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They arrive on warm waves, 
rising and falling with the swell, 
jostling among themselves 
accommodatingly, as if happy 
to be undulating thus on a whim, 
whichever current takes their fancy. 
They move by convulsions, 
as if suddenly repulsed by where they’ve been. 
Today the sea is full of them, 
thousands of floating umbels, 
medusas that bring the gulls swooping down. 
So many, as if some whaler 
had poured its viscera slipshod over the gunnels.
I could scoop a handful up 
but know they would slip 
through my fingers like water 
lacking the wherewithal. 

On sand they die such flaccid deaths, miscarried 
and left to rot when the tide 
retreats. Who would think they light 
the deepest of abysses, 
those aeons of dark ages? 
But here is one in the submersible’s glare, 
a pulse of life holding casual sway 
before cutting the umbilical cord 
and diving down 
into further darkness. 

Here’s another, 
lit like a chandelier. 
If the soul had filaments 
it would radiate like this 
and drift as ethereally, 
as vague as slops yet beautiful 
having left the body behind 
to grow dull, 
to be poured over by crabs and flies, 
turned inside out, 
like this one at my feet, 
something a drab might abort. 




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Tony Hill

Sat 28th Nov 2020 19:31

Glad you like the poem, Candice. They are beautiful creatures. Tony

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Candice Reineke

Sat 28th Nov 2020 18:43

Love the juxtaposition – light/dark, beauty/vulgarity, jostling/convulsing, etc.💗

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Paul Sayer

Fri 27th Nov 2020 15:21

Never mine either Tony.

I write mostly for the joy and fun of it.

COVID has me thinking however about reaching out to those who can't get out.

Next year I will sink a little deeper into those depths myself.

I might just call on you for some support.

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Tony Hill

Fri 27th Nov 2020 14:38

Thanks for those extremely kind words, Paul. It's a hobby, quite a demanding one if the truth be told. I'm aware of the lengths many poets go to in an effort to get a wider audience - sending poems to countless magazines, going to open-mic events etc. Never really been my thing. Tony

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Paul Sayer

Fri 27th Nov 2020 14:19

..."So many, as if some whaler
had poured its viscera slipshod over the gunnels"...

If you sir are not a poet, then I have not got a clue what a poet is!

This is a poem of fathomable depths... only, if one decides to dive in and absorb its beauty, Tony.

I for one am glad you post here.


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Tony Hill

Fri 27th Nov 2020 13:55

Hi Ray, no need to go to desert island. I think you know that I have little or no involvement in the poetry scene. However, a lifelong friend of mine runs a small publishing firm called Dreich. He knows I don't send my poems away to magazines etc but asked if he could publish twenty of them in a small chapbook called Chet Baker in Belgium. It costs £4 but I'm giving them away and asking anyone who wants one to make a small donation to a charity of their choice. I have never regarded myself as a poet and it seems wrong to expect people tp pay to read my miserable scribblings. If you want a copy message me your address and I'll send you out one. Tony

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Fri 27th Nov 2020 12:40

Better than the real thing this, packed with imagery and imagination . If I were on a desert island it would be your work I would take Tony.


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Tony Hill

Fri 27th Nov 2020 07:48

Glad you like the poem, Branwell. Tony

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branwell kent

Thu 26th Nov 2020 21:33

good poem

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