L’eternità è intatta

Rain doesn’t stream
Asunder the sea,
Nor be in hurries
Today for my needs.

I’ve seen through storm-troubles
For years less remembered;
By its own great weight
A sea- bed is tempered.

Ashamed of existing,
More waters have laws
Than my calcified heart.
Il mio calore è per l’inverno, sempre;
L’eternità è intatta come l’arte.

The bones of an ocean’s regrets;
Troubles redoubled
Do not go away,
When years are persisting
And the sea is still grey.

Tristessa

Strong hearts
Do not require taming,
Unmetallurgic wild horses
Never found comfort
In sodden-straw stables.
Your father brought home
For the old kitchen table
A brace of dead pheasants
Bound by a cable.

Through turbulent moors
And rubicon rivers
We felt there reverting
A timeless deep raging;
From scorched summers burning,
Briar-berry and bramble,
To winter’s bare pantry
Where salt pays for aging.

Together, five or six moments,
We felt more or less able
In the heartbeat of angels
To outlive the lengthy assailing,
(Daily they’re planted,
We later discovered)
Of all modern things
People now take for granted.

No one here has ever seen
Our grey-green seas
Deprived of life and motion,
The fossils would make a commotion!
No one observed those orchard trees
In the entirety of their devotion
To imparting the knowledge of apples,
And no one here speaks,
For our mouths do not open
(Unless for a token),
So I remain unable to say
How much one singular moment takes,
Though without you here
This feels like forever and its days,
Restrained by constant motion.

An Exhumation

There were traces of me,
Some burnt vestiges
Found under mulch,
Detritus in strata, then debris.

I didn’t look very much like me,
But the finders were keepers
And they all disagreed.
They could have just left

The stagnant shell of myself
Where I’d slept all those years;
My mouth full of moss, and behind
My green eyes, fern-flooded ears.

After their initial shock
Discovering me in those woods
For a while I wondered
If they could return,

Yet they did, armed with candles
And prayers and books
With scripts I’d unlearned since
There’s nothing to read

With an ego interred.
After they repatriated me
Within the appropriate earth,
All the towns seemed different,

New, not shiny or imbued
With ores, nor for once subdued
By saddening flags and blankets,
Whose seven colours draped

And sometimes secured
Our feelings, through sombre times,
Thankless times, where we found
The end of heaven.

Mirror Image

I became an image of me.
Too late, I wondered
Where my true self should be.
All this time squandered
In the mirror image of me.

I cried out once, inside my love,
The replica baffled my sounds;
So, hidden in hollows
I caused all the sorrows,
Treading his unhallowed ground.

Look at the colours they said
Look at these bones so profound.
They could not have known
If I am kind, to suppose,
Of how I remained below ground.

Damage

The damage in you
Transfused
In to damage in me,
I tried to escape
But with all the wrong keys
On my wrist, those tools
Warped in to convoluted tubes
With familial glues filled,
So I fumbled and tripped,
Fell in to the sea,
Just as you fell
Just before me.

This, my children,
You will write about me;
You’ll see strangers in photos
Yet know how they leave.
Decisions long lost
In the thickening mist,
Abandoned our trawlers
To shellfish and rust
Like a ghost’s fingertips,
Difficult to defend,
Impossible to resist
Between the curve of the earth
So high and blue it’s absurd,
And a sandy lane’s dust,
Simple and deceptive as
A molten ring, a goodnight touch,
There is so little remaining
Between what’s left of us.

In another dimension I dreamt
Of coins falling from the sky.
I woke up the next morning
To find eight on my eyes.

Find your own way,
On yourself now depend;
Feed your soul on life’s poems,
Pull the tubes from descendents
With nothing left to lend, or give,
Hear my words echo through:
Resist, resist, resist.

Ansonia’s Song

Are these matters
Commensurate, I really have
Little or frequently no idea.

All I know is relative
Within my idealistic heart,
This desire, wanting you near,

Like a pendulum pulling on
The weights of my attention,
Harmonic oscillations,

I stand in the hallway of my life,
Dust appears in shafts on light
Through a stained glass window

Above a blue door I cannot open,
Doomed to stay motionless
Until I am used for new fires.