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"TONIGHT I CAN'T SLEEP", "PALACE SONNET", "ARISE, HER EYES" by Rodney Wood



TONIGHT I CAN’T SLEEP


because all the people

I know are machines

and their lives

have been extracted

put in a glass jar

on a shelf miles underground

because I’m anxious about

what I’ve done/not done

because I’ve crossed

my name off a list

because God

won’t take my call

because I’ve left

the television on

because I’ve forgotten

which paw

my cat washed with today

it’s important

as the left paw means

tensions will increase

because the moon

has grown sleepy,

while clouds

dig trenches

throw grenades

make ill-advised

Advances

to daffodils and crocuses

because I’m lying there

in that state between

wakefulness and sleep

on a bus jolting

through

an unfamiliar landscape

because I’m not making

a decision about the future

that’s getting more

and more pressing

because there is

no path between the trees

because I haven’t

even got a cat


PALACE SONNET


A man and a woman lived in a tent

in the garden because they’re

at war with beetles, bugs, aphids,

badgers, foxes and moles.


Their hearing has become so attuned

they can easily tell the difference

between slugs and snails by how

their tongue sounds when eating

leaves, stems, tubers and bulbs.


But only she can hear petals

unfurl in the sun. Only she can hear

the flowers say thank you after rain.

Only she can hear maggots eating

the man’s soft tissue.


ARISE, HER EYES


Usually we made love downstairs

on an overstuffed sofa listening to


the light sax fingering of

Gato Barbieri, gasps and grunts


from the electric piano-blitzer

Chick Corea, and the mellow tones


from Gary Burton’s four mallets

stroking bars of the vibroharp


but yesterday we fancied

a change so listened to


The Best Classical Music

where Mozart, Greig, Chopin


and others eased us into foreplay

until, that is, Wagner came in


with his apocalyptical

Ride of the Valkyries


that was too urgent, too loud,

fired a bolt that winged us both


and we fell onto the carpet

bleeding, sweating, exhausted,


our mouths cursing and laughing

with every sound and colour




Rodney Wood is retired, writes poems because he likes to get lost in that space, is co-host of an open mic at The Lightbox, an art gallery in Woking and has many poems published in magazines including Magma, Orbis. The High Window etc.

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