new poetry
in the gaps between running tall-lighthouse
I have actully started some new work - thanks in the main to a request to submit some poems for a new anthology - watch this space for a few new poems....
in the meantime hope you can enjoy these
old ones....
from the collection
you say it's been good
simple
They say the view
from here is simple
beyond the window the land is still,
undulating, stretching to a distance
of summer grass or winter snow
and whatever the season the horizon
is nothing more than the artist’s
impression beneath the dome of sky
simple, yes, but in early morning
or the coming of night, watching
and waiting is far from that
there is always the unseen
movement of sound;
birds, mammals, insects
and on other occasions
at the edge of all this
a light moves across the landscape
a plane crossing continents
a boat pushing its way back into harbour
a car meandering back to town
something about to happen
in other peoples lives.
from a bedside table
The radio switched off
hums imperceptibly
in memory of valves,
transmitting a code
of scrambled voices
in a language we cannot hear
until we drift into sleep
where the crystal silence
between us
allows their interference
in tandem with the silent movie
that often becomes our dream,
a rehearsal, performance
and re-run, together as one,
until the morning alarm
turns the radio on again
with the sound of wireless voices.
from winterburn
talking with ray
(to Raymond Carver)
When he called
I had gone to bed early
in the wake of last nights' party,
he said everything was fine as usual
and we talked about his move to the coast
and we talked of going to Paris again.
We also spoke of his writing;
I asked for copies of his latest book
and he said he would send me the three he had
and he said that writing now was near to perfect
once you came back from the edge
every word was a bonus something like gravy
and I asked him what he had written today
but he never replied as we started to talk
of those other muses, Miles Davis, Jackson Pollock,
Joni Mitchell, Robert Frost.
We eventually said farewell
in unison 'give me a call'
and its only today that I remember
he never told me the last words he wrote,
so I think of the poem I tried to write
and only these thoughts are remaindered;
on the night he died
his breathing became as shallow
as the waters he loved to fish
and Chekhov was waiting to talk with him.