Archive for December, 2018

The Years

Posted in Uncategorized on December 31, 2018 by antonyowen
bird s eye view photography of road in the middle of desert

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Last New Year’s Eve we made the coldest fire,

lit a fire from our bones and collapsed into undealt things

they call them dreams in the real world but we exist in the realm.

 

On the last day of twenty seventeen I stared deep into space and me,

I can tell you how whole new worlds burst out like bluebells in black soil

I can tell you how scars of a log hiss out from the hearth like Hiroshima bones.

 

All of us exist in the realm with the crow fingered sky broken by its touch,

we exist in the climbing ivy wrapped around a house it cannot let go of,

these are beautiful things, haunted as Chernobyl wolves mute to moon.

 

This New Year’s Eve my hair is so grey its as if my fire has turned to smoke and ruin,

yet your fingers stoke a response of light emerging still, vague as my Father

and our parents burn in all of us when we feel we are lost in darkness.

 

The day my Mother lost her Mother to sleep I knew I would find her there always,

sons are both light and darkness existing in the realm like cold distant stars

we are fires, we are ice, we are scratches on an old Springsteen and sky.

 

Last new years eve a Father found his son in a shaking Toyota filled with fog,

the last song he listened to was a song no one heard of but his Dad

we all at some point got lost in the B-side of a track on repeat.

 

Last new years eve we made the coldest fire,

lit a fire from our bones and collapsed into a chorus

they call them songs in the real world but we exist, yeah, we exist

in realms.

Bunch of Migrants by Antony Owen

Posted in Uncategorized on December 30, 2018 by antonyowen

via Bunch of Migrants by Antony Owen

The golden piano of Queen Elizabeth

Posted in Uncategorized on December 29, 2018 by antonyowen

The queens speech at people, not to them.

Peace Poet Antony Owen

grayscale photography of man praying on sidewalk with food in front Photo by sergio omassi on Pexels.com

Your Majesty –

in the golden piano lay your keys to your kingdom

black and white keys making discordant music if listened to.

Your Treachery –

speak of your poverty not ours as our jewels are stars

the universe of collieries blew out years ago by knighted men.

Your Speeches –

Grenfell was a palace for Shohab and John sweet disciples

they cannot refurbish soil so hang your imported slave silks

Your Palace

I read it will cost three hundred and sixty-nine million pounds.

if you walked to the park you will see your soldier raiding bins.

Your anthem,

I hear it in the wheeze of a dying vagrant who served in Iraq

his friend exploded like an English rose in an armoured rover.

Your Majesty,

I do not condone the letter ‘E’ for empire it died a million times,

my heart gave me…

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The golden piano of Queen Elizabeth

Posted in Uncategorized on December 27, 2018 by antonyowen
grayscale photography of man praying on sidewalk with food in front

Photo by sergio omassi on Pexels.com

Your Majesty –

in the golden piano lay your keys to your kingdom

black and white keys making discordant music if listened to.

 

Your Treachery –

speak of your poverty not ours as our jewels are stars

the universe of collieries blew out years ago by knighted men.

 

Your Speeches –

Grenfell was a palace for Shohab and John sweet disciples

they cannot refurbish soil so hang your imported slave silks

 

Your Palace

I read it will cost three hundred and sixty-nine million pounds.

if you walked to the park you will see your soldier raiding bins.

 

Your anthem,

I hear it in the wheeze of a dying vagrant who served in Iraq

his friend exploded like an English rose in an armoured rover.

 

Your Majesty,

I do not condone the letter ‘E’ for empire it died a million times,

my heart gave me an order to write a poem and hang it like a soldier.

 

Your soldiers

they beg for change in camouflage to be seen my queen of raptures

walk through Coventry and ask the woman making hay of cardboard.

 

My Elizabeth

is a girl I know from Potters Green who is the Queen of fuck all

she feeds two babes with sporks and waits at the foodbank with heroes.

For those who hide at Christmas

Posted in Uncategorized on December 22, 2018 by antonyowen

 

woman in white dress shirt

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For him it was himself

a black sheep that succumbed to the annual lamb

trying to decipher a meaningful verse in a moonpig card that never stood up.

 

For her it was a babe

up there in the dead sea of blue sky

she floated to him in fish spines of hoar frost

with all the Motherships camouflaged amongst kinships.

 

For those who hide at Christmas meet me in the breathy fog and

I will not say a word about the words that chime like ice,

and we can hide until it’s over not saying safe words

those who hide at Christmas breathe ghostly bows.

 

For her it was a phone call that comes but once a year

the invitations beeping into Christmas lights

a clowns mask made from gin and mascara

becoming the other for others.

 

For those who hide at Christmas

find me in the worm that dances in tequila,

find me in the crow-cracked sky broke like cheap china,

find me in the child who coloured over the edges to show, exactness.

 

 

It is snowing in Narnia again

Posted in Uncategorized on December 17, 2018 by antonyowen
scenic view of snow covered landscape against sky

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For Douglas Gresham

 

Below the marble carpenter a scruffy boy knelt

his frayed jumper ragged as his mother’s breath

god grants boys like this coats only men can carry.

 

I picture the wrought iron latch moaning for him

he enters the door of his house to a priest drinking tea,

hot towels breathing from a rush dressed doctor.

 

For boys like him it is snowing in Narnia again,

I picture his mother’s fur coat covered in snow

blowing into the mink black shadowlands.

 

I think of the great creator weeping for what made him,

those three years, each one a day of beautiful rest,

grief snags the heart like a short cut through the brambles.

 

For men like him it is snowing in Narnia again,

that last year with the holy ghosts of winter breath

talking to her son of God and how he makes orphans.

 

I picture death as a lamppost flickering in Narnia.

In veins of fallen leaves her poems recite to the wind,

sun is mane and mice gnaw ropes so they can climb back to Aslan.

 

The snow is thawing in Narnia again. There are no statues.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO BAD HOMBRES

Posted in Uncategorized on December 15, 2018 by antonyowen
man holding plastic bag with coat

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At the foodbank, there is a human wall the blind built

two magpies for joy peck at turkey and silver in tinfoil

oh, how rich the meat is when it is left to hang by butchers in suits.

 

At the foodbank, there is a woman ripping a wing of white meat and

the left wing breaks as easy as the right but she doesn’t care,

She will not grab at the meat, she is still, yes still womanly.

 

At the foodbank, there is a tin soldier melting in a ladle

she is remembering Basra and the rich man’s decorations

she is hanging baubles of blood from a tree of shoes she cannot un-see.

 

At the foodbank, is a human wall of bad hombres from everywhere.

They are saying happy Christmas to the bad hombres serving them,

they are all here but somewhere else trying to find the wishbones.

 

A man leaves his heart for sky

Posted in Uncategorized on December 11, 2018 by antonyowen
night building forest trees

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I have learnt much and I have learnt nothing –

fog is sky visiting us and like sadness we are barely visible

I saw two headlights coming towards me but it was sun and moon

the colour of my grand-mothers hair leaked into the Avalon of a nest,

and each egg lay like broken mouths with the very beginnings of a new world.

 

I have learnt how to fly into walls and gather with leaves

we whisper the secrets of where we came from and miss it,

the ghosts of all our ancestors converge at the dusk-burnished lake

It reflects the whole world to distract you from seeing below the skins surface.

Take my hand woman and man with tears so heavy that they can no longer rise

we shall wander in this fog and just be and just be and just be and then stop at the gate.

 

I have learnt how to run into the frith and swirl like a fox in blood warm sleep,

this is how we remember to be human and this is me at my very best.

One day a fox danced in the snow and thawed the whole world

tt made the sun so jealous that by night it unfurled.

This was me at my best, at my most human.

each sunrise hatches new chances to be.

31 Advents for 2019

Posted in Uncategorized on December 9, 2018 by antonyowen
city man person people

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Open window one

it is stars of David to Palestine

ancient olive trees roar from missile reds

there green and black baubles roll into dust

have you seen the grottos of Palestine in rapture?

 

Open window two

it is raining in Goliathtown.

Tonight, Hamas is a fruit-seller

the dead crawl from fires like trophy leopards

a girl rinses her pants from a bad dream and dreams.

 

Open window three,

Grenfell Tower and war child.

It is three hours before the blaze

you are blowing the stars out from floor eight

they are wobbling like your Mother ten hours later.

 

Open Window four,

No, stop, burn this calendar.

Burn it because they are not numbers.

Burn it whilst your children sleep safely,

remember Santa Claus is fake news, open your eyes.

What Aylan wished for Christmas

Posted in Uncategorized on December 4, 2018 by antonyowen

WP_20160328_10_40_27_Pro.jpg

 

If I could take the eiderdown of tide

I would tuck you in beneath the Christmas star

and tell you a story of refugees and modern day Herod’s.

 

If could exhume all the whispers from black locket clams

I’d share your face if I thought it would matter

your fashionista death undoes our threads.

 

You went at the right and wrong time –

Jellyfish are mating with plastic that fills our seas.

I read of a whole bay where waves crash logos on Dominican sand.

 

You came at the right and wrong time,

in the year of your birth your mother’s waters broke

this was no omen for her arms rowed into your blue porthole eyes.

 

In the red hallways of skin we are painted the same colour throughout,

one day when we meet I’ll bring a grain of my eyes –

we’ll watch it grow a land away from the sea.

 

If I could blow out the star of David I would not,

there is a saying about light I shall honour,

how darkness serves light and vice-versa.