Saturday, 20 October 2012

The Lonely Land

Cedar and jagged fir
uplift sharp barbs
against the gray
and cloud-piled sky;
and in the bay
blown, spume and windrift
and thin, bitter spray
at the whirling sky;
and the pine trees
lean one way.

A wild duck calls
to her mate,
and the ragged
and passionate tones
stagger and fall,
and recover,
and stagger and fall,
on those stones--
are lost
in the lapping of water
on smooth, flat stones.

This is a beauty
of dissonance,
this resonance
of stony strand,
this smoky cry
curled over a black pine
like a broken
and wind-battered branch
when the wind
bends the tops of the pines
and curdles the sky
from the north.

This is the beauty
of strength
broken by strength
and still strong.

A.J.M. Smith

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

everyday object poem

smells like blood
and silicone and soap—
dusty and sharp,
like iron filings
or old copper pennies.

began white, virginal

now the colour of tarnished hopes
and new (childless) plans

holds  the sloughed,
rich blood
that is pulled
from my womb

by a thin, tapered

Found Poem

inside this triangle,
rebels were inspired
to be in a state of insurrection

their actions subsequently
match their assumption that
rebellion was going on elsewhere—

and later their realisation
that they were alone
in the fight. Open rebellion unraveled—

some survival of the old
sentiments—this old agrarian agenda
(especially in the northern parts,

where the two are most
likely to have overlapped)
drifted back into the various parts

scattered by bad weather,
a footnote in history was
unraveling that night.


Swirls of ink thoughts
inhabiting corners
of pages everywhere

Poetry borderlands
defined and liminal
sketched in words

that taste and sound.