C.J. Allen

The Life Poetic

I looked around and then I turned and looked properly backwards.

I had forgotten to tie my shoes. I trip and miss

the spectacular roman-candle. When I ate sherbet

it was like someone typing on my tongue.

I opened my mouth and away flew all the pages.

I love you. I watch you brushing the horse of your hair.

The bones in your hand are a sort of early warning

of something, possibly meteors or showers

of meteors. I endeavour, most of the time,

to be correct, to carry myself well, to greet

one and all with a guileless smile and a handshake

distantly reminiscent of their fathers.

I keep the mornings free; I like to read

in the mornings. The afternoons are negotiable.

The note they found pinned to me was not from my mother.

I’m not sure how they know; they refuse to discuss it.

When the phone rings I try hard not to answer

the door. Will those dwindling few who care

ever speak to me again? Otherwise I’ll have to keep walking

and talking to myself, that’s all. I’ll have to keep walking

Who are the Anarchists and What do They Want?

for Luke Kennard

The voices rang out from the fake plantations

and entered with a shrug our collective memory.

We observed the comings and goings of the ravens

like flakes of burnt-on rust from an ancient oven.

No-one had eaten but each dreamed of something delicious

until their dreams of deliciousness were debunked

by a stern-looking restaurant critic with a Moleskine notebook

who had been hanging around since the announcement yesterday.

Some people will do that in order to show-off what they know.

Some people will tell you they enjoy eating roast dove.

Some people have little or no respect for tranquillity.

(The announcement, by the way, had been made in error;

it was – as they say in the announcement business – redundant.)

We felt the occasion could be redeemed by our happiness,

that or the appearance of the famous dancing leopard.

To be called intelligent is one thing, though not the kindest.

To be frowned upon for committing a boring sin

is another. The graceful birds were, at last, at one

with the trees. They settled there, mocking our pride,

which, once again, we had mistaken for honour.