Ground Level Entry

"Ground Level Entry" “She fits the bill”, they say it insouciantly visions of being carried in the beak of a bilious pelican where it builds its rudimentary nest, it uses sticks and debris no stones, yet, from irreverence thrown at it no higher perch than snakes and ladders than ground level entry the floor is plentiful the terra firma more ripe and wet bill beds for novices are easily fed gathering nourishment from the quieter hidden species, eating their Rimbaud Poésies running like writing words in military precision carrying weights like ants and the dead are fed in the external place she nestles habitual habitat social views low with 360 degree views advantage high, advantage receiver double faults surmises the other world head in clouds as from a crow’s nest hawk eyes virulent meanwhile, the internal view back at ground level entry the literary agency delivers an envelope she holds it very gently in her hands, emotional, as if cradling whisper soft her own sweet baby the rejection nuclear force ripped apart, unanticipatory she gets up on shakey legs she learns to walk again on another page she hears them say, “She fits the bill,” they say it insouciantly neuromancing the advantages of neurotic poetry schizoid in the breast the heart sings like belated swallow ground level entry rises the sword peregrine pen held fierce in the Now sharp flying talons of swift and hungry wedge-tail raptor (LadyLabyrinth / 2023) “The Belated Swallow” 'And the birds of the air have nests'... Belated swallow, whither flying? The day is dead, the light is dying, The night draws near: Where is thy nest, slow put together, Soft-lined with moss and downy feather, For shelter-place in stress of weather And darkness drear? Past, past, above the lighted city, Unknowing of my wondering pity, Seaward she flies. Alas, poor bird! what rude awaking Has driven thee forth, when storms are breaking, And frightened gulls the waves forsaking With warning cries? Alas, my soul! while leaves are greenest Thy heedless head thou fondly screenest Beneath thy wing. How bravely thou thy plumage wearest, How lightly thou life's burthen bearest, How happily thy home preparest, In careless spring! Yet Destiny the hour may bring thee When none of all that sing can sing thee To joy or rest! When all the winds that blow shall blow thee; And, ere the floods shall overflow thee, The sunlight linger but to show thee Thy shattered nest" (Mary Hannay-Footte) "Little Beaks" A voice in the tumble clouds deep silver crackles like thunder threads Clouds of starlings Blacken the eggshell blue sky drowns many A little beak Heartbeats morph together murmurate vacillate their minds to unify wings that hum like bees A dance of seduction envelops Blue Sky The unseen Superlunary shatters the reversing unrehearsed reverie The Hidden One in a forgotten prophecy speaks Come little beaks and night creatures Daylight dares the darkness one last taste Like true romantics and dead poets mandolins their hearts strummed eternally in seasons Like words written on the sky dance to make love of fun Come starlings little beaks come taste The Golden Sun (LadyLabyrinth/ 2019) gvlm “The Wolf’s Pockets” Virginia knows what’s written in the mass of a rock the heaviness of words not soluble anchored to life that does not float A Wolf swallows Woolf whole Hungry for something - “other than” ; Submerged, what is not seen is swimming below a sharp clean surface her dissolving shadow found through slender fingers wide spread and ink stained running through shallow waters and swaying reeds, something forgotten like touching her child’s hair combed with a soft brush; free diving deeper baptised, she touches Heaven baby’s breath and almond scented Erin lilies like milk, the sweetest let-down, she drinks it all in ignored by charlatans all bored with their own faux wisdom apathy flexes fits and moulds around a body of work sinks in deep and dry a sunken treasure to be found some time much later bound to tell a story that travels down stream The Wolf’s pockets weighted with black treasure open wide and beckoning arms cast wanton alms for plenty dreams and sweet reckoning infancy embraced again the sleep of sleeps and candour like opium is taken in, read, edited, then, silently missed a Final Draft is written Read again Read again ; (LadyLabyrinth/2019) for my daughter Georgia “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” Virginia Woolf