All 4 entries tagged Poem
November 22, 2007
This is my effort from the excellent Zoe Brigley seminar as it stands thus far:
The Grandson's Paintbrush
In the oil.
The Painted Lady folds open her face,
pulling her little body up
up the chimpanzee chest.
stomached naked on
the child carpet.
The toy farm floods
with the let out wombstuffs.
A plastic Hereford gathers up
in its chew holes.
I am painted in the act.
Kate will clutch
the jack russel pup
On the back of the cardigan
the post-coital butterfly
rolls up its tongue
and drops it's wings.
November 19, 2007
Have you never wanted to soak a novel in your blood.
A thick red wet cube,
written across the top in black.
If you kissed it your lips would be red.
When it dries it will crinkle and smell
old like the oldness of your veins,
and be more of a relic to you than the Byron open on your desk
or the poems you write that no-one understands.With faith and feelings naked as her form,
She stood and stands a rainbow in the storm…
A thick red wet cube.
The library shakes in the storm.
The library has more books than a man has blood, and that
is why man must go insane.
Observe that girl, she was a painter once,
but now she bites her nails and is too weary of life to read.
Books frighten her fingers into scrawling over their
Why do they ask her to read?
Why do they ask her to write?
though the summer was not much.
There is a squirrel in the shaded garden.
At the top edge of the land
crunch in the copse arms.
The white tan dog bounds
over the disordered grass
that is swallowing up the rabbits
and the gates.
Here she stamps,
following behind with a novel in her hand
and the slow steps of a town bred farmer
with stock to check.
Clobby droppings of the brock,
those illadvised blackberries
seeding his latrines.
The smell of bog and bracken,
foxes and ferns.
In the scrub quiet it beats fast
of a low hart
and her terrified blood.
Pigeons shiver into a warm sky.
Streamflies fat in the estate pats.
Grass like rivers,
too thick to solve,
pours over everything.
I am but what I am none cares nor knows
the trees sigh and repeat those woes
all those rows of roots
and disintegrating leaves.
The terrier finds out the
in their shaded bunker of dust.
In the skinny bushes
they blink at insects:
boulders of folded knees and
She picks the thorns out of her legs
while she is stooped
to look in every sleepy brown eye
for the white harbingers of blindness.
The novel swells through touch;
The brambles surge.