tea gone cold
its leaves fallen
to the bottom
of my cup—
autumn everywhere
where
and whom
shall I be?
the clock plays
its usual rhythm
sun coming up
on another
November Sunday
I fill a bag
with commas and stops
these broken eyes
that see one and one
half of everything—
light finds shapes
and all’s illusion
limbs shake
in a breeze
leaves of poems
fall here and there
I’ll let nature have me
The following is a selection of tanka from the past couple of years. Some of the following tanka were published in Modern English Tanka – my thanks go to Denis M. Garrison and Michael McClintock.
you wonder
if I talk to myself—
no, but
I keep in touch
by writing
after rain
the Van Gogh
of this evening sky
the smell
of wet paint
no joy in me tonight
I want to put my arms
through the sky
and hoist myself
into darkness
it comes down to this:
the ice-cube and I
losing our corners
in a glass
of cheap whisky
a phone call
from an old flame—
constellations
I cannot name
come out of the dark
what’s the matter with you?
I ask myself—
there is no answer
not even the breath
to fuel a reply
night terrors again
I splash my face
over the sink
and prepare myself
for the mirror
tens of attempts
at calling you
to tell you things
I hoped
I’d never have to
the editor says
these poems
are just sentences—
clouds just pass
rain just falls
the sickening speed
of time’s passage—
though I cling
to a blur of faces
I lose another voice
That night I wrote you
into my horror novel.
I set you down like a teacup
in the middle of it all –
the full moon, the howling wind,
the flesh-eating zombies
with a taste for wives.
I pushed you around
with the end of my pen,
and you were stubborn at first –
fine, leave me here you’d say,
there’s nothing scary
about your writing, anyway!
and you rubbed your arms,
armouring yourself
from the cold reality
that I may just be the best
Goddamn writer there is. And
then, with a flick of the wrist,
I introduced a spider, the size
of a modest condominium.
THIS BATH
This bath needs something.
So I squeeze in a drizzle of your Lux
for it was just standing there,
the bathroom light gazing through its pink,
those immortal italics beckoning
from the side of the bottle – slip into luxury,
they said, who’s going to know
you rejected the sporty shower gel,
that no nonsense bottle of Brut?
Soon, I’m giving in,
the foam rising like the walls in a lock
as I sink into your scent,
fall, guilt first, into the aromatic clouds
of your it’s-been-a-long-day soak.
Eventually, naturally, I’m singing
God Bless the Child
in the best Billie Holiday I can muster,
with all the inflections, the years worth
of hardship, blues and lines of white,
bouncing from tile to tile, bounding
through the enamel valley of the sink,
down the sleek chrome line of the shower,
to where your razor sits, ready
for the next pair of legs.
DAY OFF
While the afternoon light
daubs itself into the fleeting creases
of wet shirts on the line
before forcing entry into the house
without breaking glass or silence
I lay on the couch, sleeping
with my back to the world.
And to the room where
ornaments of mythical beasts
are leaping from their plinths
and flying around the fixtures,
breathing red hot porcelain
at the ivory chess pieces
left standing in a half-played game.
The vacuum cleaner goes hungry
in the cupboard under the stairs
while the characters in the novel
try to keep their balance
where I left them, blood rushing
to their heads in the open book,
placed face-down on the table.
Through the eye of the day
I thread my long strand of snooze,
sewing my head to a dream
in which I’m back at work
being strangled by a tie,
wondering whatever happened
to my day off.
LIBRETTO
Occasionally I’ll scour the airwaves
for a station playing opera – any
opera will do. As long as there is
some kind of musical dialogue, frothing
between the male and female; the tenor
and mezzo-soprano. And turning to you,
with one eyebrow raised, one hand
forming an O out of forefinger and thumb,
I’ll translate the conversation best I can:
“What would you like for dinner, darling?”
“Oh, I’m not fussed, what do we have?”
“Nothing exciting – I could whip us up an omelette…”
(Libretto first published in The Poetry Kit Magazine)
Visit from an old friend—
he guides his elephant
into the room.
In the city square,
the public sculpture
of our lovers’ spat.
Behind mum’s sofa,
my invisible friend,
still hiding.
At the dinner party,
the contortionist
puts his foot in his mouth.
Dieting—
I down twelve bottles
of slimming shake.
I’ve seen the light,
he says,
reaching for the switch.
In August I was asked by Alexis Rotella to take over as editor of Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu & Kyoka, an opportunity at which I jumped immediately. Issue 3 of the journal will be published online January 2010 and I’ve already received some fine submissions indeed! Send your quality senryu and kyoka to Prune Juice - for more information, visit http://prunejuice.wordpress.com.
My 2007 collection of tanka, The Darkening Tide, is now available to read in its entirity here.
Welcome to my newly-refurbished website. The nice people at WordPress have made it easy for us scribblers to share our stuff with the world, and in such a neat and tidy way. As well as refreshing my poetry pages frequently, I’ll also try to keep my blog up to scratch, but being a lazy sort of chap, you might notice large silent chunks – hell, if it worked for John Cage…
So, enjoy browsing and don’t forget to leave a comment at the blog should you feel inclined to do so. I’m off for coffee now.
