Friday, April 24, 2009

I watch your lips form the words ~ mark cobley



you smell of fresh air.

you are not here but in scotland
or in a car
going to the seaside laughing.

i see the stone walls, the curve of hill
the clouds.

and in yours eyes reflected
in the mirror
your turning away white teeth towards sheep.




it is misty. morning.

i am stood in the garden
where silence can mean more.

in the trees are your hair.

i lost the last line
but it began with

we don't know each other anymore

that it is all in code
numbers for letters.

hills higher than your thought.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Carte Postale ~ mark cobley. Trans. Emily Howard


carte postale

les petits lacs n'ont rien du mal
apparemment
mais je préfère des grands comme l'océan

avec des petites îles
soutenant une conversation
á episodes

la parole bouilonne

comme un sac de sable

contre couteau

les nuages

errant

le soleil tourné à l’envers

coupé en deux

par un catamaran

voir

être vu de la montagne

l’améthyste

la libellule

la fumeé bleue



no photographs

because I spilt wine all over my mobile phone

the orchard ~ mark cobley



I have lost it

and miss it badly

I have missed it or lost it oddly.

the orchard will grow it self

blue delft

chinese willow

& the apple trees of brown

and the rust of old things

will be found in the garden

by the lady’s well

when I am not there.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

notice

they are away at the moment

the saint ~ mark cobley



Being the richest man on the island
he had to live in the deepest hole
away from all his money and his gold
so he found a stony place
high in the mountains and started digging
and with the aid of ladders
dug himself a tiny cell down
far deep into the rock
so light couldn't find him hidden away
and lived off condensation which
he licked from stone in the darkness
without air


And because he was the richest man
the islanders built a vast temple
of gold with fragrant candles
around the hole that befits
the wealthiest man to protect him from the rain and elements

Then when he never showed his face and then when he had died and smelt of fish and then when they had spent all his money then

they said he will be our patron saint of madmen
and he will cure the sick
and we will parade him around the streets
And beat drums
And dance
and kiss his fragrant feet
every 8th of August.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

well then?

what now?

Sunday, April 12, 2009

station

Thursday, April 9, 2009

non what so ever ~ mark cobley



your glance

can

when the moon come over the horizons
when waves laps the sands in perfect and oh so
almost italian, nearby ocean, sea


I will breathe

more often




deeper



this is so much easier

I will care no more


it is easier on certain days. In the magazine I read the horoscope

Saturday, April 4, 2009

when

Friday, April 3, 2009

my walk out today ~ mark cobley



cranes

windfall apple
crumpled maps
up hill wind

see saw
magpie
litter

absence of something

the wallpaper

loss of insides

out.



A robin landed on my shoulder.

This really happened.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

weather report. 22.29 hrs



then

cool and misty overnight

black now white/sometime/a helicopter overhead

look here

as zebra flicker. shadow becoming light. Accept



cobble stone path edged with red brick

hosta. the garden. deep dew.



speak these words:



in the winter air/the roots of trees

the smell of the skin/like a little place

ripping up things/so little stars

the railway station

the girls red hair/the twigs in the wood.




I have nothing more to say.