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The lapis-lazuli block of bed forms
the sarcophagus of their romance
where she lies exposed,
buttocks negligently bared
but the need for touch
signalled by her left heel
moulding her sun-warmed leg.
Between them the discarded book
open, half-read, ignored,
mirrors  the stasis of his neurosis
the loss of sensuality – even
where the tip of his  brown shoe
warms on the sunlit carpet.
Light blocks both from open shutters
and the unseen second source.
Cerulean perfection lies outside their perception,
in this linear moment only the self exists.

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Image by courtesy of Meemalee

He always breathed with a nasal drone
wet lips stroking a Woodbine
as he eviscerated game
a failed feint to distract his nose
from the glistening raunch of guts,
the thick stench if a stomach burst
and the half-digested last meal
oozed darkly onto newsprint.

I never saw where
the penknife cut the fur,
he always turned away,
but the sucking tear
the shining inner skin
as the pelt peeled off
was immediate magic;
clots tattooed his arms
as he embraced it.

Perhaps it was a hope of hardening
that made him hand me
the slippery parcel
that dropped with heavy softness

The ears of a young rabbit will tear easily,
older rabbits are understandably tougher.

(Ballymaloe Cookery Course- by Darina Allen)

You can reach the Other Poetry website at http://www.otherpoetry.com/

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The fence stands behind my mother, sometime in the 1930′s
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The fence still stood when I was a boy.
My fingers knew it was significant
a strange structure in its second life
a woven wire carpet stood on edge
threadbare and see-through yet
heavy rusted iron with exposed thin rods
that caught the dog’s leg when it leapt
to hang there long  before my birth
and forever in the family myths.
No story for the fence of former use
the only tales were of the dogs:
Four wolf hounds let out by a fool
all beheaded by the Lavenham train
the time passed down by word of mouth
with the  lurcher that ran itself to death
lent to rabbit on the harvest field
the bitch that let the policeman in the yard
then bit his trousers when he tried to leave
and the neglected dog that was shot.
The repeated stories leap to life
we even glance what we never saw
but remembered words blunt the sight
until tonight,
when with some surprise
I have just identified the fence,
my brain has put the last piece into place
for it was significant, but not upright
I walked its structure half my working life
a section from a malt- kiln wedge- wire floor.

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So Raedwald, what was it with the boat?
Oh! You wanted it built in secret,
and to keep it from envious eyes
you assembled it in a pit -
but why so far from the water?
Lack of standardisation
a muddle between the Viking Ell,
that well-known forearm’s length,
and the idiosyncratic Suffolk Mile.
Of course it all took longer than you planned
a workforce under occupation
will always be under-occupied.
You were swift to roof over the pit
to keep the Sutton drizzle out
built a bothy around the boat
with several braziers to keep fingers nimble
but didn’t know about Carbon Monoxide -
cut down in your prime by a gas!
Be told that the that tribe were so embarrassed
they piled the earth high,
buried you with your error hoping
nobody would ever ask – Who?

For information from The National Trust’s website on Sutton Hoo,  please click here.

To learn more about the structure of a Sestina click here

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Jean on Minsmere beach.
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The Moon quietly carves the soft Suffolk coast
moving each day the multi-coloured stones
dusting them with sand or leaving all exposed
in the endless change known as ‘long-shore drift’
a power known by those with their house in the sea
robbed by a tide that rose against their life.                  

The sounds of the shore enhances your life
for you have staked your claim by the coast
now rich with glass rubbed smooth by the sea.
Its wet voice whispers, in wave ratled stones
whose sibilance beguiles your thoughts to drift
to encompass all  friends whose pain is exposed.                        

The wind from the north reams all exposed
 just as sharply mischance can bite into life
for the want of a rudder a friend may drift
like flotsam at neap tides stands off from the coast.
So for each wreck-risk you seek a hag-stone
a power torus for fortune, pierced by the sea.                                           

When calm is required you are drawn to the sea
the beach your sanctuary  where wish is exposed
 without need of a building raised in hewn stones.
The sand-grains blown chorus sings of brief life
as it wafts up the beach of this east facing coast
but unlike a weak voice – your note doesn’t drift.                        

I was once seduced by the soft allure of drift
borne away by ideas that in lands across the sea
I would find experience, unknown within our coast.
Flattered by the chance for my skills to be exposed
I accepted a challenge in Northern Iran, a change in life
that weaned my false illusions as a ‘rolling stone.’                       

Daily an indifferent sun baked the desert stone
stark turquoise skies knew no kiss of cloud’s drift
the grey–brown dust clothed all forms of life.
River wadis stood ash dry, nothing moved towards the sea
in a desiccating task my frailities were exposed
instead of rich experience,   life began to coast.                          

Now I am anchored, a stone polished by the sea
you have snared my aimless drift, holding me exposed
to the rich strands of life on this ever changing coast.

Sea and Moon.
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image by courtesy of The National Gallery, UK

The proof that less is more -
a snatched oil sketch, postcard size
predominantly yellowed-grey
surmounted by a thin blue strap
abutting a cream corner block
- perhaps a sixties abstract but
with its own warm light source.
Yet look again, a door and window
have their modest elevated place
within now what clearly is a wall,
crumbly, the plaster mostly peeled
but nearly filling the entire tiny scene.
A precursive Pollack fig tree
suggests welcome shade, lower right.
The only human interest dangles
before the door, a length of lace,
static, with three drying cloths.
Around this tiny theatre of the balcony
square black marks emerge.
Were they the fixing points
for a portico and long-vanished steps?
Did their pocked mystery cause
Thomas Jones from Pencerrig to pause,
look again, then create en plein air
eighty years before Monet and Manet
and another sixty before Mondrian
a post card to them all
on the ‘supremacy of pure feeling’*
from Naples, in about 1782.

A Wall in Naples by Thomas Jones, about 1782, can be seen in The National Gallery.

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Steel swarfe

Words rip from lips hot with rage
like swarthe on a lathe streams from the tool
furled steel with a razor sharp edge
furiously writhing in a twisted spool
serving no purpose, conspicuous wastage
handled only when the heat  cools.
A neighbour disputing a boundary -
enough energy  to fuel a foundry.

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I search the shore line
for solidified tree tears
looted from the past
by wind’s wild surge and moon drag
frozen honey gems
eclipsed by glistening sea stones
a message treasure
of ancient sun- warmed resin
with trapped lives mid-stride
known, unknown, hunter- seekers.

The warmth touches me
but my moment won’t  travel
for nothing will retain me.

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Pine stacked by the cord

This poem was recently selected by Helen Ivory for inclusion in the excellent poetry and prose webzine ink-sweat-and-tears. Click on the title to open the page in the magazine.

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The past chides indulgence on the tenth floor
in the five- star comfort of the afternoon siesta
the hot air is scratched by an unknown  sound
schrik -  schrik, schrik –  –  –  schrik.
An irregular beat,  not mechanical
prods  animalistic memory –
does a giant insect  graze the balcony?
The tourist timidly checks his territory.

In a tiny field canyonned by buildings
a sickle crops ripe barley in slow bites.