Monday 5 May 2014

3 Poems by Doug Bolling

What There

Wind wrack.
Low hum of sea.
Voices below long dead.
Bottom sand furrowing
among sunken ship

Two worlds
of how many.

A lifting.
A descending.

You ask:
what is depth
but perspective
through a prism

so brief
this life.


Far above in the infinite
of space and dream

the acrobat swings
high swings low,

flies through air
that calls,
that praises.

Figure imagined,
almost transparent.

The people stare upward
planted dimly in earth

where not to soar
is to die
day by day

living on in memory,

For She Who Knows

Lay me in the sheath of days,
nights that beckon like flame.

The seas rise about us.
The pods of our secret selves
begin to burst.

It is sweet to lie together
making of pieces the
bricolage of wholes.

You say we are the scars of
the historical tablets.

But you. You are my calendar
full of pages turned
and not.

How you lift from sleep
and become the poetry
of this world.

How you lift the dead
from the fetid pool
and swoon them
back to life.

0 rivet me hard into earth.

0ur flesh that talks and
dies over and

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