´óÏó´«Ã½

Inspired by Steve ReichÌý-ÌýVermont Counterpoint

We’re in the half-built house

in Vermont – me and the man

I nearly marry, but don’t – unroofed, holes

where windows will fit. In sleeping bags

on untreated boards, night falls and fireflies

arrive – a quickstep, a certainty, a flute added to

flute they synchronise. This was the dreamtime,

the simple time, that time between schooldays

and real life. Do you remember such a time

of firsts? We were living hand to mouth –

dollars counted into palms,

money soft as moth-wings.

In those days we went looking

for what we didn’t know was there.

Our reward: fireflies without borders –

un-tame, a coming-together-last-minute plan.

We watch them sandpaper the sky, they jerk for joy,

they jagger, god’s own migraine. In lightning-tongue

they sing to us Forget your sad cities of light, we are

our own ferris wheels. Now the roof must be on,

the forest cleared for lawn, each patio slab

a square of extinguished light. Anytime I want

I can catch them there, fireflies in a jar –

a torch-full of past, banging at the sides of this glass.

Inspired byÌýTchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture

a breath, and the notes fall on dark water, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý
hesitant at first, but then sailing, like pale

adjacent bodies rising on the blue hips of a
young girl. I think of this girl’s heart, hollowed

by the hands of that man, careful as they carve itÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý
to a canoe pushed out on to this ocean. Quavers

like geese follow as it skims, blemishing the
stillness for only a second, bending the air, a

perfect house made out of water. Somehow you never Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý
think anything can hold you this tight by the ribs and

still breathe. In my mind I think of the couple, spools ofÌýÌýÌýÌý
song pulsing beneath their boat, stellate and wet

against eyelids as it makes tracks like stains on myÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý
skin, a journey with an end best left unsaid. I think of

that tiny fistful of love, of blood feuds, of that Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý
girl running in from blue coldness, only to meetÌý

her crescendo, accelerando, Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý
fine.

Inspired by Paul Dukas’ ballet La Peri - Poeme Danse

After an ageÌý one bird does cry out above this place

one in a rushÌýÌý passing overÌýÌý the aftertaste

is a pull of breeze through summer branchesÌý

and meÌý I’m sat in the ribcage of this gutted

roasted whale of a god houseÌý sat on the side

Ìý

where the bones are shatteredÌý

where all I can see of piety is a celtic crossÌý

a crying faceÌý where charcoal fragmentsÌý

ash and scorches have been air-brushedÌý

the altarÌý chapelsÌý and tracery windows

Ìý

have taken on wildflowersÌý here is airÌý

and shadow patternsÌý spaces for the unexpected

aerobatics of swallowsÌýÌýÌý

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý hateÌý far offÌýÌýÌýÌý burned

another churchÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý a creator noticedÌý

saw the black char as emblematicÌý

Ìý

ripe for hanging from puppet wiresÌý ripe

for hanging like an explosionÌý held

at the midpoint of its momentÌý devoid

of sound and weightÌý dark light that beaconsÌý

beckons one to spear a thought

Inspired byÌýRalph Vaughan Williams -ÌýThe Lark Ascending

I know this piece.Ìý I can recite each beat;

Time signatures I grasp but, even so,

These accidentals took so long to know,

And I have learned each triplet, each repeat.

I've practised long, would not admit defeat;

It does not matter that I will not shine;

The boring hours are gone, this piece is mine;

My fingers numb, my knowledge is complete.

Ìý

This hall is silent now, and every eye

Is on the baton raised.Ìý Pause.Ìý Begin,

And deftly, quietly, launch this small bird's flight;

The melody surrounds me, fills my sky;

The lark ascends, the gentle sun pours in;

Discard the page: the day is filled with light.

Inspired by Mark Simpson -ÌýIsrafel

She is dying,

She can feel it, quick and sudden and far too loud,

Ìý

She is running –

Run, little girl, run –

Faster, faster, faster,

Skeleton soaring, bones come to life.

Ìý

Her heart is pounding –

Run, little girl, run –

Death is chasing you,

Death is catching you.

Ìý

She can’t slow down, never slower –

Run, little girl, run –

I am here, I will help you,

Just don’t stop moving.

Ìý

A twig cracks beneath her –

Run, little girl, run –

She is looking behind and death’s

Red eyes are gleaming.

Ìý

She is tired, throat is closing –

Run, little girl, run –

You will be clean, I will wash

My hands in your blood.

Ìý

She is close, closer, quickly –

Keep running, little girl, keep running –

Ìý

You are here; you have escaped.

Inspired byÌýDavid Bowie -ÌýAshes to Ashes

I stumble through Tokyo alleys,

With the sound of mid-life karaoke humming

In the narcotic night nitrogen,

Sinking into effervescent coma

Induced by Japanese Geishas in neon bliss,

Prosecco pouring from my earholes,

As ascension elixirs enters my saturnine veins,

And emerald halos cycle the crows

While they pick on tie-wearing carrion;

I shake with pre-meditated self-grief,

Glass teardrops pirouetting at my transparent sides,

The Dawn shattering through my Bakelite eyelids;

Falling to my knees, I, unravelled and extinguished,

Drift off to inner space writhing

And whispering. ‘Mother, I’m sorry.’