On The Subject of Stars
Almond eyed and transcendental;
they are indulging on a banquet of stars
and tossing the wishbones away.
A caged moon is watching.
The capturer of stellar beauties is finely dressed
in only the rarest of crystallized tears.
Her net is entrancing;
some stars wish themselves beautiful enough.
Rejected stars shiver in the eyes of lovers.
There is a lack of depth in those gazes
of oceanic bewilderment.
To love truly is to drown and not struggle.
Star crumbs leave a trail to worlds beyond,
lined in single file like obedient children
marching in playground
unaware, like caged moons,
of the stars hollowed of wishes
all but crumbled inside.
To die in this manner is to never reveal their secrets;
collapsing in on themselves in a distraction of light..
The story went, but one boy
had learnt about stars in his spare time.
What is the point of anything, young fellow?
But to inspire wonder and curiosity;
to shine light upon something else entirely.”
He appeared, at first, terribly sad;
slumped like a toy-shop window puppet,
averting his eyes to a north easterly,
as to an old memory..a bucket of used sparklers,
in which he felt something had drowned completely.
One boy slept upon a slanted classroom table
as words turned into lullabies and exploded
into a fine dust, if anything, of music.
His last thought was that he had become
a syllable whistling through a shattered
kaleidoscope of mosaic moons.
Everything was an eclipse
and could not be described
by anything but an endless concerto;
to which no one had the honour of conducting;
least of all his teacher.
Another, gazing from a window
at the mute boredom of grey figures
moving in droves with a distinct unease;
like the women on their way to concentration camps.
In one, pregnant it seemed, of heavy tears.
A book slammed shut. The teacher cross
that such wonder had not been acknowledged.
When washing escapes from lines....
if it gets high enough,
then it is free to stay up there in the sky.
Alice whispered it;
looking out into the windy street;
the swish of litter scraping.
Newspapers tiptoeing, cans hopping,
bags wheezing, banana skins crawling
like starfish, the swish of car tyres
slicing through left over puddles.
Adults rushing like the white rabbit
out of wonderland. It all seems so mute.
Routine; every moment attached
to every moment like clothes on a washing line.
How she dreams of floating out through
the window in her fathers white shirt
seeing the city below her.
Anywhere but here;
A mantra for the rest of her life.
It will become only a sound.
A heavy tocking. A soft ticking.
Alice looking out the window undone.
alice…. alice…. alice..
She hears as she chases
A white plastic bag down an empty street.
She snaps out of a classroom coma.
“Alice, pay attention;
Why is your page blank?”
...It's the sky miss.
“Then imagine something in it”
She folded the page into an origami bird.
The teacher had an expression only teachers know,
Her face seemed to slowly change
like that of someone watched
after a moment of laughter,
whose smile lasts longer
than the light in their eyes suggested.
As if she had lost hope,
in something intangible as love,
she would think quietly to herself was,
ironically, the only solid thing
that existed in a world so cold.
Anthony Mason © 2012
We’re all looking for something
we never find
and settle instead
And so begins
from a time before
as if it was the end of a year long war.
As if the moon was blown
like a clock-flower.
Here we are all nameless
and it is here that I lie
under the grave of the sky.
Snow falls in street light glow
or am I rising? Time slows,
to watch outside the dream in bloom.
Your memories of me;
a chain of bells that echo.
I have taken with me; there is only
a trailing pattern in the snow;
perhaps that of a horse and cart,
a funeral hearse,
a child and sled;
you will not know.
My eyes; used catherine wheels
still nailed to the pole
are already photograph dead,
gone from green to sepia, like traffic lights.
There is a sound of bells in your sleep;
they trail from a funeral sleigh.
You follow to find a whole constellation;
you will not know which is me.
It is as if two lost bracelets had fallen in a river,
in the same place….
As if they belonged to the river..
somehow you just know.
You see them faintly glowing
but leave them there.
In another snow-globe geometry;
I am the message carried
from one street light to another.
I'm half present.
Abstract; as if sketched
into the centre of a busy scene.
I am a kind of urn full of eraser dust;
if I should spill I might become a picture..
A bird perhaps.
Strangers are notes in a silent
un-punctuated jazz, then noticing me;
fall into deep contemplation,
as though trying to place me from somewhere;
another dream perhaps. I don’t even know
what my own eyes are hiding.
It was imagined. recorded somewhere,
in dreams, or maybe
just leftovers from a dream
A statue carved of pain.
The pain carved onto my skin,
so that with me,
the universe can analyze itself;
mirror on mirror.
I’m staring right into Medusa's eyes
and turning her into stone.
Anthony Mason © 2012