Poet-Today | Fiona Lovatt
He. Flies Away
This is the reality
when the dust has blown
across the morning streets
and traffic passes, horning,
that he lies against the wall.
His hand cups his cheek.
His legs are tucked up
in the curl of sunnah sleep.
The other hand,
resting
on his hip, in the sun.
Behind the headlines.
he smiles, in this, his cold,
and quiet death. A boy,
on interlocking pavement,
sixty days before elections.
He, with that smile
and that blessed posture,
flies away.
Other Dreams
In the basement of the high-rise
in a space big enough for a thousand prisoners
where no prisoners are ever held
save for the prisoners of wealth
the slaves of brand and style
Water flows from all the showers and sinks.
The rivers of grey water sing like rivers
in pipes that dog leg down, across
lacing the lyrics of suds and soap falling
with gravity's certain laws out to the sea.
In the basement of this high-rise one listens
for birds that do not come. No sun glistens
on the dancing, dappled, burbling streams
that chuckle now of other dreams.
in a space big enough for a thousand prisoners
where no prisoners are ever held
save for the prisoners of wealth
the slaves of brand and style
Water flows from all the showers and sinks.
The rivers of grey water sing like rivers
in pipes that dog leg down, across
lacing the lyrics of suds and soap falling
with gravity's certain laws out to the sea.
In the basement of this high-rise one listens
for birds that do not come. No sun glistens
on the dancing, dappled, burbling streams
that chuckle now of other dreams.
A
time to wait
I am
waiting outside the door of the kiln.
I am waiting beside the insulated furnace
for a mother to emerge from salty grief.
The firing of her empty-vesselled self
is my pain too (is every mother’s pain)
I am waiting beside the insulated furnace
for a mother to emerge from salty grief.
The firing of her empty-vesselled self
is my pain too (is every mother’s pain)
and
there is only a tiny hole to peep
at the
melting cones that measure time,
and
heat in the roar of double burning.
Her
tears glaze the beauty onto form
and
she will never be porous again.
Everything
will hold, include, contain,
pondered,
remindered, loving pain,
and
she will shine.
Fiona
Lovatt has been exploring artistic expression across a range of genres for the
last four decades, primarily as a teacher-practitioner in Aotearoa NEW Zealand
and Nigeria.
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