Writing season

Storks circle

in a hundred sky-high miniatures

the bush fire rages:

summer heat, South Africa.

The swifts are in:

Palm swift, Little swift, Horus

‒ cutting air-paths.

There’s nothing I can say

any longer, I suspect:

I am a smoke voice

in the winds, signifying fire,

smoke-smell, but not the thing

itself. I am a door, opening

on a hinge to nowhere,

and no-one stands to knock.

Once, under anaesthetic,

they cut my body:

I woke up bloody, and hurt.

It took weeks of blood-smell

and pain before I felt

right. Now the wound

is in my very flesh and being:

the swifts swoop close,

the storks circle in.

- Brian Walter

Wither?

Someone brought me a hurt swift
that I laid in a box
in the hope he’d recover;
but he slipped away
through a hidden crack
‒ so I laid what he’d left
in the earth to wither.


Heart's Journey

We travelled all day
through  country
close to my heart;

then I read poems
that traced
my heart's journey.


Dance

Last night
we talked and drank wine
and you and I danced

as you settled into the old house
through the keyhole
of a bit of ritual

that made you feel at home
at
last.


Brief Passing

As the brown leaves
thicken
on the paths,

powder underfoot,
my heart is heavy
with mortality

 – with the brief passing
of
things.

 - Norman Morrissey

Greater than I

i.

Once

I remember a time,

once I was a person

before I was powder

crushed

by a husband’s betrayal, his buckling

under a woman’s decrees

that he divorce immediately
disown his family

and I not see our son

except in times and places fit for her –

ii.

so the long, long road

to and fro gruelling

endlessly re-fuelling

to get my child

– resentful, grieved, skin and nails bitten –

breaking my heart

by a to and fro aching:

thorns of a foreign province

iii.

once

before I became powder

through illness in the man I loved,

his hole of debt,

his mental scree,

his efforts to endure and help me

I was

– was I? –

a person

apparently

iv.

before the office job

 – three telephones crying for hospitality,

the screen a diarrhoea of mails

each day to be wiped away quietly,

and praising or complaining guests

to be sweetened equally –

v.

dimly I remember far away

– was I once

a person?

… this implosion is not of the body:

my thighs are silky, strong,

I wash myself still,

go through the rituals of toner, moisturiser, lotion,

hungrily eat what you cook …

vi.

but it’s a once-was lovely shell you feed,

inner mettle crushed

to powder, dust.

I suffered too much

so you must not,

don’t come near me now.

Nothing holds

together –

there’s nothing to hold these years on me,

the pressure has been

greater than I.

 - Silke Heiss