Deep Roots

Poetry Pivotal 2

These hesitations, advances,
doublings back & crossings out,
snakes-and-ladders, scrapings
at opaque prisms of light

a Tolkien ordeal of
winding precipices and milky depths
that takes me to the realisation
I am clinging to a secret

that leads and holds me back –
it’s the reason the horizon’s tilting
all ways, and why the poem
is suspended in a tunnel of jet

until its scraps and stages
gather into one shape and make
a faint beam for the next few steps,
a yellow circle for the white page,

the beginning of a re-enacting
in the arc of a new shedder of light
more positive than torch or match,
a strong light mirrored, sun

in a distant morning, reaching here.
My fighting black characters straddle
the bridge; lying back on a ledge
I drink the safe shadow and go on.


+++

Deep Roots

Poetry Pivotal 2

These hesitations, advances,
doublings back & crossings out,
snakes-and-ladders, scrapings
at opaque prisms of light

a Tolkien ordeal of
winding precipices and milky depths
that takes me to the realisation
I am clinging to a secret

that leads and holds me back –
it’s the reason the horizon’s tilting
all ways, and why the poem
is suspended in a tunnel of jet

until its scraps and stages
gather into one shape and make
a faint beam for the next few steps,
a yellow circle for the white page,

the beginning of a re-enacting
in the arc of a new shedder of light
more positive than torch or match,
a strong light mirrored, sun

in a distant morning, reaching here.
My fighting black characters straddle
the bridge; lying back on a ledge
I drink the safe shadow and go on.


+++

The Shop in Soho

The Shop in Soho

Madmoiselle Maigret and her detective
father outside the Algerian
coffee store on Old Compton Street:
in a culture of parkas
and hoods, his trilby stands out –
he a smoker of pipes, she
in tights and blue shoes.
Together they look
at the coffee makers, closely, considering…

a gift for Madame Maigret.
While she goes in to pay, he regards
this Soho, as if a Kasbah.
Alone on the pavement, he stands for Bonjour;
he stands for au revoir;
he stands guard
for Parisien Savoir,
for self respect
and the daily grind,
for love and the love
of the smell of ground coffee.

For tobacco
for Mystery,
pour La Vie.


+++

The Shop in Soho

The Shop in Soho

Madmoiselle Maigret and her detective
father outside the Algerian
coffee store on Old Compton Street:
in a culture of parkas
and hoods, his trilby stands out –
he a smoker of pipes, she
in tights and blue shoes.
Together they look
at the coffee makers, closely, considering…

a gift for Madame Maigret.
While she goes in to pay, he regards
this Soho, as if a Kasbah.
Alone on the pavement, he stands for Bonjour;
he stands for au revoir;
he stands guard
for Parisien Savoir,
for self respect
and the daily grind,
for love and the love
of the smell of ground coffee.

For tobacco
for Mystery,
pour La Vie.


+++

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.