Poem
Dot by dot, the backs
of eyelids. Draw it slowly,
shape of sentimental spine.
You curve that way.
I breathe the countdown
& the world falls, air by air.
In the white room you cloud
over bedsheets,
unsettled weather, & no electric
light will dare illuminate.
Your skin tastes clean sky,
polished gray. That clarity,
sharp ...
I dip my finger in its redness –
a little wild honey for you
& a little for me,
beloved.
Each letter bears
the unmistakable scent,
the iron perfume,
the dreams of lung,
vein & the battlefield.
At the window,
trembling,
befriending trees & cats with ...
from the Tibetan meaning 'to build' or 'to construct'
I.
In 1992, Alice made a Tulpa.
Carry an amulet. Kiss its three sharp corners. Shine.
It began subjective, but with practice could be seen: imagined ghost that flickered in the physical world, a sort of self-
induced hallucination.
Recall the chalk clouds. Recall the scent of ...
The desert dreams of harvest,
of holy writ & rain.
The city dreams of ruin,
of upturned cars
& vine-dressed churches.
The tiger dreams of freedom,
of shaking loose the stake & chain
& racing into shadows
large enough to hold it.
But me?
I dream of you.
There was a time we collected
dolphin's teeth
&a ...
States of Poetry 2016 - Western Australia | ‘At the house where my father was born’ by Carolyn Abbs
'It hurts to go through walls, it makes you sick,
but it's necessary.' − Tomas Tranströmer
I'd expected a labyrinth of small dark rooms, yet
the house was lit marigold scooped out like a pumpkin for Halloween
Flames flickered and spat in a wide fireplace
&nbs ...
I
Having narrowly escaped jetlag,
I ate a mushroom omelette
in Galata Square,
with wrinkled black olives
on the side
&nbs ...
(found in rubble beneath a church — New Norcia)
Distempered walls crowd in cold at the old
schoolroom, resonant with the chant of times
tables, scrape of chalk on slate; a nun might
have leant over a child, white dust on her cuff.
This afternoon, light from a slit window catches
a silver crucifix and reflects onto the dome
of glass cabinet, li ...
Tenement Building (black & white photograph)
Chris Kilip, Tate Britain, 2014
you view the house from across the street
part of a terrace it fills the frame
the roof is cut off no sky dim light
upstairs a balcony
One day,
after it has died,
we will hold a vigil for the moon.
We will burn candles,
cheap mimics of its light,
& utter prayers we forgot to utter
while it still lived.
And we will say,
'Remember how it
spoke to us its bone-coloured dreams?
Remember how it gave us hope
when all else seemed savage?'
And some will say it was ...
After you died, Nana, I went to your room,
it was dark like that place beneath the breakwater
where barnacles cling and children never dare hide
I opened a blind, a stuck window, breeze fanned
and fanned the room, light across your dressing-
table, triple mirrors. Amidst perfume bottles,
hairbrush, amber beads, your art deco box,
walnut with inlaid mothe ...