Bittersweet
Strong tree trusting, standing solid,
brokering bird-ant treaties, while
I, climber, gently finger roots.
I grow taller, crawling bark, leaves
forsaken for height. Stretching up,
noosing and tightening, I am
careful never to strangle in
my time-lapse sun-chase through twigs
bent, sometimes broken, creeping
only upwards, past the lower
branches, reaching light of my own,
with this supple, wind-waving crutch.
Strong tree feels me, red ants tiptoe
over me. I am comfy here
where birds squabble; where parasites
retire without once looking down.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
my vessel is 'healthy' & I request free pratique
Privacy
Your arms look so tired.
As if you’ve been carrying
heavy shopping bags home.
I would’ve helped if I’d known.
I want to decipher flagging arms,
why you’re sometimes spread,
sometimes pointing at carpet.
I should watch more closely.
You are always presentable:
lipstick on before you nip out
to fetch a sunday newspaper,
hair up to take out rubbish.
I want to hold your wrists
tight to take the weight.
If you didn’t look so tired
I’d dance you round the room.
You’re drawn into the corners
of my notebook. I flick the pages
to see you windmill. I can always
rub you out when you’re wrong.
Semaphore was a strange way
to communicate the message
I’ve diligently translated:
“Please stop watching from bushes”.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Your arms look so tired.
As if you’ve been carrying
heavy shopping bags home.
I would’ve helped if I’d known.
I want to decipher flagging arms,
why you’re sometimes spread,
sometimes pointing at carpet.
I should watch more closely.
You are always presentable:
lipstick on before you nip out
to fetch a sunday newspaper,
hair up to take out rubbish.
I want to hold your wrists
tight to take the weight.
If you didn’t look so tired
I’d dance you round the room.
You’re drawn into the corners
of my notebook. I flick the pages
to see you windmill. I can always
rub you out when you’re wrong.
Semaphore was a strange way
to communicate the message
I’ve diligently translated:
“Please stop watching from bushes”.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Saturday, 12 September 2009
tourism
Outstanding Natural Beauty
My balcony is roofless.
I sit in heat. To the right,
the Ship on the Green,
ahead is a brick wall.
I climb onto the railing,
turn my back to bollards
beneath. Facing my airless
bedroom, I look down at
the map of my private
national park. Birdshit marks
scattered sights of interest,
outstanding natural beauty.
The drainage hole is blocked,
a dark smear of sediment
pollutes an estuary
with an oil slick’s dull sheen.
Opposite, tarpaulin
piles into stormy seas,
it’s eyelets winking sun back
like scattered storm debris.
But then, in a corner,
shielded by blue plastic waves,
two small eggs lie on twigs,
a raft for sea-smoothed pebbles.
I climb down to my room,
cooled off, freshened by breeze.
Through the open window
I await the mother’s return.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
My balcony is roofless.
I sit in heat. To the right,
the Ship on the Green,
ahead is a brick wall.
I climb onto the railing,
turn my back to bollards
beneath. Facing my airless
bedroom, I look down at
the map of my private
national park. Birdshit marks
scattered sights of interest,
outstanding natural beauty.
The drainage hole is blocked,
a dark smear of sediment
pollutes an estuary
with an oil slick’s dull sheen.
Opposite, tarpaulin
piles into stormy seas,
it’s eyelets winking sun back
like scattered storm debris.
But then, in a corner,
shielded by blue plastic waves,
two small eggs lie on twigs,
a raft for sea-smoothed pebbles.
I climb down to my room,
cooled off, freshened by breeze.
Through the open window
I await the mother’s return.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
capital letters
From a High Point
The city sleeps on its side,
knees brought up into an s,
tucked in tight by the river.
Sometimes there’s a sleep-shout, but
mostly there is quiet: dark
corners; quiet, listening streets.
Heavy-lidded, one eye is
always left open.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
The city sleeps on its side,
knees brought up into an s,
tucked in tight by the river.
Sometimes there’s a sleep-shout, but
mostly there is quiet: dark
corners; quiet, listening streets.
Heavy-lidded, one eye is
always left open.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
for the steak of caution
There was a tuna fish…
silver-scaled, a small part of his shoal,
aligned with the blinking eye’s every
minute movement, iridescent kite tail
flashing and flirting with the surface.
Here is tension, safety in numbers,
one pixel in a reproduction of strength.
A scale shed quietly in warmer waters,
he hangs back to swim without comparing.
Cutting up towards mottled, gridded light
he is caught in a trawling net, now pushed
against strangers, now dragged out of sync,
moving as one mass. A lump in the throat
of the blinking, shifting Atlantic Ocean,
spat into a tin can, stacked with hundreds.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
silver-scaled, a small part of his shoal,
aligned with the blinking eye’s every
minute movement, iridescent kite tail
flashing and flirting with the surface.
Here is tension, safety in numbers,
one pixel in a reproduction of strength.
A scale shed quietly in warmer waters,
he hangs back to swim without comparing.
Cutting up towards mottled, gridded light
he is caught in a trawling net, now pushed
against strangers, now dragged out of sync,
moving as one mass. A lump in the throat
of the blinking, shifting Atlantic Ocean,
spat into a tin can, stacked with hundreds.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
