Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Swimming Pool Poems 2

Here's the second instalment of poems written in France:

August 15th 2011

holding your breath in the water

fish fold through the light
dark fingers and pale hands
in falling hair
and there’s a sound

bird-rattle and tongue-click
a crackle of some unfathomable energy

the sea is trying to speak

a pearled stuttering so close
it is just for you, inching into your skull
an ancient almost-song

you hear of seaquakes, millennia ago
of rifts, wide as half the earth
and changing everything
of the moon, undancing tyrant
of the long ice-darkness
of whales which throb like hearts
of love-letters in phospherence to the sky
of battles with rain
of ships, cradled like trinkets
and of you, caught in its throat
the one it sings to and the one
who stops it singing

August 15th 2011

the sun slips into a moon-skin

the sun slips into a moon-skin
feigning a frown
and assuming a mottled brow
he loudly mopes ‘I despair of sin’
and steals away

(he does this many times
throughout the day)

August 17th 2011

on my back, nightswimming no. 1

it is impossible to tell
which are night-moths
and which are stars

August 18th 2011

on my back, nightswimming no. 2

Pinned to the water
at precise points along the bone,
and strung with threads (whisper-thin
but trembling with the night’s strength)
that disappear into the impossible above,
my fingers are uncurled one by one,
my arms drawn out and up in a slow
gymnast’s bow, my spine tautened
with a tension at the crown, my feet
tugged by the toes, one by one,
and my legs pulled apart by the heels,
and I am pinioned into their
perfect puppet-star.

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