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Dave Hardin  Nov 2016
Dave Hardin Nov 2016

Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge

bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn

at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint

screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image

a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas

a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave

reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting

in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.
old poem, something about Japanese wood cut
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012

Oh this gradual coming together as sleep lifts away from bodies resting just apart but then a little turn on the pillow knees touch there is the slightest kiss of a nose a mingling of feet hands may rest atop a thigh and touch experimentally This is such bliss all consuming no thought but each body’s press and caress so slightly so gently given until hands and limbs and kisses and the dearest stroking fills us to the brim with that longing which only the deeper kiss can quench Afterwards we watch from our attic bedroom leaves departing their trees


The steep steps and Doric pillars eight in all gather us into an entranced gloom only to spill us out into the light and space of galleries filled with Cyprian artefacts an owl with a removable head more porcelain than even your great aunt could look at but in a corner there were these bowls from Syria 12C and earlier Michael Cardew could have thrown and patterned but didn’t One in Iranian green inscribed thus blessing prosperity glory grace joy happiness security and long life to the owner  nothing more surely ever to be wished for ever to be wanted


My Chinese heroine has a soulmate: Jilia’s deer in flight across a page of Somerset Soft White and Tengin mould oh the verse of Hafiz 14C Sufi mystic flowing into the body of this running beast Rejoice you lonely seeker of the scented path out of the wilderness the perfumed deer has come and there was more in different hands paper parchment poems exquisitely rendered into living words In a frame Goethe’s leaves of the Gingo Biloba stuck to his letter of love to married Marianne This leaf from a tree in the East has been given to my garden


Captivating in beauty glowing silvery-white petals flutter down to lay a blanket of snow beneath the flowering trees and miraculously they did and more to make us wonder that negative space could be so powerfully wrought Hiroshige the master in his element of the winter snows eloquent landscapes figures on the Edo to Kyoto road the detail of raised up clogs and warm layered garments of a Geisha walking out with her maid the stone blue waters the pale reflecting skies the delicate embossing of waves and the flow of hillsides the ukiyo-e woodblock prints pictures of the floating world


Wearing purple and red your near to Advent colours grace this table we lunch at before a final walk through the city full of our time here amongst the towers and chapels and more history and art than we can manage for the time being Again and always whelmed over by your beauty seen against the press and clutter the clustering in the peopled streets the bicycled roads and in this one o’clock restaurant’s clamour how is it that my eyes are wholly on you my ears only hearing your sweet voice my fingers reaching out to touch you again?
Nigel Morgan Feb 2014
It was just after four and he had been at his desk since early morning. He would stop every so often, turn away from his desk and think of her. They had spoken, as so often, before the day had got properly underway. It seemed necessary to know what each other had planned on their respective lists or calendars. But he had hidden from her an unexpected weariness, a fatigue that had already plagued the day. He felt beaten down by it, and had struggled to keep his concentration and application on the editing that he had decided to tackle today, so he was clear from it for tomorrow.

Tomorrow was to be a different day, a day away, a day of being visible as the composer whose persona he now felt increasingly uncomfortable in maintaining. He would take the train to Birmingham and it would be a short walk to the Conservatoire.  He would stop at the City Art Gallery and view the Penguins – or Dominicans in Feathers by Alfred Stacey Marks , and then upstairs to the small but exquisite collection of ukiyo-e. He would avoid lunch at the Conservatoire offered by a former colleague who he felt had only made the gesture out of politeness. They had never had anything significant to say to one another. He had admired her scholarship and the intensity of her musicianship: she was a fine singer. But she was a person who had shown no interest in his music, only his knowledge and relationship with composers in her research area, composers he had worked with and for. He doubted she would attend the workshop on his music during the afternoon.

He was often full of sadness that he could share so little with the young woman spoken with on the phone that morning, and who he loved beyond any reason he felt in control of. Last night he had gone to sleep, he knew, with her name on his lips, as so often. He would imagine her with him in that particular embrace, an arrangement of limbs that marked the lovingness and intimacy of their friendship, that companionship of affection that, just occasionally and wonderfully, turned itself in a passion that still startled him: that she could be so transformed by his kiss and touch.

He was afraid he might be becoming unwell, his head did not feel entirely right. He was a little cold though his room was warm enough. It had been such a struggle today to deal with being needfully critical, and maintaining accuracy with his decisions and final edits. He had had to stand his ground over the modern interpretation of ornaments knowing that there existed such confusion here, the mordent being the arch-culprit.

He stopped twice for a break, and during these 20-minute periods had turned his attention to gratefully to his latest writing project: The Language of Leaves. He had already written a short introduction, a poem about the way leaves dance to and in the wind of different seasons. At the weekend he had spent time over a book of images of leaves from across the world. He had read the final chapter of Darwin’s book The Powerful Movement of Plants, the final chapter because after publication Darwin suggested to a friend that this chapter was really the only worthwhile part of the book! He had then read an academic paper about the history of botanical thought in regard to the personification of plants, starting with Aristotle and ending with the generation after Darwin.

But his thoughts today were on writing a poem, if he could, and would once his editing task for the day had reached a realistic full stop. After leaves dancing he could only think of their stillness, and that was just a short jump to thoughts of the conservatory. Should he ever gain an extravagance of riches he would acquire a house with a veranda (for the woman he loved), outbuildings (for her studios – he reckoned she’d need more than one before long) and a conservatory (for them both to enjoy as the sun set in the North Norfolk skies below which he imagined his imagined house would be). And suddenly, at half past four, after his thinking time with this lovely young woman who occupied far more than his dreams ever could, he turned to his note book and wrote:  while leaves may dance . . .  And he was away, as so often the first line begetting a train of thought, of association, a fluency of one word following another word, and often effortlessly. A whole verse appeared, which he then took apart and rearranged, but the essence was there.

And so he thought of a conservatory, a place of a very particular stillness where the leaves of plants and ornamental trees were just as still as can be. Where only the leaves of mimosa pudica would move if touched, or the temperature or light changed. It was a magical plant whose leaves would fold in such extraordinary ways, and so find sleep. His imagined conservatory was Victorian, and in the time-slip that poetry affords it was time for tea and Lucy the maid would open the door and carry her tray to the table beside the chair in which his beautiful wife sat, who ahead of the fashion of the time wore her artist’s smock like a child’s pinafore, an indigo-dyed linen smock with deep pockets. She had joined him after a day in her studio (and he in his study), to drink the Jasmine tea her brother had brought back from his expedition to Nepal. She would then retire to her bedroom to write the numerous letters that each day required of her. And later, she would dress for dinner in her simple, but lovely way her husband so admired.
katie  Apr 2018
katie Apr 2018
the look in his eyes was calming
and it felt as if time had stopped,
just the two of us conscious of the situation

his soft touch felt like rose petals,
brushing against my bare skin
and leaving me breathless and wanting more

he read words off of the page
and chills ran down my spine,
thinking about if those sentiments were meant for me

his soothing voice resonated deeply,
emphasizing each of his sentiments
and it felt like listening to my favorite song at dawn

i imagined having all of him to myself;
that seemed like it would fill me up
and mend all the gaps in my heart

but what if i got just a piece of him?
would that be enough for me?
perhaps i never want to wake up from this dream
a dream within a dream
people always see the surface
they don't know the depth
i lay in
Connor  Nov 2018
Connor Nov 2018
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******* clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.

Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----

Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.

Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.

I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Living in the moment, detached from bothers of life…!
Yashashvi  Jul 2020
A way to long
Yashashvi Jul 2020
It's been way to long, walk back
to the land we knew
fall from the world we have now
build one together for us
just smile and speak until this dies
I'm running-
running in the woods of your sillage
breathing the memories you left in my cells
wishing we would hold the hands
and escape to the ukiyo in our heart
I'm aware this will become a memory ;dés vu
but still together
let's balter forever
leaving the foot print in the december snow
I promise, I will stare you like a mirror
bring the the color to feuillemort
when vernal is back to life
up to then feel the cold warming each others soul
I know that our eyes can talk like we used to
so don't wake up from the dream
unless we can see the scintilla.
forever we are together
the seasons never separate our souls
Sukanya Basu  Jul 27
Sukanya Basu Jul 27
And now I am in the floating world;
I dare not say where my talons reach
On a wasted bar in an
upscale town
Or an alley where Fatima found her treasures
In the long lost desert of the warm hole,
Warm hole, I guess the intoxicated parental hugs and childish glee,  
I look up from the clouds,
To the endless possibility of the diamonds
That often singers wrote about.

I say, dear sir,
Who am I to stare at her face,
Who am I, to debate regarding astronomy
To appreciate what the clouds offer,
To gaze at endlessness.

To look down at earthy abrasion,
To scratch a letter about the sky,
I am no Euclid,
I cannot calculate severity.

That begs me to differ
That,  people plainly cannot deduct  
signals about lost thought,
The algorithm of pain.

Poetry begs of loneliness despair and the will
to obligate any will to look at the sky
As only diamonds of beauty,
I too am no exception;
Alas, to bring a clown to an opera
Is no different than associating pain with love.

/I too am in love/
/I too was in love/

And certain beings of certain genders
Makes you feel whole,
The last ingredient of banana bread,
the parmesan of a Michelin plaza

And yet towards the end,
all the love come to a halt,
and no ingredient can complete it whatsoever.

Heraldry: would you rather be the next karate kid?
What is the conclusion of your armory,
to be in love
as always is a momentary pause in the general affairs of society?

Have you related to a succulent plant?
Well, I cannot,
I am but a group of the ant farm,
boring away in close proximities of career-oriented blabber,
Naysay, it is not culture nor an obligation,

I simply do not have the courage to fly.

I lack in art and imagination,
As a poet, it is quite a blasphemy,
But dear Lord would you call a layman a poet
If he dare not risk beyond boundaries of nomenclature
You call her a fraud,
when she dare write and not live
when she dare speak and not do,
She is not a poet, good sir,
She is a prisoner of propaganda.

I do not remember days and years,
but it was once in July,
The sun was setting,
And calling over to take the place in the night sky,

Needless to say, it was an abrupt end with no closure,
but she took it out on the sun
Whilst her muse ended things at the barrel of the gun.

Truth be told,
I am sick of ballads,
I am sick of subway seats
I am sick of occupancy.

I dare you to sing a rhyme
Which you sang with him behind
And hush your tears,
because you bestowed the music in his grave.

I am angry,
I did the same!

Well, enough of angel tears,
I take back my sun,
I take back the sky,
I take back the dreams!

I am ready to see sunsets.

— The End —