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"funnelling" poems
Hot on the tail of that wily, elusive beast named ‘inspiration’, I travelled north. North, where colours mute and transformative shadow bends in darklight, revealing the world as it really is, as it once was. Hundreds of years pass, rolling back time, boiling clouds rushing over peaks in reverse, a tiny tornado ***** in on itself, and hundreds become thousands. Rain blackens the babies of volcanoes, engorges forces with greater purpose and cleanses every shred of vision from my grasping, desperate mind. Thousands become millions And I am stripped of incentive to try. There is no ruination, here. No furious nor frantic need to imagine past lives in this manicured, managed place. High-vis’d toilers scuttle on mountainsides carefully placing and re-placing rocks, funnelling feet and discovery on a prescribed and sensible path. Only the rain wreathing a secretive misted ribbon, creeping in glacial cut-throughs, is possessed of fanciful virtue. Nothing shatters but the slate and the landscape does not turn inward to eat itself in gnawing, atavistic need. It says more about me, than it does of the Lake District that I would wrench out and offer my super-heated heart to see the mountains fall.
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Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
I didn't 'get' the Lake District
Does she know the silver chain wrapping Around her ankle is terminal and deep As a trans-Atlantic cable connecting the island And here. That a single full-breasted pull On a summer cigarette was Life altering. Her body was beach-burned, her hands Sifted grains of sand Funnelling beneath her thread-bare towel. Our silver natal thread contracted As the blue smoke rose, Magnifying the August moon. Three hundred moons have dimmed. We walked in step from the Village Through the park with the slack chain Dragging, scraping on cement. I have often polished that chain, Used muriatic acid to untarnish. We didn't know our brains would Become onions behind our eyes; We didn't know towels would become Patchworks stitched over bones. I didn't know a chain of being could snap.
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May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
The Silver Chain of Being