ironer, Degas

Ironer, Degas.

It’s not much more than a study,

just shades of grey,

grey bonnet, grey blouse, black skirt.

She is older, almost featureless,

the merest suggestion of nose, mouth and eyes.

Her body bends to her work.

Her right arm, clasping the heavy iron,

is strangely elongated,

as if stretched through time and labour.

Yet compassion is so deftly captured

in brief strokes of fluid simplicity

I must stop, stare and in tender sorrow

think of the life of this anonymous woman 

labouring through her monotonous hours

in tired, uncomplaining resignation.

Published at The Ekphrastic Review

The Dream Thieves.

The Dream Thieves.

In sleep I saw a House of Dreams, 

golden doors open wide,

liberty written on its walls,

equality glowing inside.

Then came the smiling thieves

in tailored suits and ties,

deceitful intent glibly oiled

by their well practised lies.

Inside, they plundered all its treasure,

stripped all the jewelled beams,

carried away the golden orbs

that lit the House of Dreams.

They left the merest appearance, 

a painted, empty facade,

and everything that they spewed out

was stained deceptive fraud.

I awoke drenched and shivering

from the horror I had seen,

blood now oozing through the door

of the ruined House of Dreams.

First published at Guy farmer’s “Social Justice Poetry”.

The Forge

The Forge.

The golden bird on golden bough

first came from furnace fire,

dross removed, skilfully hammered

into object of desire.

The curving razor sword that glints

along its lustrous length

was heated, folded, beaten

into its shining strength.

I much desire the forged-steel strength

but not the hammer blows,

yet I must bend before the forge

from which the lustre grows.

First published at Praxis on line, June, 2017

Postcard from Lac d'Annecy.

Postcard from Lac d'Annecy.

Lake, shore, mountain and sky merge,

light ripples and plays,

yachts float quietly,

a woman strolls with her dog,

stops, sits, gazes upon the water,

three boys play on the jetty,

peer, point, call "Regarde!"

Regarde! I stare into water and see,

beyond the snow-clad ridges,

that ancient rank beast rise again,

drag itself onto the land,

crumbling dreams and spewing lies,

the same old mirthless song

of deception, self-interest

and hollow fairy tales.

Fairy tales. I sit in a story book scene.

Behind the lake a grand hotel 

lazes by the shore,

a distant, turreted castle

squats on its protective cliff,

the mountain rises from the lake

to snow-clad, cloudy ridges.

Is not such beauty enough?

Is it not enough to sit in peace,

to sense the wonder of the world?

Why then do I continue to stare 

into the silent water?

 

First published at Verse.Virtual, July 2017

Metastasis.

Metastasis.

Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were

Wilfred Owen. “Strange Meeting”.

War courses through

the arteries of the world,

flowering in dark lumps,

lodging in tangle of wire, 

muddy trenches, gas, 

acres of green grass,

neat white crosses,

bleak eyes staring

behind razor wire

or skeletons uncovered

from shallow pits.

Young men, going home,

carry one cell or more.

It wakes them at night,

hisses in pills and booze,

flames in white rage

that scorches all

who stand too close,

shrinking wife, 

sobbing daughter,

son trapped

between anger and love.

It evolves in corporations

grown swollen and fat

from feeding on corpses

and is then sold 

by snake-oil salesman

who, salivating 

for power and wealth,

offer it to the gullible

wrapped in a flag

or the promise of greatness

or the gross deceit 

that the necessary cure exists

in multiplying the tumours.

First published in Verse-Virtual, July 2017