Kvenna ráð

Call off your dogs. Let's talk.

Tag: poem

bee

.

.

.

solitary bee

motoring towards his own

equilibrium

.

let’s give him purpose

– he stops for nectar or rest –

sun waking colour!

.

one early walker

hears something like a kazoo

and can’t help smiling

.

.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Advertisements

When Siouxsie played Brighton

“… what thou gorgeous wearest, which scarcely keeps thee warm.”

Wm. Shakespeare, King Lear, 2.iv.

.

Jennifer by Andrew Ratcliffe

‘Jennifer’ by Andrew Ratcliffe

When Siouxsie played Brighton we
cottaged by the sea, you, me, a bunch
in a transit the colour of dubious day
an hour before light; with one broken

drumstick you played a kind of Roma
music on the guard of an old lecky fire
and I kissed every line of your scowl
and you let me, you let me; we slept

side by side, our shoulders cold out
of our sleeping bags, so we could
wake with our fingers knitted, right
hand to left; you stayed, as guard to

a derry, keeping it for homeless folk;
it rained before I left, I wore nothing to
be dry, shivered in the train, de-Edened,
but believing that two moons, you, me,

could only collide again, and soon, by
the demands of gravity, by its laws;
never; that’s a hard word, but I guess
I’ve grown up, and grown up with it.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Answering Emily Dickinson’s ‘Wild Nights’

Answering poems by Emily Dickinson, often with a love song to her, really belongs to an earlier stage of my poetry. If you want to know why I have written one out of the blue, read this blog post, including the comments.

Answering Emily Dickinson's 'Wild Nights'

__________

©Marie Marshall

sail 2

.

.

.

.

.

.

the boat

stayed obeisant to

a wave

.

.

.

.

.

.

__________

The Spring 2019 Showcase at the zen space is now published. Go. Read. Like.

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

sail

.

.

.

.

.

.

to set a sail

as the shore trees bend

the moon rises

.

.

.

.

.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Two hundred and seven words. 23

Deep in the Murder Wood is a bank of quietness, and out of it there’s a tree growing (in the only way it knows – straight out and straight up) that she calls the Love Tree, positioning Murder/Love Love/Murder; this tree she salutes on her run, or stops by, touches two fingertips to her mouth and then to the tree, or two hands on her bust and then to the tree, and sometimes braces her back against it, looks out, and thinks about you, whilst gazing ahead at where three unrelated branches make a rough triangle; within that triangle, other limbs born of trees make other shapes, and it’s her business to look further and further into them to see how far it is to the furthest visible point; she waits there to grow cold, or to catch the quartered, quartered, quartered sunlight, wondering who holds the world record in woman/woman kissing and who held the stopwatch, but in all this gathering of dross wool again she thinks about you, can’t help it because of the pressure of the tree on her back, her breath slows, she can hear every sound in the Murder Wood above the blood in her ears, it is all a way of happiness

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

cursive

When we practiced our cursive, the sea

was white and the wave-caps were blue,

the ocean effectively in negative; Ws

were shore-break ripples, while the run

of lower case Rs were Triton’s anger.

I refused common Es and Ss, became

alone a celebrant of rollers, breakers,

priestess of the breath of endless brine,

I knew only the hiss and heart, the salt.

Teacher told me in fact I wrote nothing;

page by page, I wrote till I drowned her.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Little macrozoa*

I love – how strange for me to start a poem like that – macrozoa,

those hostages to gravity, those generants of levity, possessed,

though the mockers would not have it so, of the greatest dignity,

belied by our obsession with whether their forward-faced elbows

are the three and four of knees, the ace of individuality, singular

to them, oh how we wrangle about do they walk on their fingers

or is any limb of ground-propulsion ipso facto a leg, its terminant

a foot; can we not grant peace, for once? They’re pachydermata,

but – hell! – does that mean they’re all totally thick-skinned?

Think, for once, and respect all the bygone woolly mammoths,

the mastodons, and, more modern, those parlayed into our ivory,

and know that even as they are big each one was once so little.

Each patient elephant – I once saw one waltz – was an erst idea

conceived between (what we call) its bull and its cow, gestated,

birthed, and cared for by a herd of aunts and uncles, a caritas

despite the harsh hair of its back, ranging in the pull and pluck

of each moment, whole, irrevocable, blissful, blessed elephant,

the joy of its being young untouched by our anthropomorphism,

though we bestow the word “baby” in our careless sentiment;

I could, if I wanted to – and I once had the notion – make them

into my heraldic achievement, or situate them in a frieze, there,

just below that cornice that coves my bedroom walls, cozy them

to my sleep-pattern, but that appropriation would be a big diss;

I’d rather celebrate them, their simple littleness that’ll one day

grow to Mughal grandeur, never haul a howdah, be left alone

without a mahout to goad them, Ganeshas, little god Ganeshas,

divine offspring, diminutive, our heavenly Lord/Lady, becoming

– what? – whatever the road from bush to the river will make,

whether the flow be the Ganges or Limpopo, there they learn

the art of jetting with their proboscis, while our own juveniles

point with excited indices and cry in joy, “Tembo! O Tembo!”

.

__________

* I promised someone a poem about baby elephants.

thelephant©Marie Marshall

Ses vacheries

Who but Pharaoh would order bricks to be made

without straw? History doesn’t record his next order,

which was the simple “And bring your own mud!”

.

In the history of bricks, she is quite the rare one,

taking down my English bond and reassembling me,

chequering Cheshire red with Staffordshire cream.

.

I’m now Flemish bond, a true wall without bows,

but with the occasional projection (a climbing wall

I may be, but they stop so far, no thieving vantage),

.

she laid me, boxed me, set me around with a broad

come-to-it as if to say you may look, all may look,

but this wall marks someone’s say-so, so no beyond.

.

Happy me to have such construction, bricks without

straw, or mud, made only of magic by someone with

a history of magic, taking my own bricks of being.

.

As if anything beyond could be worth the thieving!

That was the thing, you see, that made a braw byre

out of my boxing-up; and everyone saw it but me.

.

I asked her what it was for. “To keep you so safe,”

she said, and I thought “Liar! If it’s byre, house,

box, or doocot, I prefer freedom to safe promises.”

.

And so I effected my exit, leaving only bricks

unbroken, though bereft of straw, my own mud,

a no-deal Brickxit, just the outside walls intact.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall

Sa vacherie

.

.

.

.

.

In passing she says, “Ça va, Chérie?” a hand, lightly

at my shoulder, that had rested on my belly all night.

I know her ruse, I smell the poison of cut flowers in

the air, and I wait my silent, vengeful, lone moment.

.

.

.

.

.

__________

full-moon-icon-hi©Marie Marshall