GHAZAL 5 Yes-yes-yes-yes, the gulls cry into first light. I give each one a name till sleep takes me. If I could only find doh, I could follow that trail Palm Sunday, all the way to Greenside. Have you noticed there’s no telling whether beauty or ugliness has the deeper roots? My daughter’s goldfish leapt from its tank to die upon the carpet. Freedom is our element. I brush the seaweed from your damp chest. I place my ear on your scattering heartbeats.
GHAZAL 6 What is it that weighs on your shoulder, yet rarely weighs you down?* My favourite blue shirt on the line look how fullsomely it tells of the wind. Rather than a row at breakfast, discuss the teased out fibres of the clouds. Blue Bunny, horses, the white threads of the weir these three also my son gave me to love. Don’t fart higher than your arse a French proverb that never wears out. * a baby
GHAZAL 7 In the past two years, I’m told, the world’s data has grown by 90%. Don’t feel so bad about your attic. Books, papers, radios - all manner of machines: their souls grow thinner, ungraspable as our own. You’ve got to see the cherry blossom in May, she said. It eats loneliness. Then returns it as loss. When, his hand trembling, he handed the plate back, the eloquent rain had wiped it till it shone. The Inuit boy cuts the heads off toy animals; in their stead, grafting “the evil he feels within”.
The Written Image. Statements from the Artists and the Poets
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