october 2017
Lines by the River - Mark Prisco
1
The poem’s there, pulled by the flow, tossed by the boat;
in sunlight, spun in the circles of water;
here, on the bank, the bare branches of winter,
bowed to the water. It motors: like film, the repose
of passengers, still, but this 1 girl
turned her head as an afterthought, saw, she thinks,
a glimpse of man stood tall. He thinks her lips
formed vowels, an O, for the real flesh of man, tore
off, with her teeth, something… Think: what it is
to be her, there, to see me falling away caught
in the flux like it’s really me that’s moving.
This will have to do - the circular wind
rolling the sky; the solitude hung still
like a gull reeled, art that blows even before
it stills. Here my thoughts are degenerate,
post-modernist, a white page of black lines,
the rudimentary outlines
of bare trees.
I envision the scene – now, but tonight also
& all my days, nailed like stars that light the walls
of a room I slept in 10 or 12 years ago.
2
her stars aligned.
fortuitously.
each line
*
discrete
has something like
blood stone
torn limb
skin prick
a flesh wound that actually
hurts
kick-starts her
heart some part
of herself half
known
*
so she was
here her syllables
clues missed
by the meticulous
casuals in blue
on the sand-flecked
floor for instance her
back room
at the end of a long
hall for instance the
sun-tipped straw the wide
round of days long
sky the riverbed
grey a face
in water her dress
weighed
by stones that had lain
among the bric-a-brac
of the bank
she lay in the hollow
pool of shallows where
spectres bowed
disfigured eyes wide
saw the line that
divides this world
from another
*
I need to be high like
this at her feet. beneath
her skirt I fell
on purpose tried
all night to see
nothing but her white
stars head high &
the blue light of an ambulance
*
she was here one summer
& when she left I shook at the knees.
In dreams her hair’s
real short her eyes
glazed wide
like strangers,
cars on the highways
of your sleep
& when you wake
miles away
cows graze
fields
buttercups
of spring
worlds away
but you anyway are.
really there
*
in the curves
of her line
break snake
hip syllables.
crawl. shed skin.
score bark. round
my neck down
the boughs & twigs
of my finger
tips
no big deal
but still
try me
she says
ok
I will
*
it’s winter.
tuesday. we had lunch
by the lakes.
the sun shone.
the sky was blue
& the water…
birds flew
both ways because it’s all so
beautiful
*
we met
in the cherry red
mirror between
2 brush strokes
Reflex - Mark Prisco
I get a measure here of solitude when the street turns in
& the night is soft & distant.
I hear the blue light of a siren dying, & in the silence,
the corrugated iron clawed by the cold fingers of the plum tree.
This is my table in the corner, photographs, postcards
bought on holiday; the body of Christ
post crucifixion; de-nailed, tender - it’s queer
to think of him that way – & other memorabilia:
a Madonna, for instance, presented after a funeral.
I remember because i’m swayed now & then,
believe for no reason. Even immoral things. I react
i think to rational politics, the nightmare of production-
production: i’m for the risen Christ,
the soft night; the flashing blue light in the distance.
Contributor's Note
I'm an honours student of English Literature at the University of Waikato.