They said that, when it comes, it shall be singing.
I sit in a room of sunsets. Sideways blinds
Scatter light: until, the cloud smoke still,
A purple sorrow draws in, at the window;
Held in my fingers like cuts of steel wire,
I can hear night sounds. It can’t be long
Until the hound at last recovers me.
In another room, a lamplight flickers.
Hurled on drifts of midnight, I
Turn over to your side, to wake:
Clutching sheets where once you’d lie,
And hold the after-ache.
There’s absence, where once was a sigh.
Where my clothes start and yours once ceased,
The space is empty. Left to die,
Like something lost, released.
Your books are gone. The presence leased
Has called its debt, your place to take.
I grasp the hurt of us, deceased.
I hold the after-ache.
I am in hot water, now. Like the frog who,
So they say, would jump when dropped in a boiling pan,
I was placed in cold. It’s funny, I guess.
But the threat from underneath,
A gentle threat, persisting underneath:
I never noticed you.
You see, I’m in trouble, now.
I can’t get out of this one.
It’s the broken window. It’s the dropped
Shards of a plate. The curfew, overstepped:
This one’s all on me.
And, hands in my pockets, looking down
At my trudging shoes to avoid the gaze of you –
Stomach dread, soul hurt –
Like I’ve stolen something I cannot return…
That utter beyond-hope as I stare,
Deeper than anchorless oceans,
A punch in the gut,
The kick inside.
You.
Oh: I am in deep, deep trouble, now.
When old Macleod lowered his drink, the glass
Barely made a sound. The coal eyes neither
Burned nor brooded. He simply said, that
Down there in the cave, when at last he heard
It – after the rumours, strange voices, echoes, equipment
Missing, broken-necked deaths and the cover-ups
Of supposed natural gas and unsafe vents –
He said that, in the cave, the truth was,
“Old Nick isn’t so…. Unexpected.” He said
The day when, in the dark, he felt as clear
As you can feel your own fingertips the
Tap Tap Tap of the Devil on his back –
Well. He said, it wasn’t the fear. It wasn’t
Red-eyed madness, or malice. Only that…
Everyone feels they’re winging it through life,
Right? Everyone feels a fraud. That you
Got here by luck. But any moment now
They’ll find the error, check the files, and
Tap you gently on the back and say,
“I’m sorry, but it seems there’s some mistake.”
And we all have lived and loved on borrowed time,
Vaguely aware of eternity, vaguely
Aware of fate. But hoping they won’t tap.
And when alone at night, you hear a sound,
And know not to look behind you: it is that.
When the Devil taps you on the back,
It won’t be fear you feel: but exactly like
The kitchen window you once broke in childhood,
The plate you smashed, the deed now done:
Dirty-handed trudging back to mother,
Aware entirely what you have done:
You’ll feel the tap. And you will know
What’s coming next.
At last, the time has come.
Take a look at my new Patreon page! This is a site where fans and followers can subscribe and pledge, in support of my art and my studies, and in return access exclusive poetry, readings, content, features and surprises.
Here’s the site address: look forward to seeing you there!
http://www.patreon.com/jrhgreenwood
xx
Hello there, lovelies!
I have some rather exciting news for my followers. I will be redoubling my writing, and sharing videos of recitations and readings on a brand spanking new website, which opens TOMORROW (Saturday 9th).
On this website, followers, fans and patrons can get access to personal readings, extra content, behind-the-scenes footage, writing tips and even personal, hand-written poetry.
When we launch tomorrow I will share a link with you all: and if you wish to subscribe, the details will follow!
I will still be posting my regular content here as well, minus the extras and exclusive bits. Look forward to seeing you on my Patreon page!
Love to you all with bells on.
Infinity crowns me. Haloed by my heart,
I call the chalice, and wine fills me up:
My words are spells, and poison is my art.
Drink from my cup.
I conjure objects into servitude,
Breathe words into life, and am their dawning.
As even the universe was blown by a nude,
Bored God one Monday morning.
I play a truth, and always tell the trick.
Is this sweet distraction? Is it real?
Or both: the truth can be a real dick.
Which will you feel?
Speaking is belief, as much as seeing,
And snatching destiny from slender air.
The question is, did I will it into being,
Or was it already there?
Major arcana. Major stare.
Major drop your underwear.
I have once again been privileged enough to work alongside a fellow artist on Instagram, Charlie Ray Illustration, to provide poetry to accompany their work. I was taken by The Magician card, which symbolises inter alia creation, potential, skill and deceit. Have a look at his Instagram page for further samples of his work:
We hope that we might live to last,
And look back fondly on regret.
Will the dead remember us?
Or will the dead forget?
And if we reach this winter, too,
And last until all suns have set,
We might surrender warmth and wool
To feel the frostbite yet.
And if we ceased the feasts of Yule,
Forsaking fire, and meat, and guests,
To grip the knife-end of the chill,
The cold heart of our curse:
We know the living long to last,
And look back fondly on regret.
Do the dead remember us?
Can the dead forget?
Palimpsest 