hooked by one of those perfume ads
a lady of camellias radix of juicy promise
the approaching blade
and it struck
there’s no framed face companioning my walls
or jewel measuring my finger’s fidelity
and I still manage to laugh at the gas bill
and hold myself close when I cry
1
Thoughts stir the suds,
sense the right sleeve
slacken, watch it fall,
do a bear’s flop
into the water.
2
Hands resume their
fractionation. One bubble
drawn from its kin
suggests a trumpet.
Something about the angle.
A trumpet, like a shiny
needle, keening red berets and
red bandages into a crown.
3
Another bubble
carries the residue of a touch.
A perception on the neck
so slender, only ear lobes
know it, recognise a sound
such as wind makes
to charm the willow tree.
4
Beneath the water
where monsters
would sport if this were
Homer or Hollywood
one of those mustard yellow
plates scooped from a
supermarket.
It is perfectly flat
on its base
at the bottom
of the bowl.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly content.
That sleeve splashes down again.
She giggles.
Lets the water take it.
kj2oct10
What might have been child
tight against a wall,
made a pillow from
the floor, long swept of
embers, but not of cold.
Rain dulls the night,
not the eyes.
If there’d been a horn
it would be polished
every day, brighter
than any saint. A fresh
week wound to its
spring. The tip lodged
with last summer’s
petals. Every winter
would stay the elderwood
with pies and revels
and sweet pastries. Half-
shadows stiffen. Locked in the
girdling web. Such a place
where olive-branch
tautens to arrow, stream
to stone, crows gape.
Fingers caress and
crevice each
wall. Whipped up
beyond the pasture, the
lure of pipes.
kj16jul11
Chris is a dear friend and delightfully our friendship is now flowering into a wonderful artistic collaboration: Chris’s multi-dimensional images, my words; a perfect union. Exploring meanings within and between the two media is a journey in itself, one we hope you’ll join. This project is very much work-in-progress and we’d both love to have your feedback.
the wind made contact
voice like a recorder
structured from some schoolwall
nativity
like a fractured reincarnation
snow didn’t fully extend the trees
of leaves
though here and there notes
sounded reminiscent of flame
a figure earthed
in pearl
slowed inwards
like a candle unwinding
spilled seed on seed
like a blade
unwinding
a path flooded
with cinders
its sign to be heard
kj1jan11
Lately I’ve found myself on more trains than usual. They’re great places for thinking, observing and poetry.
Another train journey
and I’m skewered
with late office workers,
texty teens, sullen adults,
sullen skies, wheels
mumble to wheels,
and teas, coffees and light
refreshments sip by
on a voice shined
to entice till you catch the
rictus smile with it.
My book had nothing
to add, lines of fog
turning over and over.
He wasn’t reading.
Wasn’t awake.
Two bumps on his forehead,
raw from gawping,
the yellow of stale beer.
Dad, said the one ring left.
Kj25nov10
How sharp the emotions hearing that a young solder had been killed in Helmand on Remembrance Day. Aaron McCormick, 22, Royal Irish Regiment.
I offer this poem as a reflection -
Called Aaron, this time
Loud eyes he had,
bolder than any blue
coursing the clouds
of Killarney’s sky;
she’ll cry for a year
when she hears them,
try not to shiver at
sting of arm
on her shoulder.
In Helmand boys
sow wire for other boys
to reap - weary gravity
that shocks breath
from bone,
makes rock weep.
kj18nov10
So it’s back to that word
remembrance
of stiff legs
and eager trumpets
wrap-around
fat clouds
buffed boots
didn’t quite
reflect all the medals
they’ve seen things
those boots
but that’s
for another day
kj11/10/10
Awake
with trees
and the stream
now empty
now brimming
Alert
to clouds
that weave
the threads
of sky
Hands extend
and in
their cup
planets
stir
Feet spread
boards
deserts
ice fields
Pages not
yet written
since they
were last
erased
And we
split off by
invisible lines
await
flute’s breath
to blend us
kj7nov10
A little while ago a lovely friend died suddenly. He lived life to the brim despite difficulties that would defeat many. We shared a joy in creativity. I hope this makes him smile:
I dreamed a boy taller than poplars
spinning laughter into leaves;
I dreamed a boy dainty as dandelion
lazing his head in the sunshine;
I dreamed a boy brighter than fire
lush with paint and proud;
I dreamed a boy fresh as beaujolais
gentle and unashamed.
I dreamed a boy that startled hearts,
shook the day to bursting,
proved love is not a dream.
kj22oct10
