Green Things

Sometimes I envy poets who seem to have a 'STYLE'. Faucon, May, Winnie and Ruhdwolf - I already recognise your voice as your own, before I know who has posted.
For a while I immitated other poets- fishing around for an authentic voice. I did e.e.cummings, a truly awful Sylvia Plath, a hazy kind of Margaret Atwood. Here are a few of my different voices. Perhaps all of them are masks, but I would be interested to know how they appear in the world.


FOR SAMANTHA

In the midst of green
and smoke and furl
we fall away from chip and push
we droop and lap and limbs uncurl
in the midst of winding wild and bush

Amongst ourselves
in sap we seep
through rustle and shush
while the willows weep
we'll not be blown from
our hallowed sleep
for the slender sighs are ours,
the slender sighs are ours.

Winking our eyes at the pale slipish sun
our damp and dusk-drunken pores will bloom
under quivering thicket, beneath querellous moon
a drop of the glimmering soon we'll become
a drop of the glimmering soon.


NASTY PASTY

Do you think I'm a monument of grief?
Is my poor heart cold as stone?
Have I shed all my tears
night after night since you
left me alone?

Are my hands exhausted from wringing?
Have I sobbed and cursed,
are my eyes still stinging?

Will I ever have hope?
Will I ever be free?

Darling,
you're already poetry.


FOR LACAN

outside/inside
across the mirror of your eyes
i slide

outside/inside
two separate images of 'I' collide

and slow you close the point at which
my selves divide

open...shut
and in a dark sweet place
we compromise