October 28, 2012 § Leave a comment

this is not a poem about war;

there is a war within this poem

seventeen men whose voices clamour in battle

make war on war: the word

contains a world of men-

but the poem.


the poem.

sits with its arms around the mountain

waters the plants until they drown

parts the heavens with its lips, and kisses

on each cheek, the ocean formed.

the poem.


makes war on men.

braves morning; coffee is the slick

sugar of grief and the heart

beats slower still, until it stops

and waits for the poem.


there are no poems of war, for poetry

contains within one word, the lie of peace

I can’t make you love me:

October 15, 2012 § Leave a comment

imagine an Africa black and red

‘take the sun from my chest’ it speaks

‘what do you give us, anyway’


I have nothing to give but my big, whale soul

overwhelming ocean of old

and new

paths from words of silver, gold

I have nothing to offer


you, Africa

but my glass eye

in which the forced love froze its arms

around its sister, hurt


he who sees through colour, falls

into that sea which seems green from the point

of not swimming-

what can you see from the shore

that will not change in here?


there is nothing there, that will not send a sting

better to feel it from sea than from the shore

whole shoals of thoughts come swimming,



the sun:

October 6, 2012 § Leave a comment

it’s not that the glass

is colourless:

it’s that your hands

don’t hold it towards

the sun


where all our colour comes


No, Frank, you can’t plan on the heart.

October 6, 2012 § 1 Comment

no, Frank, you can’t plan on the heart, but

you can dress it as you wish

even to appear as though a mountain drinking

up sun, up rain

up violet in the in-between

morning has confused you with me


eggs, heart, milk to drink-

a mountain.


no, Frank, you can’t plan on the heart.

it stays, open

Where Am I?

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