Day 23

  

The villanelle


Speak of souls born other than our kind,

A deer in the shopping mall, spine taut and front legs funny -

Seeking some purchase in this country of money

 

These creatures redefine theory of mind -

They say we are less rational than monkeys -

Speak of souls born other than our kind

 

We are puzzling and puzzling the true design,

How honeycomb becomes the honey -

Seeking some safety in the country of money

 

So the young deer careers as if he’s blind

At the smell of some pale hunter coming -

Speak of souls born other than our kind,

 

He runs for sanctuary, if there’s sanctuary to find

Among the flowers and the river running

Seeking some purchase in this country of money

 

The silver deer is the lone deer child

And the parents will search in vain for something,

We speak of souls born other than our kind,

Seeking some purchase in this country of money

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Day 24

Things that happen at night (or thereabouts) Your neighbour puts on uniform And wakes you up with their alarm And wakes you with their heavy pace And shines a light into your face. Ok, that is the brash new sun They leave the house just before dawn And drink the dew fresh from the lawn And boil their kettle, bronze their toast  Then go on Instagram to boast. Ok, they have invented Monday  Your neighbour is an abyss yawning And punctual, mourns their every morning And calls out songs to greet the birds And some days they may give you words Whether in notes or speeches Your neighbour lobbies in your dreams Your neighbour's fraying at the seams Your neighbour puts on uniform And wakes you up with their alarm And wakes you with their heavy face
Read more

Day 26

 Ars poetica When I was six, I wrote a poem about a Tiger And recited it to my Grandmother And Grandfather and Mother and Father And baby brother. I was usually quiet  But the words made me proud Summoning the Tiger  Now I write  Lately, every day  Trying for this conjuring  Through strategies to describe the Tiger, The fire of its pelt  Its ribs the bars of a cage for a heart, It utterly itself,and yet the words I choose still hunt me down. I feel the poem's breath On the back of my neck. I dream that when I speak it there'll be a quiet roar.
Read more

Day 25

As, like, is "A school is a factory is a poem is a prison is academia is boredom, with flashes of panic.” —Joseph Brodsky, Less Than One We almost clocked in at registration, As close to a factory as we would get In the days of unemployment, of empty industry. Certainly in photos it looks as if We were made on an assembly line Of unflattering 80s hair  And questionable sapphire kohl. They'd put the finishing touches  To our unformed faces later, bring us up to standard, uniform. The prison part was new-build and squat, not porridgey Victorian - No gothic here, just old stained concrete And a baking freezing perma portacabin, Carpet like sparse astroturf. The barbed wire  Keeping us in was time and time to learn. Academia was the English teacher who drank And the ones we said who couldn't, taught Though now I know how difficult the job is,  Poor warders of knowledge. And yes, the boredom, yes , the sudden panic Of wrong hair, wrong words, of endless fitting in , Of te...
Read more