THE MAKER
First
I make a
stark monochrome sketch
Then throw the clay
Turning my fingers
To mould four senses
Pedalling the treadle
Last I hang the lips
Hook the nose
I am spattered with clay
Flush with creation
Overnight
The head is put to rest
under damp cloth
I sleep with crossed fingers
Today
Cut from its pedestal
The muscles have stiffened
The mouth pouts
Suddenly I have
Gouged the eyes
Brought my hands together
and twisted the living thing
into a slimy lump
Again the wheel is turning
With the whole of my hands
Drawing the clay tall
My feet under the spell
I am remaking my head
Not with faith
But because I must
GROWING
My eyes have opened
My heart is thumping music
I hear
other musics
They do not concern me
I am unfurling my fingers
Stretching them through
crustacean-red water
My sky
has a roof muscle
I can touch the sky
With my creased fingertips
I shall
suspend my pigmented thumb
in my new mouth
I shall
frown
and kick myself to sleep
I am miraculous
I have these dreams
This is my time
I should like things to stay this way
THOUGHTS
This paper has a blue mark,
Shall be rolled up uninked,
Lit like a vesper candle
And the draught will
Draw it out into
the dark
Where the moon rubs a
calloused hand
Over the chimney pot
Then when the dialogues of cold
Tear at leaf
At land's end
And you are
Watching the
Cones crackle
The peat bricks fume
The moon shall spit
This black
Back down the throat of your home
And its shadow will
Sulk by the firetongs,
A still blue mark. |