Blue Door

A door is here before me,
Painted lower blue,
It has a personality
As much as any door might do.
This door said something to me,
And hoped to expound
Profoundly about
His love of locks and keys
And things like this which fit
Sometimes perfectly,
Although I can’t be sure
Because I am not at all
Proficient in languages
Of barriers between here
And there, in this case
Made from old oak trees.

Sometimes he would be drunk
And talk at length about how
Things were better in the past,
When doors like him had respect
And weren’t just for walking through.
Sometimes he turned maudlin
And sad for people’s passing hues,
Who only caught a portal,
And missed his greater truth.

He is permanently locked up now,
Shackled, chained and bolted;
No one visits the other side
Since the gardeners all revolted.
People continue to walk by
On their way to shops
And markets brimming with fish
And semi precious stones.

Where there are weeds, I see Time;
Where there is pollen, I see potential;
Where there is a door like this door
I see what did and didn’t happen,
And that’s why I’m still here
On a shore distant and remote
From all I adored about you.

Poem In Blue

You had your blue days,
Confused days when you
Didn’t know one week
From another, or the flames

Of your remaining brothers.
I understood the emptiness
You felt in your liver.
It’s the same for all abused.

We say we don’t want to,
But then we have to,
And then we do.
We should have told you

Instead of just practicing
In front of mirrors
To ourselves. Hopeless
Thought loop, new shoes,

Temazepam in blue foil.
An age of recoiling
Into my self; Time is a
Double-headed snake.

This day is the same day
As twenty blue years ago
When I first parked
In a lay-by to avoid going home.

Do you remember mix-tapes
Where we wrote down love songs?
I drove over the bridge
Into the harmful arms of the past.

Song Of The Atlantic Horseshoe Crab

Translucent blood siphoned
With syringes and pipes,
Your fluid inundates
Troughs, factory
Managers desperate
For profitable results
Turn graphs upside down
Just like the crabs in
The robotic hands
Of night-shift staff.

There are thousands
Of shelled companions
Held in vices and
Archaic contraptions
As far as the visiting
Eye can see.
Atavistically
They expected far
More universal blinks
On east coast sandbanks
With lamallae fins
Flicked like pages
In a novella
Held by the idle illiterate
Hand of the God
Of The Very Last
Sea Breeze.

Then your blood
Infused by oxygen
Turns to liquid blue
Like the manager’s
Nightcap Curaçao
Or a football team’s shirt
Sponsored by the industry,
And it is that cobalt
Saline-bred
Iridiscence
Giant pharmaceutical
Ostriches desire
In their hunt for clean
Chemical equipment.

So, sad specimens,
You are ritualistically
Exsanguinated
In factories where
Strip lighting flickers
And the workforce
Experience nightmares
Where crabs with giant
Poisonous incisors
Triumphantly cut
Out their underpaid hearts
On a daily basis.
Many awake at dawn
With sweat in their
Underwear.
The inventive
Revenge of Nature,
Your feet are your flags
And you sing in your sleep
For your native place
Where waves are high
And the waters are green
And the rockpools are deep.

They drop you off from tractors
Half-asleep, numb beneath
Layers of geology
Stored in your heart beat.
It’s worse for the males
Sometimes, too tired
To reproduce, and sometimes
For the larger females,
Caught in a predatory way
And unable to move.

What the trustees did not realise
With all those dollars counted,
Is that when the final carapace
Turns upside down, empty,
Hollow, held aloft
By a boy on the beach,
Like a sand timer with cracks,
Humanity’s luck falls out.

Bluebird Ballad

Through this time of catastrophes
And near misses,
The Tower Of Winds and Hypotheses
Would measure your kisses
As Cyrillic keys pressed
Like notes from a typist,
Pinned to a wall
In a traveller’s room
From Budapest to Athens.
We absorb each other
In dissimilar ways,
The weather-vane spins
With bluebirds in rain;
Possessive apostrophes misused,
A crack in the bath,
A lack of sleep and
An aftermath in blue;
Every village has its limits.

Strange to consider then
How we are the same
As when many months of the Moon retraced
Lands me lost in a Saturday
When I bought your book,
Your anthology, that’s still
I confess, not fully read
Nor, I confess again, much understood,
But the passion and the act
Of guerillas uprising through verse
Had me infatuated.
Same eyes, yes, same hair,
Same faultlines from a post-war flare,
Standing on the self-same spot
More or less in Cambridgeshire
As if the bookseller’s plot
And my unmade bed
Are layers in blue
Of the High Poetess, on her
Alter cloth and within her dress.

If a curse made the earth
The size of a grain,
The universe inversely would shrink again
To the size of the inhabited planet,
Before from the massive mass it sinks.
If I carry my chances in marginal atoms
Why does my heart still roam untamed?
Reunite us on the beach
Held together with words and speech,
Type a letter of love to reach
Beyond the sands of time and graves.