glassbox eyrie

in your glassbox eyrie we lay on cloudpillows
and dreamed of poetry and pictures

down below the flotsam flowed
and scum collected in off-white corners

up here where the swans flew with outstretched necks
the sounds of the streets could not be heard

like the silence that snow brings, you said
or the quiet at 4am

when all the clutter has been swept away
and the albino creatures come out to play

is there a point to all this hiding away, I asked
the foreverdreaming and the cloud painting?

but you were gone in a feather
blown on a breeze of your own making

drifting to your next glassbox eyrie
to lie on cloudpillows and dream of poetry and pictures

Advertisements

3 poems inspired by Andrew Wyeth’s Wind from the Sea painting viewed in the National Gallery of Art, Washington DC on this day in 2016.

Wind from the Sea

In an upstairs room
At the end of the hall
Sat the man
On a cast iron bed

Bare boards and naked bulb
Unlit in the evening’s decline
The field outside viewed
Through a half-opened sash window
Two net curtain ghosts
Floating like torn shrouds
On a saintly breeze

No-one had been this way for years
He wasn’t even sure he was still breathing
Not since the birds had stopped singing
Or the rain falling

For all was dust and peeling paper
Cracked and dry
Parched as a hobo’s lips in summer
Crippled as a beggar on a city street corner
Sky white
Unending
Questioning

The man sighed away his seconds

(20th June 2017)

 

The View Behind

The man turned to see
her lain upon the bed
The glimmering girl with
apple blossom hair
The wind from the sea
caressed her cheeks
Whispered lullabies
far too sweet

Rising from the edge
of dark reverie
He threw a shadow
upon her face
A rippled splash
in which he sank
Like silver trout
after the fly

And down the hall
retraced his steps
The pictures hung
on tired threads
From light to dark
and back again
A mirrored room
cast iron bed

He sat and watched
the view behind

(22nd June 2017)
with some borrowing from
The Song of Wandering Aengus
by William Butler Yeats

 

Pictures at an Exhibition

The older I get
The less I understand women…

He could feel her nails clawing at his back
But he would not look round –
To apologise twice would be grovelling
And what was done was done

The fact that she still wants me to, well
It’s tantamount to reliving the original act
And I’m not having any of that
Not after all these years

Besides
Life was only ever meant to be a work of fiction
Like pictures at an exhibition or walking down the hall
From one identical room to another

You continue to take away from it what you want
Regardless of any stillborn intent –
The fact that you keep bringing it up
Doesn’t make a jot of difference to me

He knew this would raise her hackles
Even from the dead she still taunted him
Every fucking day the same
It was why he had moved out here

To get away from your fury
But you had to follow me and haunt me
And fill my head and house with anger
Whilst outside the landscape remains empty –

The less he understood women
The older he got…

(24th June 2017)

IMG_20160726_155709

Wind from the Sea by Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009)
tempera on hardboard, 1947
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

 

 

this is not an explanation

you won’t ever get me
the paint drips, the splodges and splashes
the poetry, the way it all comes together
through absences and curiosity
sometimes I am here, sometimes not
I am zoned out, cigarette in mouth
white t-shirt, big sky landscape

you won’t ever find me
I might be here in front of you
I may even talk a little, mumble things
wander off down a meadow path
to the lake, fish from the jetty
howl at the moon, laugh at my reflection

you won’t ever own me
the money means nothing, nothing
it’s all worthless garbage, jazzed up
comes from god knows where deep inside
I puke it up, regurgitate it, spew it forth
without control, an emetic

you won’t ever heal me
wherever you hang me, try to kill me
document me, hero worship me
my life is an endless spiral of creation
I am the devil, the dark angel of dreams
the thinker, the painter, the poet, me

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/doppelganger/

room

our heartbeats float in whispers
dust motes pepper the air
the mottled mirror hangs askew
in it your reflection

I don’t know what you’re thinking
or even if you like me
you brought me here and now
you don’t know what to do with me

this room on the first floor
the world looking in
but you like it that way
you say you find the intrusion ‘cosy’

an overgrown cheese plant
artist’s materials on the floor
Matisse style work in progress cut-outs
all of your ‘things’

most likely I am just passing through
your life and your room
your body that you half give
reluctant as a virgin

and when you hold the door open for me
I walk down the narrow stairs
enter the street and look up
but your windows reflect only the sky

minute by minute

I paint brushstrokes on a grey sky
and sit and wait for a while
you never know what might fly by
minute by minute by avian mile

believe me, they do not deceive my eyes
these airborne birdies so versatile
in flight so gracious up on high
minute by minute my widening smile

IMG_20180127_1547312

IMG_20180127_1551493

IMG_20180127_1555062

IMG_20180127_1552332

IMG_20180127_1548572

IMG_20180127_1550232

for RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch 27th – 29th January 2018

https://www.rspb.org.uk/get-involved/activities/birdwatch/?channel=paidsearch&gclid=CjwKCAiA47DTBRAUEiwA4luU2c9gFxBni0vbHypxXrVuY4yFCuroNVWrodC4uUdL3z8uuG1JJWhP4hoCwVAQAvD_BwE

if

if there was a word
I would write it
if there was a sunrise
I would paint it
if there was a song
I would sing it
if there was a doubt
I would crush it
if there was a way
I would find it
if there was a hope
I would grasp it