More Net than Weave

Posted on November 25, 2012

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The way the back channel made me feel, but i could never catch in a photo, just a poem. These are the houses in the poems and the docks in the photos (mostly).  I actually own this print. I would own many more if my house was bigger, because they capture Portsmouth the way we feel it.

The sun is a red blossom

On the morning

As the boat swings pregnant

Into the outgoing tide

The mist in the channel rising

Gentle as thoughts

To embellish clustered houses

Perched watchful mothers

Above the rickety docks

Eyes winking open at our passing

So, so beautiful

For a moment I want a camera

Then I am reminded

I once knew a deer

(A woman, really)

I hunted her for years

But  I could never take her

A trophy for my wall

I have to smile

Not hours ago

It was no poet busy

Filling empty bottles

With pieces of myself

All those young man’s lies

And old men aspirations

So much spilt foam on the table

Sometimes I think

If life were a river

I’d have drunk it dry

Now, with the morning woodsmoke

Still in my hair

I am up to my elbows in fragrant blood

The firm ripe fish of yesterday

Distilled by an August sun

A bitter draught to make your living by

No spoken word, save for the cursed gulls

The traps without guidance go rushing past

Each knotted cord a piece of the day

And I trundle them

To and fro

I remember when in school

My dreadful secret was discovered

Advanced past my years

And I never learned to tell time

Back I went for that laborious chore

I think that was the last thing

They ever taught me

But you can forget everything

Out on the gray warped water

The slap of the trawls upon the ocean

The bump of the waves beneath

All your exertions

Gentle tugs on a mother’s breast

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Posted in: Poetry, Writing