Archive for March, 2018

Jesus planed a table

Posted in Uncategorized on March 30, 2018 by antonyowen

pexels-photo-413268.jpeg

I dreamt of you once in a mortal coil

it was an unspectacular day in your life,

your lips were black from olives like the earth had kissed you,

as if the wood knew your hands so gave you its fruit, its flesh.

 

I dreamt of a splinter embedded in your nail and you flinched,

You left it there a grain of you to bloom when the pilum came,

I woke up at the point you stared at me,

through me, like a crown without a king.

 

I dreamt of a Palestinian child throwing bread to galilee geese,

his shadow walked on water as sun made wine of disputed sea.

There are no resurrections here anymore

A cross is a grave, a child, a mother-skin.

 

I dreamt that Jesus planed a table from a fell olive tree,

he ate the fruit to respect it then dined from its boughs.

There was a leper by his side, face covered

His eyes blazed like stars swallowed whole.

 

I awoke in the throats of jackdaw and wren,

The apparition of you and I in disturbed cotton,

Our Turin shroud that led me to believe I am human and being,

I sleep each night how you levitated on wood forgiving me, us.

Places for what we become

Posted in Uncategorized on March 24, 2018 by antonyowen

 

 

pexels-photo-247583.jpeg

 

Low as the twilight owl,

high as the scalp of hirsute stars

dark as the wolf-eye wood in moon howl

you and I are fireflies fading in a blue and green vase.

 

Cold as the ice that thaws

warm as the blood that flows

our faces emerge from alkaline

then disappear like meadows of Palestine.

 

You and I are parachutes of pollen impaled on the gorse,

we drag our seeds to barren ground swollen by a river off course.

You and I are caribous with trees that grow from our wearying heads

we drink where yesterday bleeds in a field of sky painting a thousand reds.

 

Cold as the ice that thaws

warm as the blood that flows

our bodies are two perfect oars

rowing back to the mothership naked in Gods robes.

 

 

 

 

Blue Passport

Posted in Uncategorized on March 23, 2018 by antonyowen

mother-daughter-love-sunset-51953.jpegBlue Passport

 

I was not made in Britain but Indian cotton.

Within the creases were my borders of creation.

My empire was to smooth in her kiln shaped from her clay.

I travelled a billion worlds before Britain was my violent harbour.

 

Stamped in my eyes were the waters of my Mother and Fathers sea,

hazel from the Stoke Elms and slate grey from the gouged Welsh quarry.

I was a blue passport on a panic Monday when my breathing was laboured,

a French car raced down roads that Irish hands made to the Indian hands of a nurse.

 

Take me away on a Brexit passport made in France and I’ll sing our anthem,

Ghost Town by The Specials or the peasant songs of Ingliterre,

It shall not matter to me when I see the sky turn violet,

It shall not matter to me when I see her breath make silver.

 

I have seen a blue passport when my Nan laid dead on a second-hand chesterfield,

her eyes were closed as she sailed back to her homeland with a slight smile.

Death does not make us queue and sun stamps sky in waxy reds.

Britain does not exist up there; in the nationless stars we are all welcome.

The star servant (tribute to Stephen Hawking)

Posted in Uncategorized on March 14, 2018 by antonyowen
“Can God make a stone so heavy that he cannot lift it”
Stephen Hawking
 
 
(I) The Boy
 
I picture you in winter
the violet flower of your breath shrivelling upon the window,
you notice rain bejewelled on a spider’s web and see stars on an abacus.
I picture your mathematical eyes like a sheepdog herding in the planets,
your Mother shouts it is time for bed, there were no monsters for you.
 
(II) The Adolescent
 
I picture you in bloom,
the crush girl smiles at everyone and today she lingered longer at you.
There is an aeroplane writing gold between the leaky moon and sun,
you want to pour out it’s nectar into two flutes and drink it with her.
You walk towards her and a foppish boy mocks your walk, she walks away.
 
(III) Oxford
 
I picture you alone with stars,
It is daytime and nobody notices the sundial of stars but you feel them,
you mine space and diamond worlds wrapped themselves around you.
This is a marriage that lasts, so throw rice into the sky and kiss the bride.
A speck of rain splashes on your spectacles, the world is now magnified.
 
(IV) Sexual encounter
 
I will not picture you with a woman,
she is an unfathomable universe made up of water and immaculate life.
There is a red sailor in her womb, she is rowing to life with you her coxswain.
I picture you both joyous holding your babe aloft like a trophy for Jupiter.
 
(V) The Chair
 
I do not hear the automaton,
your mandible is chewing up all we thought of sky and her beautiful sisters.
I see people forced to listen without interrupting you as you take them to space,
this is how we find our way back to earth by listening to the whole point made.
If we never find the meaning of the universe we find a man who took us closer,
By mind,
by chin,
by automated sincerity.
pexels-photo.jpg