Day 29...favourite time of day

At Camhanaich


Because it is the slight hour,
between night, what it becomes;
we lose a little of ourselves, are grayed
and faded, gilded in whichever way.

This is the creep of feral creatures,
the knock of nameless demigods
who slip and shush into the conversation,
are wired and loose limbed, liminal

We are sleepy with the vague Sun,
being born,dying each day,
haunt blue in hope of fire as
today crawls for tomorrow,

as the day drags round its hours,
as nervous as a grey bride
dressed in a gown of maybe,
the blurdom of the borders,

belonging to all or no thing,
when the one seeps to the other -
dusk morning or dawn evening,
thin ghosts of these half times.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Day 7...Fib....

 Fib Day 7... feeling uninspired, but using, from Napowrimo site, the 'Fib' form: 1/1/2/3/5/8, inspired by the Fibonacci sequence, apparently.  We   lie  because  each sleeper   wants to conjure up   unreal, protective magic   pinned with ribbons like a war map,   a cat's cradle song:   these limits   cannot   show   us,   raw,   just what  we've cooked up-  like the trick with gold-  just keep it there, under your tongue   till  you're ready for invention   metaphysical-   swallowing   words dry,  like  pills
Read more

Day 5 -#PoetryPrompt Dream Imagery

  5th #PoetryPrompt was to go to Google Image Search and type in "dream imagery". Pick a picture. I did, then went off at a tangent - reading the article the picture came from...and thinking about when I suffered from sleep paralysis “When we fall asleep, where do we go?”    asks Billie #2,  asks Billie Eyelash (children’s nickname) Billie of the sleep Billie quoted in the dream enquiry or   I could show you, garish, clichéweird, the art of someone else’s dream  or   I could tell you of phosphorescence, the city in the sea that had no side and bled rooms over cliffs and here we lived recurring, and it wasn’t bad, even with the birds  or   I can tell you where I like to go, out of myself but standing to the left, slight phase jump echoes, leaves a jellyfish or traces, smidge of me atomic across blur, across the hours while, I the dreamer, aren’t there but here in my dream job, in my dream house the more ...
Read more

Day 9..Walk

  "Once I dreamt of a form of poetry created by the sound of feet walking in the grass."-    Cecilia Vicuna 1. ..by the sound of feet on grass, if I could find it, my feet on paving, sound of ground and breath . Yes, I can find my feet, I can hear my tread - imagine grass beneath and when I reach it, shed my city shoes, careless, the electric happens- nerve and blade and fuse connect alive and make a beaten track, wild through the woods back home. Yes, green grass and sound and I know music 2 . This is how we walk now, the seeds of grass are buried eight feet deep under the concrete- cracks appear. My bones ache ancient from all this hobbled walking- heel toe heel toe heel, so I and my chiropodist collide, we disagree on methods: why do you walk like you're dancing? She asks, now she's a choreographer, Feuillet marks on Hobart paving, glass teeth means en pointe; it ends up crippling. Ancestors ghost my muscles,  like relics of old saints, and we step side to ...
Read more