Tony Beyer


blue turns green if you
concentrate on it too long

the small determined
travellers in the corners

in their cone hats
carrying-poles fore to aft

while a wave mountain
crests into frothy snow

the loyal oarsmen
defy wind and water

and the sun
lowered hotly on its side

like the blade
of a circular saw

about to do them and their
stout craft irreparable mischief

in one print the faces
and laps are transposed

so the robes part below
on enquiring expressions

above on moistness
and tumescence

an artist with
too much on his mind

the skeleton’s intentions
are dangerous but not obvious

somewhere in the dry ice
of his bones a memory

of what flesh was for
what clothes and cushions

were arranged on the tatami
for its repose

plum blossom

patterns the moon sees through
instilling sleepy light

the brittle screen slid back
to admit petals

sly lids shed
instead of tears

the wrestlers circle
hands drawn

with the sun hung
horizontal this time

over the wooden edged ring
where they toss salt

sweat and sand
and each other

the famous actor
always appears in drag

his voice as shrill
as the tense perimeter of his hairdo

but there are women who imitate
his every gesture on stage

even those
which demean them

the outline first
then a separate block for each ink

some of which overlap
to produce further colours

subtle applications of pressure
result in intricacies of form

more or less the way
the world was made

interrupted on its way down
rain sways in the wind

the pilgrims on the bridge
hunch under reed cloaks

the mountain is invisible
like the sun but like it also

irrepressibly present
somewhere out of sight

Tony Beyer is currently focusing full time on poetry in Taranaki, NZ.
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