The stars do not go;
“Gentle into that good night”
but flicker, epileptic
amongst a billion other dying lights.
Like children wailing in an orphanage.
by a stranger, indifferent as the moon.
Face as blank as an unrecorded night.
Mouth as hollow as a lampshade,
suspended from an unfamiliar ceiling.
Wept asleep; ash white faces, crescent
in the folds of wet pillows.
They slip away silent from december shine
like the sliver of light
through the gap of a door opened slight.
..Those missing hours strung overnight
into some kind of constellation;
by a violin, mourning from an open window;
where a young woman has not slept,
nor cared to eat
but traced over and over like a suicide note
The trails in the snow left by a hearse.
..and the footfalls of children, having no pattern;
they do not go calm, into that solemn street.
If Shadows Could Bruise
I would watch waves
lap against rocks for hours, days,
until I gained a childlike sense of time again.
Though the sea moves
in formless origami
with no limit to its expressions
there is nothing written beneath the waves
that fold and clamber over each other
like blankets over blankets
on a child that is cold regardless...
..because a child's reality
was turned inside out
like an umbrella left
upside down in the rain.
I did not feel cold, I only felt
that the snow understands
how I wish to live.
Seems I have lived a thousand childhoods
and in each of my past lives none has
seemed my own.
Poetry only makes things worse.
The way I will always hold my gaze at a tragedy;
as though there existed no margin
between the opening of ground and sky
or if a child might have left
a confetti smile in wet glass
picked up from a church puddle.
I would think of how
the sun might splash a new mosaic
onto a strangers face unknowingly.
I learned from watching clouds
and strangers that would
sit next to me as a lost child
and ask me what I was painting..
why the colours so dark?
..because some colours
will simply not wash away.
To see the world through my eyes
is to be withdrawn from it altogether.
If there are children who go
wildly tracing footsteps in the snow;
I was the one who kept indoors
and watched from the window
tracing each snowflake
as it passed the street-light glow.
If I reached out to touch
a statue that resembled me
and the eyes were wet..
it's the closest I could get
to recognising my own feelings.
I don't have the voice or the emotion
to narrate my poetry to an audience.
I would rather they listened to the rain
and read my poems when I am gone.
...Even the snow
wants to be over and done with
before people start to come out.
These poems are on pause
in the honey coloured iris between
the red and green of traffic lights.
The rain in static re-runs of old movies..
An actress looking into your eyes
and for a moment
forgetting her lines
..these are the lines of those moments.
Its just one of those things;
when you need to be inspired,
nothing else will do.
Anthony Mason © 2012
Silent Movie In Black And Blue
Things are either dark, or they glow
and do not last;
they choke and sputter gracious
in the bedraggled blacks
like chimney sweep heads detached,
while the sky has its back to the world.
The sea bruises the rocks;
Blue, then stills
when someone comes to view.
Waves folding; darkly
like a hand over a telling mouth; hush.
The moon has the whiteness of a blind woman’s eye,
so perhaps its other senses are heightened
A widow who dresses her children like dolls.
Like a sewing machine, precise in her loneliness
and all the more efficient.
A ladybird crawls onto a child’s finger
like a droplet of water on glass.
Front down in the grass; she blows out
a clock flower, wishing the same of her past.
The ladybird opens its wings; just like the De Lorean.
The moment when Dorothy sees Technicolor
for the first time, is reversed.
The ladybirds carapace resembles a painting by H.R. Giger.
A boy fell from his bicycle
and scraped his chalk knees on the pavement;
The reflectors still turning on his wheels
like Polaroid’s spilled from a suitcase.
The sky holds close
photographs of the departed
like a second skin.
Gravestones huddle close
as gossiping children,
one stands away from the others; shivering.
Grass whispers in seeming.
Leaning; passing their secrets along
in little notes. A clock flower tears it up;
tosses it against the wind.
Bits of broken bowls line the pavement
as if the moon had fallen.
One woman is picking up the pieces,
without the strength to weep;
Staring into nothing as she sweeps.
A meal untouched going cold
on her kitchen table.
All their faces, paused in one expression
Like the moon before it fell
or the clock before it stopped.
A sea of yellow cabs waiting
like Scorcese’s translation
of Wordsworth’s daffodils.
My fingers are the bystanders at the scene;
the horrific image on the pavement-
the dead dove- is someone else's art.
Anthony Mason © 2012