User:ZephyrAnycon
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I am glumclown or gloomclown?
At the time, W.W. Robson, another Oxford hotshot, remarked, “You can say one thing
for Amis and Wain, they do have a sense of humor—except for Wain, and Amis.”
Leider I love
stuff to be true;
Poetry does
probably too.
*
Brisk-across-carriage; slick retracting.
Brittle clack.
No flashes off its matte form. Planes are no way
like birds; they are effective submarines, powering /winging
us further from habitable—what drone it made:
Untitled (plainstyle terima)
And the stilling breaks.
Or senses fray,
Appear to be mistakes.
What is it then you say?
(Interpretation,
Reworking disarray,
Of every shout and motion
Will make a dance.)
I know you wrote with passion.
Yet you figure this askance.
Our scholarship
May substantially enhance
Confidence here. Their slip
I’m certain.
Though I tighten my grip,
You’re hard (admit) to jump in one.
An outlier –
Only that. With you a lenten
Ambiguity can tire:
Then renew,
Tire again, until desire
To bracket quavers. So I know you
In impossible
Detail; so I will construe
The notorious dram of eale.
It’s clear you thought
That and this; any less is feeble.
In fact it is a fact which ought,
By variorum light,
To weather every new report.
It couldn’t be true (as many might
Suggest), I conclude, that you,
Shakespeare, would hide in full sight.
Haliaeetus leucocephalus
Glorying in lust the billed
havoc ponds itself.
What is skindeep passes sly.
Under mapled surface, not in mapled eye. /water
Rollicking thermals punt the milled
bird upward gulfs.
Rack the carried vocals cry,
with Kagans and incendiaries in rhyme.
Bald-towering gut-hot cohorts wolf
down initial hills.
Flocks, in clucking-clawing, then ally.
What’s ours is mined and mines.
Toppling flames consort and fail to stealth
(to vanquish, vanish still).
Surrender-heads diversify;
fake-halo’d pomp the halo’d fight they primed.
Haloing round rockface – in towns – and thrilled
generally about the setting’s wealth,
bird and ideal, who fly
to hunt, are strumpets of the Time.
Self-imaging and imaged, the bird was gulled;
his beady flight a chocoholic sylph.
Hawk was doe, doe hawk, and Audubon’s crime
not to know in eagle’s prance a mime
Muffling sulphur’s will for mineral oil.
Man II
Am I sickened or excited? I find myself quite dirty really.
Pretty girl, not even if I wanted to could I tell you
how beautiful your legs and feet are, you live (and work) so far away.
Or this I assume. The slender function of those childish
limbs in the medium I confess to enjoying (in brilliant hi-def).
Such is the computer’s banquet. Without being that appalled,
I acknowledge the qualms these images might well evoke:
they can affect me also, I did say. But—the unexampled riches of Russia!
(I won’t make a pun on ‘natural resources.’) The downy bloom!
Via keyboard and screen, I can’t convict myself of harm that’s actual.
And a new study shows I am intelligent; exiled I evade captors with skill.
Anyway the pixel is my vent, soothing not inciting; statistics show it.
The girls are all clothed; flesh kept clean. Morals go unburnt. Why
is law to declare they aren’t beautiful? Why the huntsman
the jackal cannot love his prey? his young?
On FISA, after Stevens
Karen totted. Patly wincing, jurors
balled or held. And Callum fetched the burgers.
What a trial to abrupt your carnage,
bollock your fleering, vindicate village.
Hardly trivial the trouble gone to;
more effort than pillage – I am can-do!
Pranking flitterns collar wit; all malkins
burgeon here without the mank and flirting.
Love and Of sound well together: f f
(there fs assonate with ‘well’ and ‘-ether’,
if distracting rhyme). Was bacon weather
reasoned answer? gillyweed for plan’s death?
plaque to pardon flivver? • Don’t assess that
stonecold headcase, mushless rampick, boggart –
that eructing gumboil – man! And proudly
disassemble, and re-sort, to carry
through which upgrades and inflations badger.
Please (K. totted). Know the national flower
wants a gardener’s lidless watch to flourish.
Watch the watching slugs we have to banish.
• Both so tenderly intent, this flower
barely knows the watcher from the watched-for.
Poem
in the blue court of doves
its wingbeat and fear
can a camphone go near
the dove’s dovest moves?
for a phonepic that’s clear
of hands’ nosing shoves /posing
is a song sung of doves
without love, as here.
Columbia, SC
Words of resolution, and hesitant
Words, and wary, air a wordless portent.
Tripling off design and walls, noise’s
Content discontent, the strength is voices –
Our attention. So complain complainers:
There’s a lovely silence to his answers.
‘Hope’ is policy; yet impolitely
Ductile, like a sublet mirror’s copy
Of light’s talk, saying, in print-buttered glass
What pauses speech. For he confuses us.
burgerbar
The flatness of neon fills a place.
Keyserling. A condom
film of Heinz, old sweat, adhering.
My hand. Radio
avers the gamut—shooting; carbomb
to captive bears. So; why am I here?
Flyers rob the window of its point (which is not
to say a sad thing). What hearty beef!
I am here to eat. The tillgirl’s
make-up only greys her acne out. I still would.
The loss of things is central;
what one discards is to change integral.
No strategies fox choice.
I am here to feed, to rethink my values,
and at your step to sell moroseness, pushing you.
The happy simple residue of
life back golden when is lean
succulent mince, floury discs of bread, chill relish.
My hand can grasp the beef of hope.
Never this, this, I think, I swallow.
Argument
To unbegin we beg the past,
striven-for, our faults refine
to strategies intended, lest
it look as if the shit design
were playscript of the nightly show, /was
not tragic scene; thus attest
beginnings make us—we are, so,
moments of order, first to last.
Foreign Policy
If you let me speak to you,
Say anything that you knew
You knew was threatening, I
For the counsel under sky
You say is falling, only due
That hearing, would even try
Moderation making true
What sense of me, my threat, you imply.
But you double, singling me;
And I, of double-yous, get three.
October 2007
‘There are ways’
vows so made are like lights on snow-ploughs,
purpose and power at once. —Hill
There are ways, and there are ways.
(Enlighten me, Captain.)
I could strap this brace around your ankle
hang you, wet this cloth.
I could lace your mouth, by poison, with treason.
Set electric charges through
your prostate, your urethra; put winter in
your bones, then boil the air
in a sunless room whose light is always on. /lights are
I could wreck your sleep.
Nextdoor, you awake, I could rape a woman,
get a girl to yell—
alone, unslept so long you couldn’t know.
The horror of capture
is you’re knowledgeless, can’t guess the future,
the present, past.
You hate me: you cannot do without me here.
1 Address
I am beautiful
watch me watch me
I am walking towards you on the cloven strand
raucous with blown grasses; wind-grit
my body
raucous in your eyes.
I am lovely so love me.
The strand is delta’d forward at the tide
(truckling and averring),
where the river pulls the reeds, plovers live.
I am closer to you than them;
where I have chosen, coming.
You’re too modish. As you walk you and your beauty
look bigger; strand a river, a lee. /then sea.
2 Offland
You adore me like the sand
sinking underfoot.
I’d thought the stare nothing but /glances
lull of tact;
I said, Try I beg you, understand
You have to rest your eyes.
Pain, it goes. The way you hurt
is brutal, but it goes. Alert
by nature I permitted cries
to go concealed, in chat,
where with others I’d’ve run for that. /from
Filling my heart with dirt
you weighted me. All steps I put
lagging, I ran, to swim, offland.
3 When the Light Outs Out
It is an eyeblink and the screen is gone.
The gabling darkens, tones out; the lossy
soundtrack takes a Babel of pitches on:
night vision is of fabled poverty.
Is it I see you
trembling there,
holding her treble clef of hair
in bassed fist? /with
I am tremulous. Bowelly cabling
falls in path-lit aisles. Rows unstable,
hot, we trip escaping, are unable.
The silence laughs down all labelling. /vacuum
on the mouths of a ghost
can darling I kiss you?
on oak and earthen coast
can darling I kiss you?
It is the lamphouse dims and how the stark
open pit closes, shouting No to dark. /to the/into
Michael
And I spent all night watching over him.
As he cried. By any means he did not
want to return, but the men to whom he had given
bodily control, right of order and citation
of duty were relentless in claiming. I knew
without his telling us that he regretted
an insufficiency of thought in signing away
those sovereign things; really, when young,
he had been taken advantage of, and the strategy
they devised for this was by its cynicism
unshamed. Of course the few dream-troubled hours
remembering war assisted nothing:
he was called up and had to go. Fear,
that certain response, stalled in application, for it told
him to run despite his life’s dependence on,
investment in, the very source of it. So perhaps
his crying said confusion. He had not lived.
Two—two decades—felt a sad number, bred sense
of unplaceable loss. He loved surfing
and wanted to surf Hawaii, other continents.
He did not want to see more girls without noses.
Watching over, once rocking him, I prayed
and he caught on. We embraced the enemy’s
guiltless in our prayers, collateral. That was the last
night he slept here; since news
has come erratically, phones worked and failed,
letters angry at the state angered us too,
their reports of distresses and danger unmeant.
He’s proven impossible to forget.
Anxious of news, we monitored all the channels.
Black Hawk was him; or we listened for that.
Bla, said the announcer. Looking up
over cereal: These men confirmed.
I thought—as a baby—
I love the smallness of you.
And thought I know that face.
Parabola
In heaven once a seraph,
Mother Nature, set about
the job of cleaning. In a corner, way away from god
(the lie that he was present
everywhere everywhere)
she, in a distant corner, found a tall cupboard. Plying
a duster to it – pungent drawers
and recesses – this seraph went
deeper than any other angel would’ve had the nerve.
The cupboard soon enclosed
what dropleted links of strong
light made her, and the door as she wandered to its dark
innards was lost, even to angel
eyesight. What could be kept here?
She stopped. A nick in wood; except bigger. Hole
was the word. Knowing
it would be forbidden,
still she put her glowing ear to ground, and heard
crying. That we had been left.
She pitied us.
And fell through and was gone – for then she was mortal;
lightest of lovers
becoming flesh – to heaven and god.
Jeofail
Scanlon followed.
It was spooky –
too much to sorrow,
even, among strangers –
which was my situation.
No one said they were sorry:
I didn’t take exception. They
said Scanlon hadn’t properly,
of going, reckoned the dangers.
We’d both been shivery
that day. I remembered. Say,
I told him, that you are a beginner;
lie and see. It is not likely
that what measure of love you borrow
from who is vulnerable, is rude exaction.
Persuading you I felt, with anger,
reduced or something little. But my wager
was only later clear. ‘Is he going to slay me?’
How enviable, if it was his error, is bravery.
Tyrant
Lock us all in.
Turn us away.
Ice the library steps
so that we slip.
Never unzip
the heftiest case.
Leave it.
Spell out what you say;
say nothing to us.
That which you communicate
should evince cold economy.
Do not react whatever you see.
For what you do and say –
locking, turning, icing –
it stops: your throat to spay
you hide your eyes. There is one thing
you never stopped, being weak. that you didn't/haven’t stopped
Unbidden through the city park
they walk who cannot speak
so kiss their knowledge, to dark.
Spill more blood
than roses provide;
when the flowers have lost their heads
make of their stems a children’s bed.
Nothing sleeps there.
Whoever could have listened
years ago you had dismayed:
you are pointless in prayer.
Think of the many you flayed.
Think of the storeys lost in blood
of women. Think of the lesson,
if there’s any you can draw.
The dead, what are they but mud?
Just trample. Go ahead –
if that is how you led
millions to painful death, suitably
it is unromantic; gratifyingly
simple, unlike a novel.
Except there is this plague.
People were a plague;
you killed that. We are not like people. /Thoughts
Try unthinking us: we’ll stay. Go on
Turn us away.
Lock us all in.
The Holiday August
excerpt
watching the sea pass,
watching myself pass it
or over it, I locate
sealight. you can find it
behind the cloud banks
that could be treelines;
past the cloudberry groves
and snowpea drift. /the
if ever were a place
it is there, and so lit. /is
*
What lilting follower
observes us?
He walks our pace
miles behind,
telling the gestures of our love
by snapped twigs.
Untitled
I should say to you right now
because the likelihood another opportunity will today present itself
is low, that I’m glad
the difficulties of the morning have been remedied
to an extent which is to your grace and sure intellect
satisfactory. If however a second set
of difficulties rears its sorry, troublesome head
I would again take pleasure
in to the best of my and my men’s ability
sorting that out.
I’m afraid my friend the time
I could spare has fled, and that presently I must abridge our delightful congress.
Meeting you was truly an experience to be cherished;
serving you, to bring honour. But we march. Your offers of hospitality are, gratefully, declined:
we march. The garrison cooks will have prepared repast;
tonight they are expecting us; my idea of manners enjoins me to rush so; I am
perhaps too brisk. Nevertheless
we must not we cannot be late.
'O the light crawls'
O the light crawls
in solid pall
slug-slow back to its hutch.
The skin shines
bristling brine
yet the cold swim didn’t wash much.
You are lost you are lost
you are lost to me
O the breathless field
in wind that healed
croaked, Was it worth what I paid?
Subsiding wires
in gales as choirs
sang, Was it worth what I paid what I paid?
You are lost you are lost
you are lost
The misfiring soldier
in rain and in river
tripped on the corpse of his friend;
coughing on water,
groggy, he thought the
river-swell could comprehend
You are lost you are lost
you are lost
O the boy warns
as lamplight yawns
you in love he is wishful and useless.
A lapwing at storms,
his message informs
none till for love we are helpless.
The girl now frayed
(worth what I paid?)
in going ensured he knew this:
You are lost you are lost
you are lost to me
You are lost you are lost
you are lost
©ZA 2005–8
