Silver unthreatening
6:50 am. this was london.
I was 22 – working 12
hour shifts out near
chelsea, just down
around this new estate
by the river. I was there
every morning by 6:
45, and the world
had the cold tang
of cheap apple juice
from out of a fridge
when you've just woken
up and you're thirsty.
the grass all as silver-
unthreatening as spoons
in a drying rack stacked
by the sink. I love
frosted mornings – loved them
then and still
love them: the silence
of leaves and the eiderdown
softness of breezes. one bird
in a tree somewhere – a sparrow
or some other golfball-
sized feather of brown.
a heartbeat of motion
and shiny-eyed caution,
core comfort in bare
wood like bone.
Bukowski
look, I admit
it's a weird one
and agree he’s despicable –
but that doesn't
mean there's nothing
in the poems
and the form of poems.
when I read them
(which I still do, I can
admit, occasionally)
I think of nothing else
and that is rare – in poetry –
to not be reminded.
each line means itself, like pencils
on a notebook. no
self-conscious artistry. no world
in conversation. and
I'm sorry – I know that it's
not any longer
fashionable, but that
still has value,
whatever else
it does. and he wasn't
a homophobe
and wasn't a racist –
in the 50s
being only misogynist?
fucking progressive.
but even then – the line
lands with such force.
it did when I was 15
and it does now
as well. the line
the line the line.
like a corner turned
by a beach
when the tide swings
unexpectedly, turning sand-
banks into pooling.
With my girlfriend, driving to the Ballymount Asia Food Market, southside of Dublin and just at the N7 junction, two weeks before Chinese New Year
from the roadmap, the roundabouts
roll off the road, regular as buds
on a hedge-stalk. and the road is all dry
and all shut dusty offices. the stamped
ends of cigarettes. glass that nobody
picks up. it's one of those parts of all cities
we're in – those that branch
from the main roads to places
that nobody visits. the occasional
magpie – airports and generator
stations. a dog going
hungry someone drove out
and left here. I've been
here at some time in each
city I've been to – roads ugly as knots
from the trunk of a manicured
oak. and we turn, see the light
brightly red out of windows.
and a series of paper lamps,
statues of animals up as a called
celebration. not to advertise;
shoppers here know
where it is – it's just what they
come here expecting.
I love coming toward
all this colour from shadowish
night-time –
a bumblebee walks the inside of a flower.
a flame crawls its way over coal.
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