The landscape spread before us & danced, twisted into
such beauty;
                        it yearned to be a poem –
it wanted to travel with me,
& in me,
& witness for itself,
its own beauties when
compared to the streets
dead-ends, dark houses & stagnant
cathedrals still clinging to my spine;
the keenness of it all, the promiscuity of the world
turned me off, then & there –

 – I have never loved
                                     those whose bodies
                                     are naturally the bodies of muses,
                                     as I have never loved a mountain
                                     for its size, or an ocean,
                                                                                 for its endlessness –

– I have never truly loved
a natural muse, & those who struggle
and fight and work to make their bodies
the bodies of muses
are charlatans;
                           like the rest of us.
                                                            We misunderstand the
meaning of muses & we’re all dreaming
of angels.

I envy the landscape poets, like I envy the artists who shudder to capture a scene in their art. I have never been able to capture a truly beautiful landscape; they are beyond me, too large for one weak man’s imitation. Had I a full workshop, with a dozens poets working on some great masterpiece, I might be able to present one moment of the world; one scene in perfect stillness or alive with the thunderous joy of simply being alive, with eyes stretched out to see the beauty of light on dark scenes.

Every landscape I have seen now stands as a testament to my failures – like the great game hunters, I assume the living mock me for running out of bullets and ink so early in the day. No heads of trees, or bodies of rivers stand in my hall as a testament to my skill as a tracker, or my precision with a rifle. I envy the landscape poets, who can see so clearly and so intimately over such a large scale when I, inevitably, fail and fail and fail again.

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Carey Poet

Cormorant

on certain nights
when there was no hope
& all the radio stations played
Bela Lugosi’s Dead
on repeat
stretched out the chained drums

The Harrying Of The North?

This is a 'poem' that I've been working on for a while. I started it after walking into work one morning. (At least this one isn't bus-bound poetry!) Enjoy. (this is a conscious decision) That my toes trace uneven oceans of stone, and skip by broken islands of...

Kingfisher

I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity

After the Parasites Came

I draw my grandfather’s lungs in charcoal spit the fluid in his throat; tremor in art as is the shaking hands when he goes to lift the tea to his lips. Making leaves in old mugs transferred to sipping cups and the brief illumination of the body...