...and perhaps you will discover that these things which lightened your days were not as bright as first imagined, but that the illusion had more conviction than the illumination, and in the dying light and disorientation the darkness passed each of your senses through the aperture of the new: the flesh; the structures; the worn artefacts of the world became a braille for your lovely hands.

All Posts Categorised "Poetry"

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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Monday, March 29, 2010
  From the womb

  of bliss

  the gentle lips

  were born -

  generous unions;

  paired magics;

  magnets

  for their own

  ripe kind.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Thursday, January 22, 2009
  Moving day, and I should have faced this dawn,

  should have swaddled myself in armour and rose,

  a warrior, from this bed where I, damaged,

  lie as a lump beneath white linen,

  a snowdrift, but colder.

  As the home becomes house, I listen:

  it grows bigger – you empty from it -

  and him, my son with the dark eyes,

  bristles in the hallway, all excitement.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Wednesday, January 21, 2009
  Thursday. Soft light. The motherlode.

  Sheets of absurdity rain down in

  clumsy torrents –

  silence bends each rule

  of acoustics.

  Hands are too soft

  to pick it up.

  All this sharp grief.

  All this grief that spins

  a virile web through

  the doorways; the hearts;

  beneath foundations –

  a pounding tapestry;

  a garotte for the

  unctuous air.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Tuesday, January 20, 2009
  The schizophrenic is

  pregnant.

  Her belly is full

  of onions, and zombies,

  and wild laughter.

  Soon it will move,

  and dark ideas will

  scuttle on insect legs

  through her mind,

  scratch like small beasts

  in the corners, incessantly;

  grow larger;

  howl for attention.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Sunday, January 18, 2009
  Gentle soul – you have sought it, sifted

  and panned for it, dug and rummaged

  as though it were a set

  of mislaid keys – or eyeglasses; as though

  it were a treasured pen

  you’d dare not sign your name without.

  And so it is – gentle, restless soul -

  that you feel empty without it; that you wear

  a sparse coat, sewn from the cold of experience;

  that you are one forced smile from hardness.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Tuesday, January 13, 2009
  Don’t look here

  on the days when your voice

  is lost as a mumble, or a slur,

  or a broken song:

  I will be scattered;

  intangible; a pepper

  of smaller traces.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Sunday, January 11, 2009
  Spirit that the world said no to,

  unwatered wallflower, I recall

  when your days had the mercy

  of callous warlords; when every eye condemned

  with the nature of a solemn judge,

  and burnt you at the stake of fierce indifference.

  How you toiled with that puzzle of ashes; how

  each dawn’s ruthless jackboot kicked them

  from the cradle of your patient hands.

  Darkness assigned your role – cast

  you as a wraith to dwell upon a shadow’s fringe:

  close enough to witness light; enslaved beneath the pall.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Wednesday, January 7, 2009
  You’re waking now -

  though sighs are shared,

  the hemispheres are split

  with another sober slice

  of fission – once more

  a planet cloven.

  Perhaps you wear it heavily,

  drag the first thought of it upon

  your wanting flesh like a hairshirt -

  This Idea Of Us,

  this beast that pants and lolls,

  ankle tall, old, lagging,

  straggling to keep pace

  with the lovely that you’re wasting,

  the beauty you’ve withheld

  for this ungodly age – this wild

  that howls alone.
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• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Tuesday, January 6, 2009
  One

  blazing

  flame of flesh;

  one

  torch of blood;

  one

  luminous harvest

  with which to light the world –

  heart -

  benevolent fire,

  you spread your warmth

  as bread for the feast

  of humankind.
  Read more
  
• 
  by
  Jé Maverick
  
  Monday, January 5, 2009
  An hour is eternity. If

  paper is scratched with the wrong meaning

  blood is drawn.

  Why must it be so delicate?

  The nib makes uncertain gestures over

  winsome, or dusky, or sultry –

  yet can’t commit.

  This is the horrid nature of specifics.

  Still, one can’t desecrate.

  Those are not your smiles.

  Your smile is the language

  of forbidden consolations.
  Read more