The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Thursday, 15 September 2011
The Vampire Wood
This image is one of several offered by Poetry JAM as a prompt this week.
Do you see the writing there upon the hills?
Do you understand those annotations in the trees?
Have you seen the angels bleeding D.N.A.?
Do you see a new world blown towards us by the breeze?
It's easily mistaken for a mist
in which the normal outlines have been blurred,
and capital that nature thought ring-fenced
is as sacrosanct as droppings from wild birds.
Everything is now in different clothing
and everything we knew has come adrift -
it's as though we've stolen what was offered as a gift.
In the bark and in the creepers life is loathing,
but almost all of it knows neither what or why -
not that its heritage has been severely blighted
and all its inner yearnings unrequited,
that nothing now is open to the eye.
We have been mugged, I think it's fair to say
by muggers wearing clothes that nature cut,
but hidden in the ample folds, they've tucked away
the weapons of the vampire and the slut.
There's not a leaf on any tree that we can trust -
and if the optimist thinks man can readjust,
it's because the change is deeper than his vision
and he misses what the world has undergone.