writing

Art

Smile again and joke again and laugh again.
And when the audience is gone,
write again and listen to heartbreak again.
Whatever you do, do as ever you’ve done
and paint o’er the cracks of you again.

Love Letter

I speak of you in whispers,
I hold you to no fault,
I act as hopeless
new romantic,
allow Maybe no salt.

I hold Her glassy spindles,
Her fragile weavings through
the space of future
as could-be suitor
to the hopes and dreams of you.

Perspective: ‘Injudicious Gardening’ BY MARIANNE MOORE

If yellow betokens infidelity,
I am an infidel.
I could not bear a yellow rose ill will
Because books said that yellow boded ill,
White promised well;

However, your particular possession-
The sense of privacy
In what you did-deflects from your estate
Offending eyes, and will not tolerate
Effrontery.

By Marianne Moore (more…)

Healyourself

I never had to face
the box tattooed on my arm,
and I know one too many
who did while people kept dancing.
But giving myself a try
means finding a ground floor
tattoo parlour, means flying
to my own Neverlands,
means words spilling from a fountain pen
instead of a keyboard.
And enlightenment was never
a one-off, but a lifetime
fraught between disdain and delight.
To give myself a try
means burning the bible
and spending a lifetime gluing ashes.

You know, for the amount that you’re paid,
you’re not very good at this.

Time

I was never grateful for now,
and it’s harder with each passing season
to give little more than contented sound
amid ever reducing reason.
But I had my chance to see the stars,
had my time to lose myself,
had moments to see the reason for arts.
I lived beyond my bookshelf.
And, maybe, now a mile
is exactly what it is;
no longer just a while
to reconnect with bliss.
I regret the closing window of a future I won’t know,
but am grateful for the hours, afar and here at home.

Perspective: ‘To A Prize Bird’ BY MARIANNE MOORE

You suit me well, for you can make me laugh,
nor are you blinded by the chaff
that every wind sends spinning from the rick.

You know to think, and what you think you speak
with much of Samson’s pride and bleak
finality, and none dare bid you stop.

Pride sits you well, so strut, colossal bird.
No barnyard makes you look absurd;
your brazen claws are staunch against defeat.

By Marianne Moore

(more…)

Christchurch 15/03/19

This is not who we are,
this is not who we are;
before it all falls apart,
hear us: kia kaha.

While the thoughts of the distant
surely do little now,
know that this little
waits to do more, anyhow.

The edge of the world
is reddened tonight,
but here the sun rises early
bringing more than her light.

With her come tomorrows,
with her comes the way
to dispel darkest shadows
from darkest days.

This is not who we are,
this is not who we are.
We will not fall apart;
hear us: kia kaha.