Poetry Blog by David Blake

Tags from last 12 months

Recent Comments

Grace on The Romantic (Sun, 7 Oct 2018 06:45 am)

raypool on Origami Phase (Sat, 25 Aug 2018 10:11 pm)

elPintor on Origami Phase (Sat, 25 Aug 2018 02:19 am)

David Blake on Story (Sun, 11 Feb 2018 04:29 pm)

raypool on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 04:20 pm)

keith jeffries on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 09:34 am)

Douglas MacGowan on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 12:13 am)

David Blake on Ebbing (Sat, 13 Jan 2018 09:17 pm)

raypool on Ebbing (Wed, 10 Jan 2018 08:19 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Moon Haiku (or 'How Poets Can Pale Into Insignificance') (Sun, 3 Dec 2017 05:44 pm)

Exhibitions

entry picture

I remember the sun;

the sun was important,

although all the art was inside

and in perfect pride of place,

skirting the walls

and planted in rows.

My feet young, but the air old,

and moss overgrown on

the war memorial outside.

 

True, you need light for shade,

a chiaroscuro, and

a half-full glass raised.

The place is almost silent

with must, damp, old coins...

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2018

Origami Phase

I worked all through the Winter,

on my Swan, then it got dashed in water,

a cruel joke from some playmate or other,

sadly it didn't float, but neither even would 

my flimsy boat (one would imagine).

Trouble was the books were too old,

too fusty, specialised;

I grabbed them from the library eager

only to arrive back home and within five minutes

had lost patience...

con...

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effluent

The Romantic

This officious darling, too old
for me, with steel-eyed glances;
offers me a hand and
a Fabergé egg.

The cold lights of the Malverns
in winter are anthills.
In my heart, I decline, and go
to prowl before the world's river.

Scooping up vanity in my arms
I deposit the screaming bundle
on steaming bank, smooth leaf
and unpick iron links.

Soon his money's out
of the question and I r...

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edits

Story

The arch-light at the end of the view

from my door is

weather-bitten, with mossed steps,

beneath the thumbprint of moon

(the stone, in the fruit

of the afternoon).

Sideways I glance,

over the hedge;

there, spring has hit,

and apple-tree, honeysuckle

and lacquered gate,

preen idly.

 

I remembered the last time,

your hands closing both of mine,

as we stre...

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Ebbing

Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.

 

The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields

pockmarked

and played out.

 

My own earth is in the box

where

the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me a...

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2018

Short Film

A running tap in a cluttered room,

the water through dust-light.

Someone stares from a close distance,

unmoving. The sound fills the space.

 

A body lies outside, on the paving,

curled sideways, fully clothed.

One fist open, the other

hidden. Dawn breaks slow above.

 

Two bright young things, in hats,

scarves and gloves, rush breathless

to the window of a jewell...

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2017

The Way The Wind Is Blowing

Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.

 

Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.

 

This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?

 

Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishin...

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2018

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