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Today is the first
that she is gone,
first of ten.
The bed is enourmous
and there is nobody to witness
my guilt if
I don't get done the things I should.

The room still smells of her,
is still more densely populated by her things than mine.
There are still cupboards which
I shouldn't use
                    and tell myself I won't visit.
I'll put away her underwear later,
the dry ones at least,
leaving the jeans.
They take longer even on blistered days
like today
where nothing can get done.

Nothing but laundry and maybe a song.

Wouldn't she hate for me
to write about her underwear,
especially in some half-arsed poem,
but she is away today
so I think that I will.
Ioan Hazell Jun 9
Audience-less, a man
Performing songs of childhood and fire.

Stranger to strangeness
Spinning In this incendiary moment.

He sings a song which lives,
Which intensely lives.

An audience of reflections
Battering tall walls in applause.

Defiant clatter of man,
Adorning, like ribbons, the hall.

Dancing heels are screaming
Like these birds in branches

But the starlings fly their nestsΒ 
And make lives in their leaves.

They build slow decaying homes
In gutters and trees.

Sacred and hopeless,Β 
Promising only to rot.

The essential dwindle here
Refining those presents foregone.

The sad beauty
Of sweet recollection.

While nothing spoils inside the hospital,
Day upon day.

Earnest and aflame
He peeks through a psychical crack

Like a brave voice through an open window
Spilling onto Artillery Road.
Ioan Hazell May 29
Oil on canvas,
folks watching a nuclear blast
from sun loungers, deck chairs,
reclining and bathing.
Smug with the smallness of surrounding mountains,
the smallness of all things
against seraphic light.
There, the sky is about them,
eggshell and peeling
slowly away to reveal this chance;
this guess at what is what and how
it came to be exactly what.
Curling, spoiling, whining, laughing,
crooning down upon each balden head.
The earth will bed
these minding smiles,
its carers,
all long laboured miles
in whatever manner most appeals
when the chairs are folded,
the loungers breathless, suffocate in the attic,
eyes, opals turned,
milk in the baby's bottle,
lists written and
the clock face down, unticking.
Based on Edward Hopper's 'People In The Sun'
Ioan Hazell Apr 29
Many mothers
Too soon demanded,
Are no longer at your bedside.

There begin
The hushing miles,
The whispered life of empty fields,
Tonight, the cross sections of homes
Through half drawn drapes;
A leg on the stairs,
Locked hands between chairs,
Wetted cheeks without cause,
Concealed by curtains,
Softly obscuring, drawn
In against your peering.

Loud beside your bed
The life, the vehicles
Go head-lighting bold
In burning rows
On roads leading only into roads.
But more distantly,
Your dreaming figure,
Built in each flicker,
The thousand folding limbs
Hanging on the shaking border
Where speed is faintly noise
And light lands silently to dim and die
To dim and die
Ioan Hazell Apr 29
Close the doors
Burn the bridges
Always take the path most travelled
Narrow the horizon
Lower the sky
Ferment resent and never try
Ioan Hazell Apr 29
I waited there a while,
Inlayed on heels in rays.
In the hiss of service
Where many whispered questions
From ten desks on the first floor
Climbed vaguely upwards
Dragged up in jumps by the stairlift.
Grey apron comes, mothering two boys,
Tapping cold against the drone,
politely mispronouncing my strange name twice
Then three quick apologies.
She's just playing dead by living neatly
Like hiding in plain sight.

An unorthodox commander
Rose in the yellow leafleting room
Who’s offered throne inferred pity.
A cartographer for the wasteland here,
Which naturally 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 π˜–.π˜’. 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸;
For the spectre of light,
Of fuzz and flashes
Which searched with expert lamps
and medicines
Was all in the wrong continent of being.
The windows of the soul are dirtier than these,
This big sign is too commanding.
  Feb 20 Ioan Hazell
If your heart remembers me
if it’s rivers are running free
if your misted vision clears

enough to see
burgeoning white blossoms
from naked trees

a cloud of petals
against the sky
the light diffusing softly
between you and I

a touch of your hand
felt for a time
in the cool of beginning
bodies entwine

flowers in the winds of time.
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