Tag Archives: passion

Ferns

ferns
 

The sound arrives
on the tail of rain;
low-level hum
held in fiddlehead cocoons.
 

We listen, rapt,
as tender vibrations
climb velvety stems
bathed in long summer light
 

and as I lay half-curled
in the crook of your smile,
we turn our arms to the sun
and let the newness unfurl.
 
 

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Communion

kiss
 

Though it remains unnamed,
it is enough to know
that in the rock and the roll of it,
the losing control of it,
 

between the hushed ‘fucks’
and the guttural cries,
the gaze exchanged
between unguarded eyes
 

it is there
and there
and there.

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The Scientist

carina 2
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

‘stars are sometimes born in the midst of chaos’

 

I lay on my back for half a century,
believing the universe to be a quiet place,
still, steady, constant;
the sun, its brightest sphere.
Static nights, spent on the cool, brown earth,
gravity pinning me to feather-green blades,
breath held, so as not to ripple the cosmos
and blow away the stars.

 

But now you tell me it is chaos out there,
that Orion’s Belt is full of stellar nurseries;
collapsing clouds of gas and dust,
pockets of space jettisoning new life
into a glittering sky full of
supernova shockwaves
and percussive solar winds;
a symphony of energy and light.

 

Here, as we commune
beneath the inky coverlet of night;
binary stars orbiting our shared passions,
you show me Carina Nebula;
four million times more luminous
than the solitary sun,
and finally I can breathe
without fear of scattering the stars.

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Leather Bound

Richard Booth's bookshop
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Richard Booth’s Bookshop in Hay
 

We met on a shelf
between RS and Hughes,
I liked your shoes but later
found they were boots,
their butterscotch
tan leather cuffs
discreetly concealed
beneath wintered denim.
 

Smooth, easily removed,
they sat obediently
in right angled hush
at the foot of our borrowed bed,
their suppleness echoed
in the soft scuff of your hands
as you deciphered the Braille
of my unravelling spine.
 
 

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Equus Ferus

Horse 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

He arrives mid-morning,
pawing the hot dust,
blunt thrust of snorting muscle
penetrating the corral.
 

His scent punches the air;
damp and pungent,
the rumbling aftershock
shoulder-charging my nostrils.
 

He parades, slowly,
rippled flanks
drip-feeding lusty morsels
as I resist the pull to approach.
 

The rope is coiled
and dry in my hands;
a flaccid snake that dare not
harness his sculpted throat.
 

I undress, wait,
quivering in the dirt,
while unshod hooves
imprint concentric whispers.
 

He comes to me, quietly,
in hard, shallow breaths,
allows me to grasp his withers,
clamber onto his unsaddled back.
 

I lower my quiet ache
to his dark neck,
animal heat flushing,
and it is in this brief fracture,
 

his body clasped to my breast,
his unspoken verse
pressed to my temples,
that we commune.
 
 

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Helios and other bedfellows

bed3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We wake to sunshine;
 

not the bland lemony light
that fingers blonde venetians,
 

but a fizzing mirrorball,
blistering
between linens,
 

livid,
and white to the touch.
 

Later,
 

limbs smouldering
in the ruck of scorched sheets,
 

fingertips
trace vellum palms,
 

sifting
 

for the tender balm
of borrowed verse.
 
 

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Calon

heart 3
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Inspired by Owen Sheers’ book Calon: A Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby
 
 

strange muscle
this carmine closed fist
vital percussionist
 

hollow metronome
caged in bleached-bone
xylophone
 

strong, pear-like pump
contracts
and yet succumbs
 

to the quick tear
the soft bruise
the bladed scrape
 

patched and pinned
slip-stitched
to an aching chest
 

untimely unrest
of arrhythmic pulse
steadying once more
 

to beat
++++beat
+++++++beat
 
 

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Pine

Chest
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

As the earth peels away
from the sun, we hurriedly
pack up the day,
 

stow it away in old tea chests,
hermetically sealed,
lest the light should escape
 

to further flay our already
wind-whipped eyes.
We sit on containers
 

let our full weight bear down
on blonde wood while sunbeams
screech and claw at locked lids,
 

dry carcasses splintering
in the quickening wrath
of incarcerated heat.
 
 

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Burton on Taylor


 

She came;
violet eyes brazing,
hair liquid black,
after-birthed
from Morfa’s glutted seam.
 

She blessed and burnt
my summer daze,
a crucible of white heat,
her gleaming teeth
cursed, dispersed
the icy hellions
of my bleak winters.
 

We raged with it,
the horn-ridden beast,
hollered as we let it claw
our clothes, rip ecstasy
from our throats, gouge
our eyes with the taloned
beauty of idolised youth.
 

Ten years we burned
between the sun and its
mutant reflection,
amid lust
and sallow loathing,
quaffing piss-amber
liquor between
fighting and fucking
 

until molten and wet,
she snaked from my
volcanic mouth,
left me spent and spewing,
to roam the sodden streets;
livid, raw, weeping whisky
into soot-filled gutters,
scuttling the gulf
of snot-drowned grief,
 

an ashen shadow of a man
bearing the red welt
of a life half-lived,
without her.
 
 
 
 
 

~ Bit of a departure for me. I’m fascinated by the relationship between Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. They had a passionate, tempestuous marriage between 1964 and 1974, remarrying 16 months after their divorce, the second marriage lasted less than a year. He likened their marriage to rubbing two sticks of dynamite together.
 

Burton died of a brain haemorrhage in August 1984. He was buried in a red suit, a tribute to his Welsh roots, and with a copy of Dylan Thomas’s poems, many of which he had recorded to great acclaim. Burton wrote Taylor countless love letters over the years, even when they were apart. His last was delivered to her home three days after his death. She died 27 years later in March 2011 and was buried with the letter.
 

I’ve tried to write this from Burton’s point of view after they divorced in 1974. You kinda have to imagine his deep, rich Welsh voice to get the full effect. If you don’t know what he sounded like check out the link – hands down the best reading of Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle.
 

Richard Burton reads Dylan Thomas

 

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Handle With Care

This supplesoft pink tingling sheath,
slith-ribboned by a blade of light,
that buttermelts with every bite,
 

lays bare its joy before your teeth.
Pink pelt belies a deft disguise
that hides the sculpted ore beneath;
 

take care when choosing to ignite
this supplesoft pink tingling sheath.
 
 

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