Page 11 poetry

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ambulance sans-serif;”>My art is mimicry even though I am not a mime. When I focus I hear the tapping of fingers on mute piano keys. In my mind’s eye these are long, pale and thin, and they move up and down, quite rigidly, like limbs of an intricate marionette that I have seen on D?uga street back when I was a child. And so I focus, I do, I listen to the rhythm that they tap and my eyes move along the hand, wrist, arm and as they do I expect to see Frederic’s face.

Instead I see a butterfly. He sits on my nose. At first I am frightened and brush it off, but then we begin to dance to the rhythm of gentle raindrops and tapping fingers. Our dance is both lively and melancholy, and he cuts it short by landing on a flag that is white and red. The raindrops are no longer gentle and wind takes the butterfly so that I am left looking at the flag and the rain drums on it heavily now the way it did on the roof of our tent in Sulenczyno all those years ago.

I call back the butterfly and I call him Frederic. He is my brother and he is now dead, and I wonder what wind brought him here, all those miles away from home and if he struggled not to mimic, and of course he didn’t, his art needed not to involve words, and I know I could never not involve words and I also know that I am stripping myself bare and that when I next look in the mirror I will be unrecognisable to myself. I wonder this and other things as I stroll through Père Lachaise cemetery.

Amadeusz Kepinski

The Beast

With morality weighed breath I sought to find

a beast, that haunted men. But an idle warrior

was I. The boy, of my struggles old no more,

Now a bumbling Kent, eye’s lost in tales of lore.

My burdens, my wisdom, gone to their bone.

The Mass is on strike, food to the hungry beast.

I heard their voices, the dead men of this land

All defenders of a faith long gone. Still fighting

valiantly to protect a hollow innocence, lost

Leagues ago when god became the devils hands.

I remember now, those chants, that thunder dance,

which woke a man on a fence. As glasses slipped

and truth was found, the beast, familiarly new,

a mirror to all, in fields of thought where Hopes fall.

The Devil did not steer. It presumed the war won

Like so many times before. Yet Kent was no more,

Gone the man, now a boy’s ideal returned to the fore,

the circle had come full, Courage stood his ground

Before a beast of thought. Hollow was it’s core

A false idea of fear that was nothing to a boy.

– MHF

Our Song

I remember February mornings,

waking up to the clip clop

of the rain on my rooftop

as the sun peekabooed behind mountains

and the sky bled into the ocean

I glanced through fog-drenched windows

at still-bare tree branches

whilst listening to your melancholic breathing,

the music to my heart.

Can’t forget the February afternoons

with sweet tea and warm fires,

when outside the rain lay down our metronome

you tried to speak the language of love

mais il n’est pas Français, mon cher*

much to your naive disbelief

darling, words were never necessary.

The nights, too

passed in company

and somehow lacked love in love

we imagined in our broken melodies,

wasted nights in passing discord

for love and without love

tossed and turned with sleepless sighs

listening to the rain’s steady beat

and your heart.

But your harmony was off-key to my song,

whispered words that meant nothing but nothing at all.

Months and months with broken conversation

and February rain dancing at our feet

left me with the ruptured tune of our song on repeat.

Adiba Jaigirdar

Tired

I am tired

Not the early

Morning tired when

Your eyes feel like

Peeled oranges

It is a deep

Rooted tiredness

That makes my nerves

Brittle as glass

Exhaustion like

The dull thud of

A hammer and

Sleep cannot help

I am swimming

With no land in

Sight with pickled

Limbs and frayed will

Too scared to sink

I am a dead

Weight my body

Is not working

Right I don’t know

Why days and weeks

Accumulate

Draining, draining

Till this splintering

Lethargy is

Normal I feel

Like a puppet

Trying to dance

With broken strings

I am greyscale

Amongst all the

Technicolor

Everything is

Peripheral

Please go easy

On me I am

Tired.

– S.K.

Litmus

Pulsating in a

rock pool,

alien pink

against a

dark background

visible through its

body.

The jellyfish is

translucent

yet

nobody looks

through it.

Tendrils trail

around a

tear in the

bulb:

A smarting railway

stamp from a

no-longer curious

seagull.

The serene and soft

can protect itself

and does.

Trapped in this

ocean suburb

created by a

first quarter

moon

it lazes in

retirement

Leading to a

brick sea-wall

Condemned.

A girl is

wary of its

sting

and late

for a

mediocre film.

– O.C

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