Haiku #634

634.

Bleak slow waterfall,
Tireless pouring downward thoughts.
There, unseen fish flow.

Ancorato

Il mare mi ha interiorizzato;
Proprio come pensavo di essere stato rimosso
Ho ingoiato la sua ubiquità blu.

Questa tristezza incorruttibile,
Anti-materia, causa di elettricità statica,
La mia antitesi innaturale completata,

Lanciò la sua spessa corda dal ponte
E si è ancorata a me.
Mi trovavo su una banchina grigia

E anche se le persone passavano
Tutto quello che potevano vedere era ancora un uomo di riserva,
Prima che si rivolgessero ai caffè.

Tutti i molluschi sono silenziosi
Quando uno scrittore non può guardare i suoi strumenti
Non può guardare alla sua vita abbondante.

Ode To My Addiction

When feeling down in deeper depths,
Self-loathing flooding ten regrets,
The sure bouy’s back and surfacing fast
On waves that whisper ‘never last‘.

There is my rock to which I cling,
Where oldest sirens preen and sing,
Dressed in feathers I caressed
While pecking at my sunburnt flesh.

In succour I bloomed for an hour or so
But little considered my loosening soul
Would fill where prayers refuse to go,
In briny, speluncar fish-bone holes.

And though on sailing I depend
I always return to that place in the end,
The flock is feasting on my heaven
While my senses drain and deaden.

I convince myself, like many others,
That I’m alive and that’s enough;
My brothers below betray such comfort,
Empty-eyed beneath the bluff.

I woke, the awful crows transformed
In to an ambulance outside dorms;
A student there departs once more,
To a different, distant shore.

Shrapnel

Sometimes all I am able
To think about
Is how much I miss you.
Heightened like this, days
Become a singularity

And matter falls out of
Form. Couds fill the sky
To light’s diminution,
Resounding flatnesses
Fill fens in my mind’s
Resolution to turn itself

In, like a culprit for
Crimes it did not commit,
Preferring prison
To alternatives of freedom,
In these moments I cannot

Adequately submit a
Description or trace a single
Word unsaid or unfamiliar
Place which rest like shrapnel
Lodged in my head, disrupting

The usual waves replaced
With an abridgement, taking
Away the every day, replacing
Time with unforgiving motions,
The public and private spaces

Merge like fir cone coats on
A forest floor. I tread over
Deadening moss, and explore
Where I live on coastal margins.
There are giant trolls sleeping

Underneath some freezing stars;
Abject stars, promising soulful
Poetry yet as devoid of organs
Fit for a soul as decaying carrion.
You can see their breath form,

Those toeless ogres, with
Smokestacks from afar,
They morph from the cups
Of devastating magic in to
Sounds outside my window,

A roadworker’s drill, a mosaic
From children playing during
Break-times still. Occasionally,
The trilling from the throats
Inside starlings and lost angels.

All I can hear today
Is your disappeared voice,
All I can see today is
Your face unchanged and it
Devestates me, caught in time,

Caught off guard by a photograph
Framed where I sit on the lip,
I turn you to the outer world
For a while – I hope you don’t mind.
It’s as though my body is ill-fitting

Without you, but it’s not
As though anyone can return these
Particular loose garments,
The shops are closed.
The dots remain disjoined.

A profound lethargic depletion,
I should rest in that photograph.
I did not know I’d have to survive
Without you again. Existing
Here is the incomplete half.

Lifting Weights

Even beneath uncontestable rain
My weightlifting neighbour
Presses his bench; he strains
Biceps and triceps against
A violence of indisputable greys
A month before July. Contorted face,
I pray he does not look the same
When extorting sighs from lovers,
Sincerely he appears to agonise;
Self-afflictions behind a fence,
An audience of cypresses blink
Under dark green umbrellas.
I cannot justify nor rationalise
The constraints of the body,
And I furthermore pray
For his ligaments to remain
In place, for our ambulances
Are overwhelmed and our hospitals
Like Ministers for Roads
Offloading excess silicates
Have cancelled triple bypasses.
The barbells rattle and wheeze;
Barbaric routines, might I pray
One more time that he should find
WD40 in a kitchen cupboard, please.

Across the flooded lane, which ego
Dictates may as well be as wide
As the Irish Sea, wider than speech,
Wider than a bouyant comet’s tail,
Even beneath uncontestable rain
I fail in the never-ending bout
With myself, I’m the butterfly
Shadow-boxer punching metastatic
Targets which look like me,
Where no winner flouts his
New-found wealth, silver belts,
No podium nor medals nor
Pouting for swarming paparazzi,
Nor even simply the satisfaction
A man may find when pressurised,
Moving kilograms up and down
Under a turbulent kingdom’s sky.

A weight can take so many shapes,
And when a weight is lifted
We mean to achieve a sense of relief,
So why when I strive
To lift aloft my dumbbell-mind
All I find are aches and grief.

Half-Life

Even now, I remember well the half-hatched ordeals
Of that autumnal evening; beginning not with
Someone’s finding of the student,
(Not a friend, but a caretaker or cleaner),

And then the conjectures revolving into rumours,
Around the cold corridors of dormitories;
And again, the next day, nameless officers confirm and
Light up a truth which quickly dissolves

Like a tooth in a tumour, or a blinking eye
In the dark damp womb of our creations. Self-stopped
Like half a clock at the 19th hour,
Nothing more to absorb, confused, alone.

It did not begin when some other freshers planted candles
With a different future’s blossom, some flowers, some cards
Expressing half-life-sorrows, blocks of bewilderment
For a young man they neither addressed nor uncovered.

Twenty-two years have now slipped through that noose,
Twenty-two years of what-ifs and the bruises and confusion
Which do not diminish in those poor parental hearts,
A dominion where dear grandchildren are not born,

Where the extremities of life contract and reduce,
Where no one cries from their jaws for sadder times and joys,
Where a disease tore into graduation photographs and
Glasses of champagne once filled, left altogether untouched;

A thesis which unlocked the shift and pulleys of the universe
Unpublished; and an unmarried wife who wed her lesser wish,
(Died ten years later at his hands, discovered there in plastic bags
By tracker dogs, over the hills at Nightingale Woods).

Decades later, a specific chair was not moved into
A specific space at a celebration of alumni as they gobble port
And profiteroles in prestigious campus chambers,
Because no one there remembered, despite those dreams

Which govern and gnaw, without a name there is no lore,
They shifted on their feet, exchanging nouns and verbs,
They noticed people who whetted their mouths
Eating grapes and canapes in shades of green and purple.

No, it started many lives before, when someone somewhere
Did not say a vital word, a necessary term, a contract with Life
Left unassigned, unrehearsed, over and over until unlearnt.
Outside, Australia is burning.

And so we hurtle on, now unrepentant exiles of that time,
Post-internet, where anything seems accessible,
We stand still in illusions of luminous currents,
In the vacuum of chronically forgetful republics.