Nun

I would have been a nun
had I kept my soft virginal glory
intact -

the whisky replaced by the tea-caddy,
the negligee by the gown.
The cock replaced by the crucifix;
according to the law of purity.

Waiting for bread to break its
silence.

The soup to stir -

filling the air with condensation,
and in this way blessing us. Now it is
weeping tears of joy, unable to
stop.

The fruit remains a mystery.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 01.12.12)

editor's note: Oh, what we could be, would be. Eat the fruit, don't eat the fruit; the air is still full of condensate, your tears or someone else's. - mh

Runaway

I always thought that I appeared by some
strange accident, like those little wild flowers
that pop up unexpectedly sometimes, during harsh
weather, found along motorway roadsides, and with
a propensity to curl over or to fold in on
themselves as a form of self-protection, thriving
in the oozing mud, and commonly overlooked –
not rolling from the womb like supposed; held up
and twisted spectacularly through the air.

Surfacing in the backyard one day –
an eight year old child, grumpy, flush, fully kitted
out in winter coat, winter boots, winter mittens,
little red suitcase in hand. And in that case enough
peanut-butter sandwiches to last a child a
week, a torch, a notebook, half a pencil.

And questioning, questioning (so many bloody
questions, too many, swirling around in my infant
brain). “Are you my real parents?” and “If I
promise to stay will you buy me a rabbit or a
kitten?”

Tears and everything tumbling down my cheeks.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 11.01.11)

editor's note: That's all it takes; a rabbit or a kitten? Tears and everything! - mh

Harbour No Ill

I want to reach inside your heart
and pluck out all those little warring men and women.
After that I wrote another note to myself:

The war has passed, The. War. Has. Passed -
even the enemy have forgotten about it and have thrown
their weapons away, traded them for a 'leaf moon'.
Traded them for a dozen pairs of white socks or 2 dozen
Mustangs, a peace pipe - There. Will. Be. Peace.

Never again shall we roll in the flowers or dirt:
Never again shall we fight - instead we shall produce lectures
on the 'way of love', for we so love each other; we can
hardly contain ourselves.

We shall lay in the August sunshine (oh yes!),
blissed up,
and nothing shall arouse us but a kiss – though we shall
sneeze a little, (achoo!) due to breathing in incense -
and if by chance one of us should grow vain or egotistical:
wielding power over other men – then, my friends, then we shall
hold firm counsel, and we shall call upon peace commissioners
to settle all disputes.

My friends, my friends!!, we shall penetrate the very core of
man. By God -
we shall wear their innards as proof of it. We shall carry their
hearts around in pretty little boxes, after death, knowing they
make a fine companion indeed.

And after that, dear friends, we shall grow old, yet continue
to flower - going about our daily business in our birthday suits.
At night we shall stamp away misery with our boots,
dance, dance like bloody maniacs,
etc etc etc.
Let this be the end of the matter. This be the end of the
poem.

Harbour no ill.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 09.17.11)

Photograph (One)

no weep in my eye
just a sense of contemplative calm
which is promising
A near newness
Another
Closer
Sigh audible
A regained recognition of energy.
And the more contemplative I become
the more you appear to relax and to smile
(correcting my vision)
when I lean in closer to study the flowers
on your frock

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 07.29.11)

Holding on

So it occurs to me that we are all holding on to one thing
or another: Standing on the pier’s tip, my palms gripped
firm around the railings, holding on.

The south wind terrifies me with its cry and carry on.

Black thoughts plague me and I contemplate launching myself
over the edge - though the moon looks so stunning tonight I
cannot - it appears to provide a great white corridor across
the ocean which I can access, and can also slide down. It
predicts new journeys, intriguing experiences? It highlights
an animated sea: a great piece of bubbling earth with waves
connected to it - cormorants, eiders, seagulls hanging on.
Sleep and shine on moon! And the stars extend forever and
to wherever and in pairs and eventually ignite my passion
for life anyway (the stars that I presumed dead, and that
remove themselves so quickly from the sky and my dreams).
And I have the most perfect, perfect conversation and
understanding with them.

Tramps gather underfoot: underneath the split planks
pissing each piece of faded silver away. Each sweaty,
casual silver coin, thumb-print-heavy copper coin,
equates to a label. The scene unfolds: I shift position
and lean over them, a spy (I am not interested in their
discussion only their hands, falling still and silent.)
Their palms gripped firm around swollen, green cider
bottles.

All of us holding on for a time.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 03.28.11)

Waiting for the storm to end

Wet and woeful
I will avoid.
Peer out, instead, hypnotized
and rooted to the spot
ten digits pressed against the glass,
ten minutes
the sobbing panes
and breathe simply,
nothing more than a careless whisper
till all has washed away
and fizzled out
the beauty and the trauma
and eyes fight shy of light
once
more.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 02.20.11)

It’s all very tragic

It’s all very tragic. A woman in the park has begun screaming,
she’s hell-bent on screaming – Christ, and no wonder,
she has fresh blood on her lips.
She tells me how badly her gums hurt.

Whom should I approach for advice: the lady over there
with the crooked half-smile, or the man whose eyebrows are knitted together?

It’s all very tragic.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 01.01.11)

Stuck In A Church

It is what I fear most, a priest.
Who seemed at first to be saying
‘You have little time left, lady’
by way of intoxicated stare. Hulk, of biblical body
adorned with mishmash infants cooing. Whipping me away
on some wine fuelled journey. Lips puckered up,
garments tightened to ripping point. Hovis flying!
Some visual God project to goodness knows where. I,
as reluctant as a lamb.
I, between corridors, semi-excused, snug as a ghost.
‘For the ways of man, are void of understanding’
so it is said. I am a dullard!
& the ways of HIM are Ox & instruction,
or Ox & oxygen, depending on how you determine it.
& they are thrones deep & they are pews wide, configurational,
laced with gemstones & ethereal matter.
Used to treat or to anaesthetise a subject.

Keeping distance at first – whatever I do now,
I’ll need to make it snappy & silent.
I need to act fast before my nerves crisp & my ears blast.
My face, takes on a paler shade of paler grey -
Ruffle my hair & I’ll sway like a zombie
in a rhythm displaced.

Feet firmly centred on 3 O’clock – lay waiting for an exit.
Holy man, beating up a storm of prayer
& endeavouring to round up this week’s sinners.
Hoping to stumble upon two or more hidden in a brook
or in the folds of his Babylonian cassock.

‘& he caused the children to pass through unscathed’
For who is God said the lord, but a wizard!
‘& he causeth the idle… hardship?… not only the idle,
but the tattlers also… destruction?
& the busybodies….ruin?...extreme violence? Huh?...execution?
……& those with beards……& those without beards….
& he smote them… …. Blood. Puke. Blood.
Calamity.…..6 shades of blood.
& he caused a whole heap of shit to go down!
& he caused our genitals to snap, or was that ‘gentiles?’
My own personal conclusion/ contribution,
& a great avoidance technique -
Swapping scripture for adventure. & at this point –
His 3 heads begin to bobble. Toes curdle up, appearing
more feeble than ever. He is losing it again to strangers.
I suspect deep down that he is quivering with a whole
bunch of ‘thou art’s’ in an attempt to resurrect this wretched
throng, though wavering toward apologetic means.
Head of a lion. Stagger of a tramp. Voice of a dandelion.

Yet, leaps he, from the pulpit like Judas!! – my lungs evaporate.
Palms turn into electronic fists, ready to spark & detonate.
Gripped around a copy of King James’s finest. Coins in hand – seconds become nights, huge moons & dried flowers. Footstalls become footballs, & fingers / pockets.

Calm will come soon enough. I recite the mantra in double time.
The congregation look unsettled, baton charged, unable to choose between light & oblivion. The air, garlic & fangs. The carpet, sawdust. Peace keepers may be needed here. –
Feet at shit o’clock - I reposition them again to 3, in a manner worthy of a fat maid’s curtsey. Eventually edging near. Pressing aside context, sub context - Talk of plague has arisen. Conjecture… Closer I push.

Body of a pirate, spirit of a bat. Light limbed – closer still - Suspecting I am merely an illusion. Desperately looking for… whatever it is I’m looking for. A door? A way outtttta here - We consider ourselves guilty of crimes we never commit. It’s fact.
The shape of normality? The suggestion of normal, nondescript, is measured & would provide a welcome addition to this jest fest of mine - Often bamboozles the unsuspecting thinker. Reduced now, to whimpering & tugging at sleeves. “Do men carry thorns?!” Mercilessly abandoning the Good Book, I scrap my idea for a sit-in.

God is wonderful! Brave! Awesome! though I would make a mule of him….tra la la la la & facing the archway, bone to brass – I tame it with a touch - Sword drawn.

I run like a mare, having given death the kiss off.

- A. Swimmer

(featured in the poetry forum 09.05.10)