Poems of Coming and Going


Beside An Empty Suitcase


Rider on a horse of air

A battle beckons over what horizon

I am beside my empty suitcase of adolescent zeal

Hoping I will never have to fill it

A centaur without the horse to ride

I linger in the caress of a memory as yet unmade

And I have married anticipation

So as never to be alone with the past yet to come

(But someday I must leave her, the Philistine I am!)





I am here in the ivory square

Wishing for the taut misfortune

Of yesterday when I was not yet here

Where trains rush past into the unclaimed future


Eyes smile into lips

And the metro is a phoenix:

Go back to your ashes and leave me my somnambulance


(In my bag is a deodorant

I will finish when I have gone back home)


Even as we take our first steps into the novel sunlight

We promise ourselves we shall be forever enslaved

To the memory being born now at our feet





As the breakfast bells chime and dawn looms

I have my face in a book I started in the past

And will finish in the future

But never again will I read it and have in the corner of my eye:

A new girl drinking a new drink in a new bar


I can read as much as I want but I will never again see

Her legs that smile as they cross themselves

Her lips changing colour to green mwah absinthe

But all I can do is read on


So that maybe this book

Will entomb that memory so bright

And resuscitate it when next I read it

So that girl can stow-away with me

Into my palaces of routine

And defeat mundanity for a little while

With the force of yesterday’s novelty




Now I am asleep and dreaming



I’m going up into the sky – perhaps –

And tomorrow I’ll be back in the sea

What’s waiting for me:


Not this yesterday of rambling avenues

And streets nameless and lustful for me

New drinks under a new sun

Old moons alight a new dance

Not this and not even the metallic airport

Silver lighting

Wearing all my belongings

Refusing to fit

Declining to rise and fall


I am even younger today than yesterday

Like a boy working before his time

For I have taught myself

Not to pay attention to this present

That returns me to what same-old future

Like a train to an illicit destination


And in the queue before me I hear the languages of home:

What am I doing here and what’s next?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s