Grief, a dislike of that

Who that does not mourn, grieve,
die inside, that does not pace back and forward
in a box that was made
a container, like the one making cows feel safer,
to express better, like a room, a box for a cat, poem,
The News, a ball-bearing, or cake box, the walls falling
when a ribbon is untied, or when dislike for simile holds fast
no more, a dislike of that,
and that, and in a last salute to metaphor
when things are simply as they are, does not sigh,
does not wail?

the bees of Belmontet

Lavandin du Quercy - A Lavender farm in Quercy, Belmontet, France

It is that time of year when provisions come in
from the mini-bar window sill, the heater
one-bar for vapour, from Lavandin
du Quercy - Belmontet.

The glass bottle leaks twenty-five years on
from fields of ultra violet stretching out
fresh playgrounds for honey bees,
no expiry date,

on a girl playing Pinball. Handheld,
hysterical, ‘There is no Wizard!
It’s jammed. I hate this game!’
throwing it to the ground, stamping,
screaming to one of the ball bearings, ‘Don’t panic!
Don’t worry! I’m coming in to get you!’

And falling right there,

for some such girl, in turned-up jeans
in the hand-me-down-years of faded denim, cotton,
checked, chequered, capers -
becoming lighter and softer somehow
against sunflowers and corn husks,
tearaway days of wet riverbanks and bridges;
most things green, wood or stone, until moss,
leaf and hemp wound its way
through everything. She is still there -

hair wet from the rope swing over, hands sticky
with honeycomb, sat on the wall scuffing the brickwork
shoeing away the bees of Belmontet.

Maya, the dragonfly’s wife.

'Radical Forgiveness?' asked the dragonfly, 'Is that what forgiving the self is before becoming?'

'Before becoming, what? asked the rabbit, very confused.

'Less Radical. Or more. Depends which way you look at it..’ said the dragonfly barely moving a muscle.

‘Sometimes I think you are being deliberately superficial!’ said Maya, the dragonfly’s wife, stepping onto her bicycle. The rabbit looked this way, and that, and didn’t say a word, except 'Fisherman!'

‘You want to go somewhere?’ asked the dragonfly, keeping perfectly still.

‘Yes. Of course dear,’ she replied, remarking on the splendid neatness of line, of a nearby damselfly’s dress, so steady against the breeze.

'Fisherman! Fisherman!' said the rabbit, sneezing loud enough for the damselfly to feel a slight chill of wing muscle, and stretch, in all directions..

'Splendid!' said the dragonfly's wife.

What we don’t need when...in a poem about nakedness

We don’t need a skinny naked bell ringer
underestimating the weight of a bell,
flying through the roof of a belltower
in a poem about nakedness, however much a belle,

we don’t want words of longing
attaching themselves to words about loss,
losing grip of the rope
in a poem about nakedness, however

the congregation’s faces are a picture on the way down;
however this is, on the way up, and whomever is laughing,

we don’t need laughing in a poem about nakedness,
before the faces of the congregation, through the spires,
and beyond, all in wonder with the colour of sky.

We don’t want the sky to be blue, for there to be a sun
to illuminate something with a flock of birds passing,

for who needs flocks of birds in a poem about nakedness
when the sky is indigo, when stars are at their windows
peering down from light years ago. Who needs stars

in a poem about nakedness, when beyond all naming
of stars, they say there is a perfect image of you,

beyond an open window, launching smoke rings
at night - all quiet,

when we don’t want an open window launching smoke rings
in a poem about nakedness, as the box

marked with a cross opposite, just one garden length away
lights the night sky with aura from beyond the inside,

when we don’t need aura from beyond the inside
in a poem about nakedness.