Tandoori under the Moon

Star of Stars –
Thank You for your Welcome.
Taj Mahal luminous on the wall,
hands hold roses around a heart
saying: Wish you Were Here
for okra and butter chicken
as ice cold Cobra beer slips easily
down the neat, tree-lined paths.
Wish You Were Here
before I jump into the picture
of Popadom and Lady’s finger,
meander the coriander
through the romance of mint,
mango, lime pickle, flagrant rice,
and the white mausoleum tragedy
of love stories.

Japanese under the Sun

It is red, this sun, and any other word
would be glaringly ostentatious, when
this poem ought reflect the Zen-like quality
of a pretty plate of dead sliced fish
on palm rolled balls of rice.

In which case - the waiter, waits,
the chopsticks lift lips of fish,
the bamboo knocks to point out stillness,
the bubbles lean on ice-cubes in the glass,

while the sun
.................... bleeds
................................ecstatic
..........................................colours to the sky

Brass Frottage

I, wrapped around your spoon,
Honeyed and warm, sheet hot
Milk running down your form
Don’t take the I from a poem
Of liquid gold, the amberling glow
Of touches, fingertip to toe.
It isn’t me in the spotlight,
Just in heat – from Mercury
Rising, from silvery shadows
Dancing the age it takes to trace
The top brass bronze of you.

The Spring

The Spring is all very well and everything,
but what am I to do with this love feeling?
I want to share the surplus all around,
and spare it; be lean, mean, and thriftily
savour the superfluous burgeoning swirl
and I spin it all in butter-cups, for a girl.
She's all twirl, and swaggering wayward,
a wayfaring ranger diagonally sashaying high;
ankles...calves...knees, to the genius of my thighs.
If only strength would allow me to..spend
sweet hours right here dwelling, speculating
the plans I ought to be making, instead,
what am I to do - with this love feeling?
If not but dream of a long slow seduction of you.

07

Harmonics

My polyphony butterflies your passing note.
There's my 7th - a needy hybrid - jazzy, unpredictable,
suspended; hovering over the wrong chord,
propagating like Coltrane overlapping;
cascading, bubbling volatile streams
and vulnerable, when I meant to take it slow.

The mystical quality of harmony pointed to the planets,
heavenly music, or a musical outpouring of love,
while I was busy wondering about chaos, structure,
and moments of perfect understanding. It is simple.
Primary triads are colourful progressions of chords
heading to the dominant, and back again.

You are my tonic; the bagpipe drone, and the voice.
I know refrains of parallel notes are the lines of our separation.
They say it is a fault of the eye to see lines converging,
as I say it is a fault of the ear, all along the bend of a harp.
How deaf are we to the magnetic aspect of notes,
leaning back into the music of another?

We chose chord progression, and searched
for the third melody note to hit two drones,
We became robust major three note chords, or fragile minor
triad tones, each dominant, each a tonic. We knew nothing,
wrote it down, and they say they hear Nature breathing,
augmented or diminished, in every breath. Play on, I say.

They say it is a fault of the eye to see parallel lines converging,
as I say it is a fault of the ear, all along the bend of a harp.

*

Timbre

A day of flaccid glances broken
by the timbre of your eye to eye.
Partial vibrations hum - seconds split,
You and I - in an instant pitch to pitch.
Fundamental tones sing animal harmonics
in the drive-by shooting of a look.
Overtones cross the columns of air
with a strike; bowed, blown, and shook
so, by this quiver tasty arrow wind.
Ten thick strings vibrate;
tones resonate long after
You have passed; I,
strung between two bridges,
an Aeolian Harp.