the sun is sparkling, the rain rumbling, and we badly need some poetry...

Monday, 28 November 2011

John Swain - Two Poems

The Black Hours

The pages in black tint
writ with silver scripts
and the blue gold inlay.
I saw the crossed man
hanging from the wire
in passion surrendered.
The night and the seas
exchanged a cremation
the poets interpret.
I read the black hours
like a haunted passage
I am confined to relive.
The beauty of the work
contains its destruction
like rain inks on glass.


In the fleeting uncaptured 
rarity of appearance
the wilderness spoke
by message of hawks
longed through the throat
of their mystery
like a deep redness
poured into a golden cup.
I met the vestige of effort
and growth like branches
and the twisting of antlers
softly dropping
in entrance of succession

and passing of the names
to broken rock.
I lit torches
to speak cleanly
after flies were eaten.