duck - Hello Poetry

duck Oct 2019

feet planted in the dirt,
the painter sways on the edge of the hill
wild ferns curling around his thighs
and pollen dusting his collarbone.
a canvas, as pale as his wifebeater,
is slotted onto the creaking easel.
the air is thick with sunshine
and it drips from his temple
before sliding down his shoulders.
birds whistle and swoop,
the thrum of the trees behind him
hum in appreciation and contentment.
the sweet wind is warm on the back of his neck,
and he departs with tinges of yellow behind his ear.

duck Sep 2019

song for the satellite

though impossible, i am sure
the ancients would regard you
as the stardust skinned messenger,
charging, winged, to the heavens

without horizons, twisting and buckling,
destination determined upon arrival,
oceans of gleaming light carry you.
how magnificent, you think. how magnificent.

this isolation gives you a higher faith
in the ones who graciously hurled you,
the ones who live above, their own heaven
impossibly swirling. oh, monstrous sphere!

glorious as it is, how it could possibly contain
beings kind enough to lay you along the stars,
you'll never know.

duck Aug 2019

southern winter

i have a thin drop of water
between my thumb and index finger
that i play with when it rains;
you leap through the warmth
that comes with your tall summers;
everywhere i look, everyone is the same,
moving, writhing in the heat.
i am jealous. i am still. i am cold.
i am here,
in my southern winter,
my fever of snow.

duck Aug 2019

4pm

i think it would be nice to have a moment
perhaps in the late afternoon
where i could lay myself across the grass
and our shoulders could bump together
like the branches above
and the breeze could smooth us into the earth
with you at my side
i think it would be nice

duck Jul 2019

legacy

the writer, the renowned historian,
who was admired by the young man from the southern valley,
does not know he will not survive the reaping.
this young man, he begs the writer,
'please, carve me into your hands, into your fingers,
into your fingernail,'
the writer looks down at his letter, and smiles,
'young chickpea,' he croons,
'you have yet to realise,
that it is i that shall be buried in yours.'

ive been translating some of cicero's ad familiares and his letter to the historian lucceius in which he asks him to write a book about him really struck me, because in the end it is only because of cicero that we know about lucceius. none of lucceius' works survive. it's weird how things turn out like that

duck Jul 2019

sometimes all it takes is touch

i can barely feel the world around me
on this cold winters night
but the wine in my belly
and the stars in my eyes
set my veins alight
as i think of the tender touch of a lover
their hands melting along my jaw
this ache, this longing
runs wet
like fingers inside my mouth

duck Jul 2019

you told me you were scared

stones and laces fly as your soles hit the gravel
on that thick sunday morning
the mist heavy around us
your blouse slowly untucking itself
as you disappear over the crisp hill
you tell me not to follow you
the bitter bite of frost pinches at my hands
hanging heavily by my sides
hot savage breaths ballooning in the cold air
i hear your father's deafening roar
(or perhaps i imagine it)
and it is then that i finally i start to tremble
in all the glory
of the emerging sun.

inspired by someone very special to me