dante – From Bath to Cork with baby Grace

Autobiographies

Autobiographies

I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.

The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open

reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.

I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.

How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?

Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?

I couldn’t catch her name.

I wish

559006

I wish

I wish for Plenty:
manna, songs, dancing, smiles
gin, tonic, lime – even porter and champagne

especially the hugs of others
warm hearths for my belly
I wish for nothing less than a place at the next resurrection.

(I found no seat at the last supper.)

What I’m greedy for now lies beyond
nights of sleep, hummingbirds, smoked salmon, diamonds.
Tis daylight peace without end.

(It is a blessing to want.)

My longing rose from the dead on Monday evening
not long after a shrink spilled her seed on fertile ground
and stones moved in concert.

I wish I knew the secret of how to sow miracles
the way a spirit splits and multiplies
the rising of the sun.

(At least I remember her name.)

There’s nothing like a breath drawn up an elephant’s trunk
nothing like the atmosphere of air
Lazarus found out – and so did I.

Maybe I’ll remember how to wish next time round the mulberry
– trees breathe, leaves bud again.
There’s plenty to be found.

I wish

I wish for nothing in particular

nor gold, nor silver

nor the slightest material star

Not even the love of another being

nor warmth from the sun.

I wish for nothing beautiful.

What I crave lies beyond words

beyond prayers, beyond faith

beyond me: it is dead.

It died on a Thursday afternoon

not long before the assent

to the peak of Christmas dawned.

I wish for the return of the property

stolen from air I use to breathe

– I have a nickname for it.

But the memory is punctured

the proper name dribbled away

beyond reach, beyond breath.

It refuses to respond to my cries

lets the echo fester and reek of cracked eggs

in case I forget it wasn’t always so.

I wish it was like Lazarus

reincarnated human.

Maybe I’ll go on wishing and breathing too…

____________________________

Note:

Composed just before xmas 2015. With special thanks to Lars.