Kitchenware

Kitchenware


All day they stand by –
the salt, the pepper –
to dispense their seasoning
on egg or broth or pasta:

passed from hand to hand,
pushed over, stood up;
and for tardiness
tapped smartly on the table.

Now it is night in the kitchen.
A faint gleam
from a street lamp
illuminates their glaze:

once more they are objects,
whose reticence breaks down.
In silence that clicks like ice
once more they are china.





+++++++

Kitchenware

Kitchenware


All day they stand by –
the salt, the pepper –
to dispense their seasoning
on egg or broth or pasta:

passed from hand to hand,
pushed over, stood up;
and for tardiness
tapped smartly on the table.

Now it is night in the kitchen.
A faint gleam
from a street lamp
illuminates their glaze:

once more they are objects,
whose reticence breaks down.
In silence that clicks like ice
once more they are china.





+++++++

Romanian River Candid

Romanian River Candid


Having no more film to fall back on
I revelled in the light’s temperature –
wasn’t sure if that blue look was cooler or
warmer than the Mediterranean –
twiddled for an F-number
to hold the great structure
of the water grove; and shutter speed
to catch the movement of the water;
and as the boat progressed through heat
into the arcs and haloes of the Danube,
I clicked away absurdly, sure that
each ingress of light would find,
in shape’s curvature and flight
of colour through angled lens,
a pause inside my Practika
to make a bright transfer

like the arched pavilion of the branches
in the wide pools our launch passed through –
a vision on the blank void
that, with no film to fall back on,
I would see, if not again,
then just this once.

Romanian River Candid

Romanian River Candid


Having no more film to fall back on
I revelled in the light’s temperature –
wasn’t sure if that blue look was cooler or
warmer than the Mediterranean –
twiddled for an F-number
to hold the great structure
of the water grove; and shutter speed
to catch the movement of the water;
and as the boat progressed through heat
into the arcs and haloes of the Danube,
I clicked away absurdly, sure that
each ingress of light would find,
in shape’s curvature and flight
of colour through angled lens,
a pause inside my Practika
to make a bright transfer

like the arched pavilion of the branches
in the wide pools our launch passed through –
a vision on the blank void
that, with no film to fall back on,
I would see, if not again,
then just this once.