Do not forget that a poem, although it is composed in the language of information, is not used in the language-game of giving information. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951)

A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state of mind by means of words. Paul Valéry (1871–1945)

Thanks to London-based amberflora zine for publishing my poem “The Norse Way To Make Hay”, September 2021

Oceania in the tub

it happened again this timein front of a tankfull of sea nettles and fishas they sleepwalked all overmy screen lavish creaturesspilling water colorsdancing their eurythmic names
i too became a body of waterfor intercorpo realwebbed in the in between
crowned with seaweed
ventricles all porous, all curious
two blowholes gleamingone spine dissolving
into a fabulous stream
people, this land masswon’t hold, it is loosingto sea 15 feet coastline per yearthat time in the tubmy breath moving kingdoms
and continents of fluvial foamrising and sinking andrising and shrinkingwhen through pipesi could hear my wholeuniverse singuntil the [pling] of an emailforced me up for air, too fastwhen is ever a thoughtannouncing itselfnot the rudest delusion?

two minutes in february

for two minutes in total
the sun laid herself
in my room today
a mouth speaking light
are you there still, little one
tired beams, through curtains
of granite, needles and trunk
towards a house in the shade
across the floor
dust lent her the substance
to be still and again.

struck and unprepared
low levels of d vitamin
no pen at hand
but a half eaten orange
my notebook buried
in a far away coat,
I laid my hands open
palms up
they said
we have nothing to give
and much to wish for.

it seemed as though
she just wanted
a body to dazzle
and on my palms
scrawly like a spider child
she wrote in her language of
a hundred silhouettes
what a joy to shine, little one.

exposure therapy

only when heaving this winter stiffened body into another stiffer one
with sheets of floating skin atop
is it that one of the two bodies of water (guess who)

came to feel like a sinking turtle.
treading ice buckets
evacuating from banquets
followed by another plunge into panic.
in the throat the breath tastes blood. meanwhile two swans walk jesusly on water meanwhile seagulls sit first row

where is the floating door for once since hanging on to Rose’s lips
for life support of sorts
won’t do the trick.

drowning and thirsting
but both at once because
we are fish
Bowie said
but this fish ain’t swimming.
she wakes from a gargling dream
afraid to dive deep
into past into future
haunted by impossible ogres
until the mirror is calm again. understanding that you are water
& that water cannot drown.
who would I be if I hadn’t been frightened?

Black Out Poetry Project. Attempting to turn newspaper headlines on the climate emergency into poetry