i don’t know what poetry
or why i’m loyal to it
(if) i want clarity
if i can pursue a different
honesty that way
the thoughts i have
Marion Bell, austerity
I like that
death is plural. Keeps happening.
Anna Gurton-Wachter, Utopia Pipe Dream Memory
I turned forty, Phil Hall offered: turning forty
is first looking back. What, then, at fifty?
Am I waiting for the ground to shake?
on actual events. A science
that sticks in the throat. Fifty years
to the day.
pantheon of passcodes, gods. A pinch
of salt or a trick with a knife. There
so the colour won’t run.
call my mother: mum. I call her silence,
dead these past ten years. A stray fact,
impossible to remove.
The cold, from my bones. I am seeking the cold.
a century in, I have shirts elder
than youthful contemporaries.
refine the waves. A guarantee
of creative indecision.
To paraphrase Don McKay: fuck your provocations;
get me a beer.
What the hell are you on about.
Ann Samyn reminds us
that it was Gaston Bachelard who reminded us
that it is we who are the curators
our own images. The way
my heart stops,
like a country.
policy is, by no means. Half a lifetime
since my twenty-fifth birthday,
loudly in a pub. Three sheets
to the wind. The conceptual language
put my foot down. A sentence
language on land. The question
of which came first,
the imprecisions each leave
across the other.
The great silence
of the poetic line.
In a year that left us