Motes

The shaft of late sun

cut her body aslant from

shoulder to hip, picking out the

faint albino hairs, the riot of

priapic milk-glands about her

tumescent nipple, the shadowed

underhang of her breast, the

heave of her stomach after such

unaccustomed exercise, the

drops of sweat trickling to her navel

and the dark hair below now

bright as a bush full of raindrops.

As I lay back her hand sought me,

hoping for more, and the sun

caught the motes—some no doubt

her skin, some mine—slowly

settling through slashed air

to make one flesh.

Icebergs

Some poems are like icebergs

calving from the glacier that

flows from birth to death, memories

frozen within their cyanotic depth,

sometimes clear, sometimes

smeared with love, lust,

jealousy, desire, antipathy,

ambivalence, all crystallized in

immobile splendour, all unique, all

right and wrong, all destined to

drip away into an ocean no more

salty for all their tears.

Finding Alaska

I found Alaska in my

cold kitchen amidst

food I suddenly

couldn’t stomach,

tempting drink,

photos that are oddly

frameless, the

ghosts of good times.

Makers

Some make things happen,

others merely attend:

some bring gifts or stories,

some just finish the dregs;

some offer help and are

politely refused, others

just can’t be stopped;

some quietly tidy,

some make a mess;

some say a prayer,

others mutter a curse; some

thank too much, some

sit silent while the

table is cleared.

 

Her eyes are the

curtain of calm

half-pulled over panic, the

twenty-year-dead desire to

walk out the door and

light a cigarette: the smoke

giving thanks for

solitude and stars.

Trawlers and Drifters

Trawlers and Drifters—which was which?

Though born sea-blooded I preferred

watching water from firm earth but I

always wanted to be a Trawler,

hauling hidden riches from the deep,

dripping with slippery thoughts to make

buyers gawp when my catch

splattered about their shiny shoes

making them jump back in

astonishment and fear.

 

Many years later, alone in the dark,

feeling the sea beneath me by its

heave and swell, I’m content that all along

I was a Drifter, the haul is meagre and

I do not expect to find anyone

waiting on the quay.