The Sorrowing
The stairs ascending, the blinding window sinks to my feet.
Wax and dust in the summer heat,
then a sudden coolness as if in a church.
Standing lost and undecided I hear children,
so I hide in the shadows of a wood-floored landing.
Petals strewn before me wilting,
like the stanzas of a forgotten poem.
Time to withdraw gracefully -
walking proudly no longer I must submit to retribution.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Morning
This is the half time between night and morning,
a wasted time, so climb over the wire,
a foreign arm smuggled on to my body, then gone,
copper light everywhere in my bedroom and a bird tape running,
ghosts banging bins and roaring, a half moment,
there are demanding voices, the start locked down,
observations out of myself, the stained paint on the ceiling
pictures of people from the middle of the earth
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Return
So Jesus came to church as a ghost
and claimed to have said goodbye without meaning it.
This is his story - the chalice and the frame
that made him known, cunning dust, half songs
and Hellenic rows in fields without perspective.
This is his house; a roof with an unknown end,
an upturned ship, a lost atrium with sharp air.
But he cannot trust himself not to touch, and muses,
look, you are heedless; buried in beads.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Jogger
Being chased by a ghost, the roots of his teeth
break with impact, joints tied together with string,
corpus filled with compressed breath.
He gasps stones, grit and smoke, an air maschine,
a wet, strained mask, the bottom of his lungs filled with silver.
His heart shakes like a shocked bird.
It is as if all things in the park have been stilled,
left and right, one and two, all under the grey
now out in bad standing.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Night
I cannot suck sleep out of the warm air,
a clothes runner killed before my bed,
numbers encode the darkness, they are not curved
and I reach for your hand, warm paper over chalk hills,
rivers that flow past sinews, tunnels leading to fingertips,
a map creased into your palm.
There are dragons over the main road, they have
moving eyes and heated wings, the night has locked
out gravity, I am full of feathers, falling up.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Katharina
Your first mother has folded you back into her body.
The wind banging the shore like a wet tent,
ropes ready to fly, canvas heavy.
Rain and seawater one. A green sea, broken.
A slice of disbelief tipping, chalk and wet trees.
Seelenlandschaft.
Do not look into the eyes of the morning, nor provoke,
outstretched hands would be a sort of salvation,
but there is little more than
the last falling and an ending.
You will now be rested.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Wind
There are winds out there, they cause the windows and doors to move.
They have their own language.
This is not as easy as stealing from the blind.
As I walk through forests the trees seem to move behind me.
The splittered woood has not been made into books.
The muddy path pulses, a second birth.
This is not real, these are things inside of me,
ice on branches, sleet on frozen ground, words as rain.
They circle around me like cold, brown leaves.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Without You (for W.)
the sun would join the Union of Astral Bodies and go on strike
Batman and Robin would have a big argument
the stars would become unglued and fall out
the Lunchpack of Notre Dame would dropp Esmeralda (oops..)
my socks would walk about on their own
John Wayne would lose his hat at the start of the film
Christmas would be abolished, my sons would have to
return to never-never land and
I would never write another poem -
so I think it`s better to be nice to you.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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The Secret Life of Stones
Stones are family. They move in earth and water and are so strong
they cannot be beaten. Stones live within themselves without fear.
They change in winter through ice and in summer through sun.
Without regret they may turn to dust, eternal in changed forms.
They are distant from foolishness and do not hurt for scant reason.
On a summer evening I will take a stone in the palm of my hand
and thus address you
On the last day let me be you
You are proved to be the better.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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A Tumult of Water
Water seeks a simple path, thoughtless
lines in the softer ground, a rushing
tumult of water and stones breaking
downwards and creating the face
of the drowning man, someone like this,
a to-be-ended, a lost, a water smacker
liquid runner, a dancer failing to bend
his feet to the moving ground, an unholy wetness
a face forced into a liquid laugh, no answer,
the shock of an obscene ballet
failing to contradict the rain and the salt
and the waves stopless and stopless.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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