracks;
A snake humbles a shrew, to be humbled in turn
By a scorpion. The earth tells no lies here,
She never even speaks.
Westward and eastward, straight up and down
Four oceans lap at the shores, surf roars itself on,
Triangles of plastic zipping and dodging amongst the boom,
Sailors hunting for more life than land can give them.
Sun up, orange groves release their citrus calling-card;
The bright fruit and sheer flat ultra-blue above
bruise the eye in compariosn.
nature whispers secrets deftly;
Colours reveal an amazing truth, told in code.
The earth tells no lies here
She never even speaks.
The shrill hundred-truck howl of half-a-mach engines
Fires for the first time- the sounds of nature
Are overhauled. On landing, her rustles
And bustle slowly re-emerge, and in the surf
She is deafening, in every atom
Of every droplet there is a message,
On every leaf a tiny reminder.
'Everything I have done is crystallised
In the present', she says, 'and so too is everything
You have done. The past is as real as the future. Consult it as you would a friend.'
The earth tells no lies here.
She does not need to.
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