We Cut Our Teeth on Iron – A Photo & Poetry Essay

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At Sea

It is not through weeping,
but all evening the pale blue eye
on your most photogenic side has kept
its own unfathomable tide. Like the boy
at the dyke I have been there:

held out a huge finger,
lifted atoms of dust with the point
of a tissue and imagined slivers of hair
in the oil on the cornea. We are both
in the dark, but I go on

drawing the eyelid up by its lashes
folding it almost inside-out, then finding
and hiding every mirror in the house
as the iris, besieged with the ink
of blood rolls back

into its own orbit. Nothing
will help it. Through until dawn
you dream the true story of the boy
who hooked out his eye and ate it,
so by six in the morning

I am steadying the ointment
that will bite like an onion, piping
a line of cream while avoiding the pupil
and in no time it is glued shut
like a bad mussel.

Friends call round
and mean well. They wait
and whisper in the air-lock of the lobby
with patches, eyewash, the truth
about mascara.

Even the cats are on to it;
they bring in starlings, and because their feathers
are the colours of oil on water in sunlight
they are a sign of something.
In the long hours

beyond us, irritations heal
into arguments. For the eighteenth time
it comes to this: the length of your leg sliding out
from the covers, the ball of your foot
like a fist on the carpet

while downstairs
I cannot bring myself to hear it.
Words have been spoken; things that were bottled
have burst open and to walk in now
would be to walk in

on the ocean.

(Simon Armitage)

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Blackberrying

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

(Sylvia Plath)

 

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Atlantis

..Early spring,

too cold yet for green, too early
for the tumble and wrack of last season

to be anything but promise,
but there in the air was white tulip,

marvel, triumph of all flowering, the soul
lifted up, if we could still believe

in the soul, after so much diminishment…

(Mark Doty)

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& now, perhaps too boldly (after all of my favourite poets & their beautiful pieces), one of my own.

The Speechless Villanelle

i taste the salt cloying on my face
lay down continents before it’s too late
i ask myself: what do you want to say?

watch the moons while they go out to play
& quell the part that dwells for far too long
it’s all part of the story anyway

so i’m reaching out for heaven’s gates
& my tendency towards love & song
i ask myself: what do you want to say?

i climb the edge of your craggy face
lay waste to a situation unexplained
it’s all part of the story anyway

the daughters that fall away again
& the sons that cut their teeth on iron
i ask myself: what do you want to say?

perhaps it was all worth the wait
the ocean’s striations are now mine to take
i ask myself: what do you want to say?
it’s all part of the story anyway.

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