Sunday, 20 July 2014


The man tilts toward sleeping,
shakes the book to wake himself.
He looks to see a plane almost
pressing against the tree outside,
marking the window with its bold echo.

He stretches. He discovers an old notebook
down the side of the armchair; flickers.
The handwriting is not familiar.
It falters and dances, it's pink and green.
Standing, he aches his way to the kitchen,

the kettle with a switch in the wrong place,
spoons where there should be spices.
A woman comes in from the garden
and washes her hands without glancing
at anything but the soil on her hands;

she rubs at the rings
on her swollen fingers.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

A Woman Talks To Me About Paintings

Most of the time, I realise it now, mostly
I am seeing cakes and not paintings.
Perhaps this is wrong but that is how my eyes
have been trained over many many years.
We all think we know our likes and dislikes
but then we look at paintings and realise
we can change our minds depending
on just how hungry we feel.

So I see cakes and my lover sees flesh.
I see sprinkles and he sees nipples.
I see the sky is really folding batter.
He sees a woman's back taking up the world.

Mostly, I like the very textured paintings
and that is why I still come here to the same
ones, I linger. I do not consciously think:
I want to eat you all up. I do not.
I know I am looking at a painting.
It was made over many layers by someone
I will never meet or know much about, really.
And I like that. I don't want to know them,
I want to know the painting and if I see cake
I attempt to unlayer it a little and go
beyond the cake.

No, who am I kidding? I see cakes.
And then I don't see cakes. I see paintings.
I like big paintings that would be too big for
any room I am ever likely to live in.
I like to imagine myself sprawled beneath.
Perhaps this is the most I have ever
thought about it.


Thanks always for reading here.

Just a note to let you know that coming up in August - I am hoping to write something new here every day, just as I did this past February. So if you have any suggestions for poem/story themes, anything you would like to explore further that I touched upon in February, then please leave a comment here or you may email me at the usual ccullis at gmail etc - thanks.

Saturday, 5 July 2014

It Begins With Rain And Ends In A Photograph

Open window for the rain.
A computer grinding softly, light
in squares across a thin room.

The thin morning dress,
with just a flower to hide her cleavage,
a soft wisp of lavender-

grey hair against the wall.
A broken glass in a drawer.
A bit of Brahms.

Endless violins, the discussion
of seasons to love, September
winning with its honey days.

Oh days when the flowers feel
real, the vase goes green quickly.
Hands held across the doorway.