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Monday, December 22, 2003

"Merry Christmas" with love to you and yours, Ma Humbug xx


Proper poems will not be written
by the uneducated
for the grammer will not stand up
to the severe beatings
it will recieve
once exposed
to the educated masses.

Proper poems will not be written
by the ordinary shopworker
for her ideas and dreams
are dull and of course
ordinary
they will fail the tests
set by the exam boards
whose rulings
set in stone
must be obeyed

Proper poetry will not be written
by housewives or mothers
left at home, for hours on end
while their men do the real work
and bring home the money
to pay for the paper
and ink
necessary for the poet
to breathe.

Proper poetry will not be written
by the woman who stands
alone on the top of the hill
remembering, way back
when,
The woman who can still hear
the voices and see the faces
of the long dead,
the dead, and feel the breath
of the dying
on her neck.

Proper poetry will not be written
by me, or you
for poems cannot be forced
into existance
they are kissed into life
by heartbroken lovers
bereaved fathers
lost children and those
who remember
the bodies of the dead
so many bodies
that there is no earth
as far as the eye can see.

Proper poetry is not written
it fights its way into being
through the mouth of the poet
his wet, hot mouth,
the womb
his black charcoal pencil
the incubator
it fights its way from the bowels
of the earths misery
it fights its way from the heights
of the heavens joys
and sets itself upon the pages
of the poets heart.


sk 10/02

Thursday, December 18, 2003

"Contra vim mortis, non est medicamen in hortis"

there was that old joke again
"she died from lack of breath"
only its true
she died from lack of breath
stopped breathing and died
she meant it too

the bench was slimey
all green
lichen maybe, they call it
or maybe it was moss
you'd never want to sit there
unless
well - unless you were green
a greenfly
or some kind of rare green bird
perhaps not from Britain
an ordinary green parrot
that would do

sometimes when touching the bench
it becomes her skin
all clammy and wet feeling -
like the lichen or moss
or whatever
its then she's there
laughing
almost hysterically
she knew it was one of my things
you know?
that hatred of slimey
almost as much as the
chicken under your fingernails thing

the buddleigh is dead
the purple is brown
but the green is always green
the garden is always awake
and the bench
the bench watches

one day someone will come
and scrape the lichen away
but she'll still be dead
and the garden will still be green.

©2003 sk


"Against the power of death there is no remedy in the garden".

Saturday, December 13, 2003

Jerome’s Compass
Copyright C D YORK 2003


He is East and West hands. Southern feet. And his solar plexus rests forever at the Equator. West, east, south, middle: muscles massed on bone, tied to it. Pressure comes through the mass. So do warmth, cold, wetness, weight. And the pain of a paper cut on a finger or a blister on one foot from a shoe that slips and shunts on heel skin. Or the tang of an elbow hit at a certain vulnerable spot. The penis engorged, draws a Tropic line; disengorged, draws a different one. Knees, stiff from kneeling in the mud too long, are southern knees. Long muscles and transverse ones make a net of latitudes and longitudes. Striations, warp and weft, ley lines.

He is more. Up. North.

A pulling compass point lies within his head. North: where the needle falls to rest.

Here the skeleton heaves to the outside and true North lies inside, in convolutions that mimic coral formations. But this mass is not the solid exo-skeletons of dead sea animals. Its folds and gullies and mounds are as soft as unfurled anemones.

He embarks northward like an ill-prepared nineteenth century explorer. Hopeful. Ignorant. The wind in that region is wild, yet he is dressed for a calmer place. He has not been warned that pack ice and icebergs lurk, that they are shape shifters, voodoo men, who do one thing while they make him think another. He spins in cold memory tunnels, or wanders, hands extended beggar-like, in the halls of yet-to-be. Crevasses wait for him. Sometimes, infrequently, the aurora borealis flashes like a lighthouse beacon in a trackless night. It is then that symphonies rise; these he sings.

He has named the place Goliath-Methusaleh and claims it in the name of the crown. He believes that North is the width and breadth and depth of everything. All began and all will end with his North.

“Some days are better than others,” Ruby says to me. Then she turns to shout at her brother. “Jerome! Quit day dreaming and come on.”

Friday, December 12, 2003

drenched

poetry
leaves
drip
dirty
from the top of the tree

and splash around the children
nursery rhyming.

if they're lucky they'll stay dry this year
and tear up clovers but nevermind
the voice from the school house
jangling lessons.

and then the sophisticated television
foretelling the future
in images
snappy and vile
promises pointless greed and politics.

this year the children are all getting drenched
and next year there will be a new breed of
the same old shit.

let's follow one child now
as he grows through the peaceful anatomy of lizards and fantasy
on his game boy screen.
don't be too quick to tell him
beyond the flying dragons is nothing
but a dying planet and a corporation sponsoring it.
but don't let him discover it all on his own either
or you'll never get home again.
I (the perfect start and introduction of character - denotes source and
identity of creator)
Perhaps am a pathetic fallacy
Mouthing platitudes and narcissism
Prosaic and (proof positive) inexpressive.

Then will you still read me?