Friday, March 27, 2009

penelope ~ Emily Howard


For many years I had stayed next to the maid so that
When he returned, his body was unfamiliar to me
All night I crashed against him, wave against rock until
Morning and china cup colored relief-my tea tasted soapy and sweet
I gazed the careworn face -an absent minded return.

II
It was his fingers, spatulate against the cup
My tenderness returned for that instant
Our silences seemed cinematic
And full of strange beauty.

III
There were details to discuss, a matter of
Course, I needed to show him the property
I took him to look at the old sea wall
Do you see how the stone has been gradually transformed by the water?
I do not see, he said, nevertheless I will attend to it.

IV
She and I nestled like birds
Our nests made of small quotations and scraps of
Song.

V
I wove and unwove
Everyone, including me
Grew tired of the same story

VI
Frequently in dreams,
I did see him
Prow of a ship with his hand around a coffee cup
Such a majestic breakfast table.

VII
His collusive body
His silence.
His sex
I take it in like a necessary medicine.

VIII
Truth is I wanted it.
Cessation of this ceaseless
Bird chatter.
Yet through this healing I am also hollowed.
Hallowed.

IX.
I weave and unweave
By the old sea wall.



Emily is an opera singer, hack pianist, teacher, organ pipe polisher, evil part actress, theatrical director, waitress for nuns, prep cook for priests, libretto writer, mermaid, muse, and Agony Aunt. She lives in Brooklyn, The poems here are her first published poems.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

goodbye ~ mark cobley



Goodbye.

Fond wallpaper
sweet yard
beneath
the window.

This time is wrong and has been over and over
like the ice cream vans arrival.

I’ll say no more and watch no further
than the wheelie bin

for you will not come home tonight.

55

Saturday, March 21, 2009

the beach ~ mark cobley


flotsam

the scent still.

landscapes within linger
wide green
rises falls and rises again.

Now I am home and understand.

In your untrained eye
castles are made
collapse
rise again

moons grow full
become new waves
turn to surf.

the world

well the world just does
what worlds do.

vice versa

my tactic is

thank you for the fire the fire

thank you for saving me from being just me

thank you for the sand still in my pockets. Ship


our disappearing footsteps

the shell in simpleness

singularity

sea mist

bladderwrack


and further out
to new land

(but no fossils there)

flags flutter
tides come in go out
birds dance sing

people comb.

message from home ~ mark cobley



beyond the picket fence

the saplings rise grey
as your eyes
whites as white as polar bear

a cartoon flicked
shadow over light

slowed down

floor boards. thought in shorthand.

absence. loss. decay.

we have nothing more to go by.

more absent than present
dots in paper
when you are away.

ticker tape



I think you are

sycamore seed

honey field

a book about birds

english birds

with 57 colour plates.



In the lane
someone smiles
with half of your look.

Friday, March 20, 2009

stethoscope ~ mark cobley


i lie a down a lot these days
and ache

but i can see the thingy tree from here
and count magpies
smell fuschia
see weeping willow flower


sometimes the little lad from next door
comes around and knocks

then goes and drops



stones



down the lonely well




and counts how deep it is





over
and over
and over again.


(from The Sad Bush)

postcard ~ mark cobley



there is nothing wrong with small lakes
apparently
but I prefer large ones like oceans

with little islands
conversing
in installments

speech bubbles

as sandbag

against knife

clouds

drifting

the sun turned inside out

cut in two

by catamaran

see

seen from the mountain

amethyst

dragonfly

the blue smoke.

Friday, March 13, 2009

the door

woollens

Thursday, March 12, 2009

fools gold

at
constant
hidden
iron pyrite

I chip away
at
sunrise
on the red hill

at night numb
fingers place under
the pillow softly

a few grain
of
dark hope

nothing else matters ~ mark cobley



for the one recently gone death is not death

even at the edges of this room

they need tea bags and jam
breakfast at joe's.


of course it wasn't like that then

hidden by darkness
the light gone out.

it was

sound seep
in from the other room colour
like red wine creeps
in to the carpet
breathes in
breathes out

or

joe's painting
ten drawings by da vinci

the rest just noise


my friends in brooklyn
I am still finding chrtistmas tree needles
at easter this easter


a house stood here once like a light gone out but

in the park
by the sundial
under leaves
with the earth

where we walk


phthalo blue
dioxazine purple
lamp black
indian yellow

night is not night
but a plastic bag blowing down the road

Sunday, March 8, 2009

quartz ~ mark cobley

I wait
for
there is

nothing
new
today

save
deeper
absence
sharper
silence.

(In the lake is your face)

emily ~ mark cobley



in its branches

behind the dry stone wall stands the whitebeam

are paint shades of islands of seas

but their faces, in the magazines

shadows with names not yet made up

I notice in the corner new shadows

when the wind lets up and litter settles

i gaze twice, once in a mirror

when frost whitens your gaze

sung sea shanty, old song by the harbour

Yokohama pear tree. Sometime willow


Thursday, March 5, 2009

work in progress



the unkind things that were said at the gate

rain grey rain

cold hood tree

long types of cloud

and some tied into the shapes of animals

the fence how it followed the curve of the hill towards the wood

the wood we don't speak of

the wood where the children wont play


lords and ladies
fungi big as umbrellas


blue overcoat.

red glossy glistening shiny berries. Red lipped berry
big cup fruits


sunset mist coming. bent hawthorn. a damp wet wood


silent really
really silent.