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
Copyright ©
Lady Labyrinth
|