I don't have the capacity for blogs at the moment. These poems have been written during a period of ill-health. Again. Unfortunately. I hope you get something from them.
Crows blown sideways
the treetops diagonal
children grown wild in the playground
a pink hat on the pavement
trains interrupted, thought disfigured.
I'm in Wizard of Oz – seeing things fly
– roof tiles, pot plants, sheets of cellophane
a two foot high hard plastic container
that narrowly misses the head of a pedestrian
plugged into his soundtrack
looking down at his phone.
I imagine mares with flailing manes
boats lost and some god grinning
at his tempestuous tidings.
I remember the first breeze, it came
with an innocent breath – what if
we moved things around a bit?
And before you know
it downs an entire civilisation.
I step around the spilled innards
of a toppled wheelie bin
under a momentary fragment of sky –
a shocking blue. This aftermath
will take some getting used to.
In our attic room, surrounded by the night’s rain,
unsure whether I am asleep or awake,
a hole in-between lets in everything
that poured down throughout the day.
As I go under, you turn from me, sighing
like the waves’ breath. And maybe I'm wrong.
When I'm this adrift, I usually am. It’s long
long before dawn. But I hear the gulls cry.
1. This is called Saturday. In this dimension they divide flux by line.
2. They wake occasionally to crack along the seam, but prefer to lay dormant.
3. They wave their limbs about or do ‘running’.
4. There are containers for those not ‘operating properly’ (am still investigating the phrase).
5. When they begin to get somewhere, they go back.
6. They are fuelled by a fungus in the brain that prevents them realising it. They would call this ‘irony’.
7. They don't like crows. There is a plethora of coconut oil.
8. You can pick up voices in the dark calling something like: “What's your anaesthetic, darling?”
9. They think they own pets, or each other. They would call this ‘humour’. Or be terrified.
10. There was one called Bowie who said he had a rocket and possessed nice haircuts.
The boat is setting out from the reed bed
From above, it must look like millions of O’s spreading across the lake
It will be beautiful to someone
But the heron will not notice
And I am merely at the shore
Throwing stones at the water
There is a piano in my left hemisphere
Diminuendo in an empty hallway
And I am there imagining this
It seems wherever I am, I am not
And wherever the boat has gone
I have lost sight of it.
Flowers By The Road
All I need to do is look around
And am fear
All I need to do is look inside
And am fear
I will keep a soft eye on
Flowers by the road
Breathe you in slowly
Fill with yellow
Draw down the green
Unmoving to passers by
Root in that black container
Sink into this gut of earth
Below the winded ribs
And recover the day
There is a trembling in the woods
A machine gun
The woodpecker’s bass drill
Thinking of how its neck muscles, thickened skull and third inner eyelid
Prevent damage to the brain
I am with my father again
In the clearing by the pond they call Red Arches
I take off my glove, and finger the burning cold
Hold out my hand in the only way I can – a gesture of peace
He tells me to stay very still
All I know is uneasy and my body frozen
Like listening for glass
Or an eye above watching me
The way a nuthatch returns
Me trailing its flight
Dipping in a long low u from the highest of trees
Removes the awareness of breathing
The stomach drops
And its small black eye aims at the hand
And its black beak at the seed in my hand
Over and over again
I must stand here in the trembling woods
For the attack
Written while listening to Philip Glass, ‘Opening’.
If you liked these poems, there are others at www.futurepatientblog.com
All poems © David Gilbert 2017