Sidewalk

I dreamt that I walked on the ghosts of pavements,
barefoot, sideways, backwards, down. Slipped through
the solid seeming earth, curled my toes around silt and sand.
Felt the moss moisten, stone bruise my unaccustomed heel.
Heard the loud birds. Saw my city's morning nakedness.

Wasting time

Please tell me why you've visited this poem. More of you visit this one than any other, and I'm intrigued. You can comment here or email me at malcolmwilson01@hotmail.com.


Like Petrarch, I could write about a deer
encountered, loved and lost again,
whine like Wyatt or, like Shakespeare
build a clever argument, complain
of love’s unfairness, remain uncertain,
end with a coupled question mark in rhyme.
But how can fourteen lines contain
my anger, or explain my cliff-top climb
in search of you, describe the time
we kissed and clung together
twenty years ago, and how I’m
always looking out for you, forever
raking over everything we did and said?
A waste of time: we loved; you’re dead.

Row K

While the poet reads,

I occupy myself with you,
a head in front of me:
watch your artlessly parted careless hair,
and the nape that my eyes
have stroked a hundred times,
and the curls that my hundred hands
have run their fingers through.
And yes, one hundred conversations
I have dreamt and crumple up,

now the show is over.

at the awards

I saw Peter Porter piss tonight. No, I almost did. Held the door
to let his parting thankyou out while other Published Poets,
(marked with backstage passes) eased their arses, steadied legs,
looked up, performed. I waited, watching their backs.

One day I'll be the same. Take my turn, walk forward,
rock from heel to toe, relax my frightened arse, arrange myself.
Publicly perform my private act. Spotlit, facing all of you.
A woman's faltering, stuttering trickle.

Afterwards

Nothing prepares you for the cold stone
contours, crags, gashes, gullies, gouges
of a broken body. Empty sepulchre,

my son.

I lift him, drag him backwards,
wrap round him, make believe
my blood is running through him,
feel him come to life inside me.

Taste the bitterness of knowing.

Smell dead sweat.
Start to wash him.