THE POET GOES TO PRISON
I
Immeasurably heavy decibels
Shaking the earth with throat thick hands of night.
Bone-white, the motorway is out of sight,
Rattling the moon’s shield brightly as it dulls
The owl’s cry: multi-axles, running down
Blackness with squirts of headlight foam, flooding
And extinguishing stars, still flickering
Like diamonds on a dark velvet gown.
Hemming the fields, elf-high mist levitates,
Hovering, bowing low, preparing dawn
Before Corsican pines. These refugees:
Transported, driven from their homeland states;
Forced against the native oak, hacked and sawn,
Not asking, which road brings us to our knees?
II
The crowd which numbers, perhaps two hundred,
Has gathered in a special anger.
As yet without expression, this hatred
Has kept hands in their pockets. A languor,
Waiting and searching for confirmation
That contained violence is normal,
Aware that any sudden elation
Simmering in their eyes, is criminal.
At last there is overwhelming relief:
The molester is brought before their screams,
Within reach of their justice. So, this thief
Who has stolen a yearning in their dreams
Must be punished. Tongues lash at the crowd’s lip
As it surges forward, curved like a whip.
WATERCOLOUR CHRIST
In delicate pastel the painting,
Untainted by the world’s depth,
Is complete. Yet there is a devilish
Temptation to fling
A crimson hung cloth
On His naked skin. A flourish,
A brush, over the glass;
A scarlet razored wine, drained
From the poor.
Now, the image appears
More, as a rich powerful god,
Enforcing His law,
Instead of this anaemic legend,
Which is not believed.
But there is faith of a kind,
As the ashen earth at the end
Of Winter is conceived,
Scattered, in the ageing mind.
When the gold of Autumn
Is spent and ragged trees
Shiver. Then the suffering
Dignified face in
The picture, makes these
Rich colours pale to nothing.
ARTICLES OF NIGHT
I live with wolves,
See eyes staring from within
Caves and know that soon I will
Belong to them – they who taste my eyes,
Tongues molten on my face, saliva on
My unhurried grave.
When night is alone and cold
Bitter wind sulks in our room -
They return. Without words their meaning
Clear. With perfect tense, they
Have spoken. Understanding floods my skin,
Bloodwarm, their breath like fire.
Syntax correct,
Each rule observed, they converse.
Heads lowered, teeth bared,
Minute sounds gathered, indefinite
And definite, their communion
Speechless.
Night is articulate, quiet.
Unnatural soft paws enter,
Without disturbing fear;
Trapped, between darkness and dawn
Grey skies are calm like dust.
I my own victim
Agree:
There are no words.
They also are silent.
Their white light muted coats
Predominate, their eyes
Going to earth.
THE RETURNING
Distraught, the spirit of Winter
Is broken, an earthly skin cracks
Into snowbell and crocus.
The sun
High, on wild scent,
The yellow archangel dissembles.
Promiscuous wheat is large
With Autumn’s child. Eagles
Have their way with the wind;
Their soliloquy of flight
A chosen claw,
An impartial judgement.
A gathering
Of frivolous seed
And sheaves of gentle promise.
The sun
Low, on broken fields;
A barren wind
And black wings shiver,
Remember,
A bare haunted land.
Derrick Gaskin
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