Paul Summers

the song of remiel

confronted by the glare
of another blank dawn
we stare at this ocean
in muted congregation

anglers & gamblers
bi-lingual romantics
champions of the left
our minds untangling

her strands of cold light
our stance perfected
we salvage grace from
the pains of our labour

hail these angels
of thankless hope

grandpa’s hands

& being, as they were, in
the arse-end of nowhere

he stitched the gash
with 5lb monofilament,

a barbless hook
& long-nosed pliers;

some belated utility
to that night-class

in upholstery.
each sheared-off cell

cowering like tallow
from the reach of flame.

a spinal ridge of straining skin,
the punctuated seep of blood.

(a primitive cartography)

anaximander of miletus
is gazing at his navel.

herding a world of sepia
lines within the confines

of a single leaf. a genesis
from the nib of a crow-

feather quill. the things
we own or think we own

now mapped into order,
of convex arc & steadfast

poles; an ocean abstruse,
three continents adrift:

just rapture & despair,
between them longing.

Paul Summers is a Northumbrian writer who now lives in Central Queensland. His new collection, primitive cartography, is due out from Walleah Press in August 2013
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Blogger Redcap said...

Exquisitely painful.

(Full and Pain, my middle names in these dark days.)


3:44 PM  

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