Weekly poetry platform run by @blackboughpoems - every Tuesday, imagist/ imagistic poems only that are 20 lines or less https://xitter.cf/t.co/Rcm0I2LRZe
- Tweets15.1K
- Following1.1K
- Followers2.8K
- Likes29.2K
ALT Out of the fold pushed toward the surface. An infancy of coarse sandstones, shales, siltstones deposited by vast river deltas. My mineralized groundwater migrated upward. Family leaves swampy, river-dominated environments enters Desert and Sea, Parents tectonic plates shifted, Sea—floods my landscape. Home is compressed remains of microscopic sea creatures, algal mats, chemical precipitates in warm, shallow, tropical marine shelf susceptible to chemical weathering. At Ten years old home is significant stream sinks, underground solution cavities, fissures that rapidly swallow surface water Paul Brookes
ALT SEARCHING FOR SEA GLASS AT FIFTY-FIVE The cake you made, could’ve been enough. Being driven to the coast and pulling on a jumper against the bone-seeking wind could’ve been enough. Salted caramel ice-cream, us flanked by the vastness of the ocean, and a horizon promising forever was surely enough. And yet, head down, searching for sea-glass eyes pulling to unknot my focus, I heard myself wishing for you to find me an old sea-smoothed marble on all this sand.
ALT The Wharf My starfish fingers clasped in my father’s sun-catcher hand. At my eye-level: flutterings of bunting-bright skirts, trouser legs stoic as lighthouses, villages of stacked heels, wavings of crumpled tissues wet with tears and seaspray. Between the farewell crush of adults white dazzle glimpses of the docked ship and disappearing into massed yearning outstretched arms in empty embrace and jubilance of streamers: my departing sister, transformed on the deck of strangers. An entity of absence who’d post airmail from Marseilles. Phillipa Trelford
ALT Beyond Belief In infants' school we made paper-doilies, my intricate cutting-out an imagined twinkly-shape fell to nothing: papyrus shreds unable to support a hole’s weight; even then, no teacher’s bright and breezy sophistry worked effectively as borrowed glue. When adult, I emancipated the stars, hurling them away, far from all religions, constructing my own constellations: tiny knots of altar-cloth to fix my own homeless awe. So, I’m no longer torn by old-school revelations, and anyway, Pascal’s wager gets dubious odds in most high-street theological betting-shops. Julian Cason