I wrote a poem yesterday for the first time in about a year. It feels
like there ought to be more, and might well be, but for the moment
here it is -
xA
There's never been an excuse, you always knew
it was best to ignore it, to drown that hollowing voice
in cascades of inertia. Those fluid columns
fall with a certain beauty after all, and smash
stunningly into your stillness, as if there really were
something happening, as if those tossed reflections
were faces that belonged to you. And what of the recessed
demons who grin and turn away, the flames
are flickering darkly against the roof of your mouth.
It takes so long to be obvious. If you knew who to call
your throat would be full of god, but the code slips past you,
simple and closed, like the face of a celebrity,
and you just wait on the train between stations,
watching the sky break open and float away.
Behind the afternoon are stars that only the darkness can beckon,
behind those faces a flame is waiting for nightfall,
impossible bridges arc over the horizons
in inexplicable colours, as if a dream came real
and stepped outside you, and all this beauty were yours.
--
Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au
Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com
|