30 September 2011

I am a spirit of a class lower than the angels

I am a spirit of a class lower than the angels

and so yes
maybe I am your genie
however
if I am
I’ve had a revelation

it’s much much busier
and way more familiar 
than your wish is my enchanted command

you’re not alone, o wishing one
I for one did suppose 
that any granting they might get done
was a matter of magic 
in their red blood
power 
in their white bones
gleam
in their tree green eyes

a simple side-effect
of their unusual pistachio cinnamon breath 

well I don’t want to 
dis your illusion

cause it’s a pretty one

but
it’s just good planning
and heroic labours
redundancies
many small stitches by hand deploying
soft hopeful blankets of coverage

and what’s that other word?
saturation
tilting sliding stacks of best guesses
where, when, how and what will be your wish
yes
more wishful thinking on the spirit side by far
seeking to influence is hard work
you see?
every so often a djinni’s palaces towers legions and crowds of wishes
collide with a single uncomplicated desire
of the beloved
the tracked
the served the observed
and that 
dear wisher
is how it’s done

20 September 2011

Hope is Humble

Things that keep you here
can be small
Against a quiet interval of day
the sound of raven wings tearing through air 
is highly improbable 
and awakens an ear that has forgotten the point
It gives a worthy lustrous black breath to tired lungs 
as they try to hold up the heart between them
But I understand that where you probably are
the background roar of large things
allows for little else
and certainly not a voice of feathers
So it will have to be the seeing of small things
in your case
Although I’d like to convince you
that a single cricket’s creakings
have saved me often
with another shiny black kind of hope
as solid, perfect and tough as a beetle shell
For you I will ask some leaves 
to fall as slowly as they can
and to seek a patch of sun to do their falling into
For you I will ask some swallows
to hunt and dart over a dreadlocked park lawn
a little longer than usual this year 
before they fly
And when they are all gone
- leaves and light and birds of blushing breast -
I will ask the black-whip branches 
which gleam in darkest days and nights
to dance harder than ever
with the storms
But you will have to look carefully
if the low glow of hope 
is what you want to see

12 September 2011

Recycled Heart

I left my heart out in the rain
cool silver drops on the pain
believing that rust
is better than dust
at least it will be red again
I left my heart out on the line
it might dry out given time
the sun shines right through
the holes in the blue
of my heart that won’t promise to shine
Oh the moon knew
how my blood moved 
but if my light grew
would my heart even notice?
I left my heart out on the sand
where it just happened to land
begging the tide
for a safe place to hide
where it fell out of your hand
I left my heart out for the birds
they don’t mind it has no words
those on the wing
and those who can sing
they make sure my tired heart gets heard
Oh the moon knows
how my blood flows 
and if my light grows
will my heart ever notice?
I left my heart out by the road
under the clouds and the crows
in the box on the grass
with the pieces of glass
my broken heart shouldn’t show
Oh the moon sees
how my blood believes
but if my light breathes
will my heart even notice?

Bowling Ball Heart

I want to know 
if this happens to you
my chest squeaks open 
and my heart falls through
rolling like a ball and
heavy as the moon
it curls a path into 
a corner of the room
It’s dusty back there
so dark under there
Heart
what do you want 
with that low gloom
One night like this
night so fine
old heart decided
to try out flying
thought it could see right
but all the same
charred itself on you
moth to a flame
It’s cold up there
so wide out there
Heart 
what do you want
with that losing game
Sometimes there’s nothing
left but to rest
sometimes a heart
limps back to the nest
curl up with your blood
climb the tower stairs
burn all the costumes
count all the prayers
It’s quiet here
so quiet in here
Heart 
take what you want
from this still air

5 September 2011

Faith is a Concept I Have Resisted

See an accelerated film 
of a flower opening
offering 
its loaded-gold pollen centre
back to the sun

as if there’s no reason to doubt
or no reason that doubting will change
see the cloudshadows touch its face
fleeting flying moments of lifewarmth withdrawn

however
briefly cold is cold
briefly cruel is cruel still
lone flower
having its light robbed
over and over
and dark is dark and why lie about that?
Touched and touched and touched by darkness
it opens anyway, every morning
because what option does it have?
Pushed and pushed and pushed by winds
it dances an abandoned lifelust dance of 
bloom and
persevere and 
die
and I can dream no more 
than that
for anyone