Really life isn’t good
good is in those infernal depths, good in those plumbing depths, back waters
of shores, where poetry takes a dip. Spectacular
crippled waves,
no good. goodness is in the
caked moon when dreams are over. Transparent. Shadowy. Return to life
when it is good – or not.
If you don’t have a poem
in lostness then words
in interplay will make
a hole, somewhere a wound
will not heal, only crying birds and a whispering wind will encircle skies lacerated with shots of the enemy. This is the world we live in even as we watch Republic Day on the tele, news has come that some gun-toting people are hovering with the wind, threating the sky, holding ramparts,so that poetry is blinded into a bleeding dog panting for a little water, so that the sky will not frown, and the hills not lament,
death of a poem.
Limbs loose
I was in hospital
I asked the doctor about my
blood pressure
the doctor told my wife
I had almost died
looked for my mobile
and was told that it was
in another ICU
and, then I knew that
my mobile was my
life.
lilies in bloom
thinking of you
at Christmas time
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
Once a where
now a nowhere
he tramps among footprints
of hiatus
leaving an imprint
of silent, noiseless
legerdemain.
She likes swans
and ballerina feet shuffling.
The bend of a Welsh harp
(The actual musical ability is irrelevant!)
The circumference of a peach
not an apple nor an orange.
The sound the word ‘Pastel’ makes
whilst giggling through
gulps of fizzy lemonade.
Old heavy brass door knockers
(Yes, that’s the very ones!)
Clouds do nowt for her but frown.
Frogs are far better than Prince’s.
A 2pm afternoon alone,
with winter sunshine
sweeping underhandedly
through the kitchen window,
Is the perfect destination
for that new colour
she’s been secretly creating… sssh!
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Try writing with a maimed hand
words will not write, only speak
the finger may not move
but words will into a long loop, an arc, a clever movement the heart and mouth will move
hands will not write, the mouth will, and words will take shape of the earthly, into a slow movement of a poem. The body will not write these words, not the hand.
The maimed hand will one day speak a poem.
The body, hands will not move.