Kvenna ráð

Call off your dogs. Let's talk.

Tag: poetry

might

“It might be me,” she said, by which m150
..she meant the woman who spent up

..the daylight, missed the cool gizmo
..and lost the motive mojo, a bit like

..the watchmender who, having fixed
..a half-hunter, found two left-out bits,

..but there’s the watch keeping time –
..she sits and wonders how the hell.

__________

Please go and visit (and ‘like’) this piece of impact art.

jupiter©Marie Marshall

Advertisements

Two hundred and seven words. 19

207 Put her in an empty piazza, a field, a broad carse or fen, a long beach to the level sea with the sky folding over, and she’ll be content to let the merciful wind reduce her, to tug away at her self until there’s little more than a grain of her left indistinguishable from the whole (though maybe a looker-on would still seem to see her), to be a slight buzz, a trace in a bigger mix; but add others, and keep adding, and that’s when she becomes so aware of herself that she feels the world tip, trying to shake her off, and she has to grip onto the ground to stop a fall, and that grip itself is one of complete pain – once, and maybe once again, she felt steadying arms, a voice, and a breathing in time with hers, it may have been on a day when the air was full of kick-up dust and noise, or it may not, but full it was of whatever, and that embrace, those breaths, the near-coincidence of heartbeats fooled her to think of love, and maybe it was, but it’s gone now, leaving her with only a pale to drive into the ground and to hold on

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

owl

.

.

.

.

.

this morning owl who

asks questions as I reach for

a scrap of paper

.

.

.

.

.

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

The Winter 2019 Showcase at the zen space is now published online. Please visit.

 

buried

2016-04-14 02 ruins, Kinnoull Hill

.

I do this from time to time, to keep my eye in. Common metre is a servant.

.

.

.

.

.

I had a little treasury

….of semi-precious stones,

some golden rings, chalcedony,

….apostles’ fingerbones.

.

I took it to the woodland deep,

….the alder-guarded den,

I buried it, I let it keep

….and never came again.

.

.

.

.

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall.

dirt

There you are, holding the coffee mug
to your cheek like you’re banishing
a mild toothache, your is breath making
small mist touch the cool, morning pane.

“It’s the squalor that holds a city together,”
you say. “Clean away all that and make
each street clinical, and the shell will crack,
the flesh fall away, the whole body prostrate.”

There’s more:

you limn the view from the window, starting
with a flick of green at the rainwater goods,
I come to stand behind you, nuzzle your neck,
your fingernails play a pretty tattoo at the cill.

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

Two hundred and seven words. 18

Here there’s no need to set back the town from the highway passing through; in other lands, the highway’s a series of bands – sand, tan, brown, brown-grey, black, and back down the nihilistic spectrum – the structures on the other side are squat and alien, the people (when they appear, if they appear) are tiny, moving patches, and it gives you pause that you’re the same to them; but here people stare into the trucks and cars as they pass, letting the travellers read their faces as clearly as they themselves can read the shop signs; things can be small, no place for giant billboards, the highway can shiver through the contours of the town, compressed, balled into a fist, checked and balked by stoplights and roundabouts; we can, rather, but we don’t; the crowding buildings, the shops and tenements, the people who warren them, no one meets your eyes and you don’t meet theirs, we’re sufficient without each other, clanned by difference of space, folded against each other to the maximum, to the extent the folds want to spring apart, to dare to intersect but not interpenetrate (however), each despoiled but both virgins; despite us, our damnable proximity, there is no town, and there is no road;

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

moment

A moment came: the women

had been sitting indoors, on the floor,

and the men outside, in a tent,

on collapsible, cribbed school-chairs

– it matters not who, but someone had got up

and stood on the other’s threshold, looking,

no one speaking though several wondering

with a frown, a drawing back, a wee bit smile,

but the silence holding it’s own parlayvoo,

as a drop-down of which they all upped sticks

and sat together somewhere else,

that might have been a roof garden,

or the shadow of a long, broad tree.

__________

Earth (Clouds)©Marie Marshall

untitled

I lift my hand to greet, and the long
line of girls, each in a sun-cloth tobe,

mirrors or rather opposes the gesture,
calling out a single, sharp, clear, high

name in chorus, though if it’s mine or
hers I’ve no way of telling; to right and

left I see a line smiling in recognition
as we advance, while I try hard to pick

the girl meant for me, and at last I see
I’ve headed wrong, because I have to

reach over the greeting arms of another
couple to take her hand, to make her

smile shyly, she a doe, me a doe, each;
suddenly lone and cold, I look left, and

there’s a man in the severe land, whose
loose trousers and long beard are seized

and pulled by the wind, whom the rain
spites to make him tighten his eyes, and

I know we’re on the plain of the eternity
of God, a locus full of such questions;

the hand I waved is now half a balance,
a tug at my blouson recalls me to life.

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

Two hundred and seven words. 17

The girl’s foolishness, to pack the temple to a cute, camp, bi demi-god and reach to touch the hem of his garment, saying to herself, “My arm is a river, my hand, almost like a snakehead, is its first bore of the year,” while being solidly deafened, while being crushed against the edge of the stage, while gazing up, her eyes never leaving the wonder, that wonder being can she transgress herself and let grass grow in her own pavement cracks; outside, she staggers, drunk with sound, with breathings out, with the brute street-lights in darkness, having to balance on her own shoes and not be borne up by the press of bodies, her own a baste of sweat drying, cooling, shivering – later at home the girl lies back and plays his forty-fives, counts her years, realises she’s beyond a girl, that wonder is now a “When did that happen?” and “Why should it happen?” and “What do I get?” and how many transgressions will it take – but right now there is a taste of metal in her mouth, her tongue and gums are sore, adoration is a kind or mortification, she feels the crunch of gravel and worn tarmac with her heels, taking the wrong direction

__________

jupiter@Marie Marshall. I thought I would write about the time I went to see the (apparently there is no ‘the’) Buzzcocks, in a club somewhere, and how utterly magnetic I found the late Pete Shelley. The above might be it. And that’s more of an explanation for a poem than you’ll ever get from me.

Two hundred and seven words. 16

What was it that made her reach for poetry (poetry being the extra suit of a tarocky pack, but only in the sense of a suit pulled on over a shirt and underwear and socks, not in the sense of one dealt or handled, one with a sleeve up which to hide aces in a bald attempt to carve victory over muteness, a costume once sharply tailored, now worn from being worn) if not the vanity that thunder could be parlayed, if not the sense that the long road had a slight bend, the merest elbow, that marked the cut-off point between two worlds, where – no matter which way she was facing, no matter in which direction she was travelling – the wind changed direction and resisted her, bearing with it a slight taint and taste, a step from safety to anxiety, a moment when she realised her fingers were cold and her armpits hot, a tipping between feeling and not feeling that there were people in the houses, other walkers by the roadside, passers and passengers in cars, that not feeling being the loneliness of the last apple on a bare tree or a dumb, silenced stone, such a weariness, unwilling to move, afraid to stay still

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall