Monthly Archives: October 2013

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as none were made. no brawn
to be spoken of today.

along the coast to aeron,
aberaeron, to chase the ghost,
look out to sea.

gone now, ragged curtains hang.

dirty windows.

more dice take us,
scissors hang in corners,
to cut and paste
the dogged words of life.

chant the twisted trees
of chancery, note the roots.

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sbm.

oswestry too

used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.

qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
collected.

salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.

i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.

rummer godden.

sbm.

the butcher

 

 

so he spoke to me of
brawn, how he boiled it
on monday, picked out
bits, on tuesday, when it
had cooled.

now it is all health and safety,
list of ingredients, nobody
asks him any more. most
butchers buy it in, along side
tongue.

he had that, and all his fingers.

it happens when it is cold, and
he showed me his scars. white
hair poked from his bib, the other
butcher, is not his son. he chose

a different career, the butcher
just wanting hime to be
happy.

i bought a rolled breast of lamb
at two pounds, fifty.

sbm.

 

 

days of brawn

market day one, it is twice a week,

thursday and saturday, much

the same each day, books

for a donation, queue for the butcher.

waiting, eye the faggots, ham and oxtail,

admire  pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.

all addressed with green stuff

for decoration. the bread lady

will let you hold her goose eggs,

feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.

you do not need to buy them, you can

carress them nicely.

they are soft when born, soft as babies are.

above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean

with springy hair and wearing arms that hang

below the sleeve.

he talked to a lady from london,

he said.

 

sbm.

nine circles

waiting. we wish for less, yet
they will come all our lives.

so many together, not such
a good idea. asked and recieved.

the festival continued, we miss
the procession, kept on time.

the circle turns.

sbm.

caladrius

‘Caladrius’ mixed media. 36 x 36 inches.

** notes

Caladrius, according to the Roman mythology, is a snow-white bird that lives in kings’ houses. Supposedly, the bird refuses to look at any patient that is not going to make a full recovery. Caladrius existed in the Greek mythology under the name Dhalion.

It is said to also be able to take the sickness into itself and then fly away, dispersing the sickness and healing both itself and the sick person.

conwy

through blaenau, orange now,
bracken competing with slate,
winning a while, as leaves
fall.

to conwy, the road
rising above the flow,
one tree remembered.

two calves run down
to the others. on arrival

admire the quality of
bunting hung here, cotton,
with spots. there is a festival.

we had a meeting.
nine circles.

sbm.silence. engedi

oswestry

used to be in wales, now all shropshire,
borders. a small town with plenty to do.

qubed gallery quoted poetry, refinely
drawn. one man left standing, my face
collected.

salt in abundance, ready for the pigs
head, he really was making brawn,
ear stuck from the saucepan, with
plans for brains on toast for tea.

i lost earth and heaven,
read greengage summer instead.

rummer godden.

sbm.

2012-05-10-07-17-08

castle walls

you could say the air was sharp,

and clear as yesterday, or is it

your mind?

walk the garden, castle keep,

see the rabbit hole, and know too,

this can be wonder land.

she has a reputation.

©sbm
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