Virgola Pergola

Virgola, questa è la mia ode a te,
Ladro di spazio e tempo
Annidato tra costrutti più solidi,
Gambe di lettere e pilastri
Di parole e cuneiformi
Che senza di te
Suonerebbe assurdo.
Una goccia di inchiostro, una macchia,
Inalando prima del preferito
Riverberi di avverbi
Che non può essere differito
E non sarà contestato;
A volte rosso come il petto
Del pettirosso nella boscaglia,
Chi, dice la leggenda
Ha ottenuto tinture nel petto
Dal bagno nelle acque insanguinate
Del nostro Signore crocifisso.

Disembarked

Throughout it all
We lived and died,
And now we’re here
We have survived.
Whatever happened
For all time?

The endless wave is still but one,
The time we gave
Forgotten songs;
I’ll never be so woebegone
As those days dried
In solitary confinement,
As a soul disembarked
Bound and dumbfounded
In the moors of my lungs.

Outside a ragtag raucousness
Of seagulls
Signalling new reasons,
How I rode on the back
Of an alligator’s crest
With ivory hands
And gloves of ivy,
How I rode on the back
Of a humble turtle,
Nothing then deemed
Insurmountable hurdles
As the turf reforming before me
When I ruminate
On now, and then.

After All

Under margrave groves
Of peach blossom trees
There flows the falls
Of a winding creek,

Their blossoms’ aromas
Are mild and are meek,
But those torrents below
Are baleful and bleak.

My iris-blown beard
Diurnal and straw,
But under my chin
Eternal tears pool.

Snowfall cloaking
After all,
But when the snow melts
(If not long before),

Those bodies revealed,
Their mortal hands hold
The one different future,
Distant and cold.

Canescence

Dog chasing fox,
Caught in a headlock
Between igneous rock
And a dry river pass

Saturnine feelings
Fall to your palm:
Snowflakes mounting,
Mandrakes routing,
Meteor showers
Hour by hour
In a green looking-glass.

Dog-chasing foxes,
Sparkling quadrantids;
Fireworks cancelled,
And walks in the park.
Perihelion frost,
Your love is embossed
On my incandscently
Hoary heart.

I was dead to the world
Or rather
The world was dead to me.
Everything else was a case
Of sheer serendipity.

The Ghosts Of Ishinomaki

Tsunami alarm,
Taxi drivers disarmed,
Higher ground atoning.
I reached a surface
Of realities alone,
Snow falls
Unexpectedly
In the gall
Of bamboo forests
And bodies,
Multiple unnamed bodies
Disposed
Without ceremony,
Candles rammed
In hope,
Aren’t we all passengers
Somewhere?
Husbands
Who had to go,
Puzzles, low light
Over old tables,
A coercive approach,
A lonely widow;
Monk’s robe,
Three to go;
Rain harbour,
A taxi again
To whenever,
Facial masks
Will not last
In heaven.
A meal, a bead,
It doesn’t matter
So much to me.
Harbour wall
Or nothing at all,
Drive me to where
I need to be.
A dozen hungry
Gangrenous ghosts
And I’m the host;
A child’s toy,
Dragon’s mouth
On temple gutters in red,
There is no distinction here;
Yes, sometimes I cannot
Distinguish
Between the living and
The dead.

Blossoming

Never now exhausted,
Love has blossomed forward,
Through an extreme of seasons,
One by one went by.

Spring’s within the Autumn,
Falls are once more roaring,
And those blossom-oils are pouring
Under pastel-orange skies.

Let’s go for a hairpin drive
To where your love resides,
Somewhere secluded in time
Beyond the woodland outside.

I’d rather a life in near-solitude!
For Nature is all-celebrating
While the cities are just enervating,
But only, love, in solitude with you.

October Dresses

I sat down alongside you
In the Church Of Just Getting By;
I placed my hand on your knee
Not born of ego, but to comfort,
Yes, from time to time.
I longed for the rains and ashes
Drained from an Autumn sky;
They stretch so far above Norfolk,
Where’s ending you and I.

I sat alongside purest love
In the Chapel Of Out-waited Time;
Love is not for tempering,
You moved my hand to your thigh.
I wanted to tell you a story
But words were stuck in my spine;
Life is only as good, my love,
As all we put before us,
Where fallacies will die.

Sometimes we seem to transmute
Thoughts between our minds;
The air is thinner, October dresses,
Your colours are divine.
Tortured by past events, memory
Can still yet retrace artefacts
In rooms which no longer exist.
Harassed by this inanity,
In your hopes I will reside.

The Measure

October rains;
I found a tape-measure
Underneath my pillow.
You placed it underneath
My dreams’ verses
Which revert to dramaturgic
Heathlands and dried,
Harvested high-hung wheat
In faded, yellow sheaves,
Kernels cradling hope
Like a jaundiced newborn
Baby in the arms
Of a nurse’s labours
Which are as wide as heaven,
As firm as a popular truth,
And that is the measure
Of how far our love
Endured and endeavoured
To find one another,
Over the thirteen seas
And under a gabled roof,
A pillow filled with straws
Which fall from the hearts
Of winnowing stars.