Ink

'A pint of your best Abyssal Black',

I ordered at the ink-stained bar. 

The proprietor stood and flexed his arm

Where a blue tattoo danced with a scar. 

He took a bottle from the rack 

And fitted it below the pump, 

Then staining at the wooden tap

He drew forth ooze from some sunken sump. 

With the bottle brim-full of night

He wiped the tap and stoppered a cork. 

I slid my coins across the bar

And he turned his back, no need to talk. 

I stowed that precious onyx

And strode off to my desk at home

Where I dipped my nib in darkness

And scratched out this poem. 

Knock Knock

'If you must', the door-knocker speaks,

Its grating voice an impish squeal, 

'But there is nothing for you here, 

Nothing that opening will reveal' 

You reach to raise the iron-work

And could swear it moves before you do

You drop the ring upon the bolt

And silence echoes inside you

Before too long it speaks again

'I told you but you never ken,

Behind this door lies nothing'. 

And so you sound the iron again

Again resounding nothingness rebounds 

But this time bids the door ajar

You step through yourself and look behind

To find the door is who you are. 

Mirrors

Inside your private universe

Where all there is is you

You and your body

You and your shape 

Inescapable

Your face, your head, your eyes, your mouth

You look away and see yourself

Turn your gaze and there you are

Confrontational, uncomfortable

You begin to doubt your reality

Where do you begin and end? 

Which of you defines you?

Does every reflection hold your soul? 

You can't find the door anymore

Can't escape from the oppressiveness of you

Your sink to your knees as someone laughs

The flying machine

It was never going to work

The mechanics all wrong

To transform lift through wooden wings

He must have known

Must have played out muscle movements in his mind

Seen that man would never fly

To illustrate and understand

He sketched out impossible plans

His frantic mind pulling his hand

Faster than man could follow

Dreaming

Tendrils of imagination shift as I stride

Far beneath the morning tide

And lucid light filters through

Morphing dreamscapes into truth. 

I wish sometimes as I glide

That I could stay here safe inside

The pleasures of this halfway place

Before waking shatters every trace. 

Scale

'It's monumental', said the man,

'We build things big because we can

It all reflects a master plan

A city fit for kings' 

'That's well and good', I replied

'But look at it from the other side

My door's so tall and so wide

It dwarfs the giantlings

'It rises so far in the sky

The pigeons strike it as they fly, 

The doorbell's placed up there so high

That no one ever rings.'

'Don't you worry your little head' 

The builder slyly to me said

'They can use the back instead

For all their visitings.'

The devil on the door

You laugh and the world sits confused

Is it that you're laughing at us? 

What has got you so amused? 

Or have you been placed to entertain? 

Should your smile make our spirits soar? 

I do wish there was a way you could explain. 

The more I look at your frozen face

The more in pain you seem to be

Locked with that rictus grin in place

Now nothing's funny any more

You're just a carving on a door

And I wish that I could help you thaw 

And close your tired and aching jaw

The artist

He's built a town of coloured blocks

Painted orange, yellow and green

He adds one every single week

From every place he's ever been

They're rough and ramshackle things

Yet for a singular artistic theme

Though mostly made of roughshod walls

Each holds a detail from a dream

I wonder if he's building out

A model of his childhood home

Or if this will be where his soul sleeps

Surrounded by the things he's known

Art, it seems, is always thus 

No matter how obvious or obtuse

We open ourselves to creation

And leave a part in all we produce

Merchant mile

It's a good place to shop, or so I'm told

If all you want to buy is gold

Watches, rings and diadems

Hang like flowers from their stems

With rubies, emeralds and pearls

To adorn the chosen girls

And boys of wealthy families

Who wander through here as they please

Pointing at a passing piece

To decorate a distant niece

And all the while the sellers smile

Like nimble-fingered crocodiles 

Niccolo Macchiavelli

Captured with thoughts frozen in mind

Schemes carried over from distant times

He wrote the book on hidden crimes

Niccolo Macchiavelli

How to rule and who to trust

How to keep sharp minds from rust

And sharper blades disguise their thrust

Niccolo Macchiavelli

Still, to come

The ancient and the futurist

Meet to talk over tea and mist

One squat and round as a boxer's fist

One taller and thinner than should exist

One refuses a biscuit though the other insists

They meet to write their lengthy lists

Of which things pass and which persist

Which theories fruit from scientists

Which are born easy and which resist

They argue over details missed

And lift their drinks with weary wrists

Every day they meet like this

The ancient and the futurist

Parma violets

At the side of the road

On a street like any other

A natural sweet factory blooms 

The famous Parma Violet tree springs into flower

Each buff a fragrant mauve 

A sweetly cloying crunch

The birds and the beasts flock to them

Clamouring for the lilac prize

Inflorescent creepers rolling with nectar

And on short ladders cast about

Girls are singing as they work

Sleeves rolled up and dusted pink

Thumb and forefinger pinch each stem

Skilfully strip each shining flower

Gathered in baskets for distant markets

The library

Dusty tomes on dusty shelves

The sum of all our learning

Locked away from the common man

By someone more discerning

Ideas are worth more than gold

Compressed like diamonds through the years

Explosive sparks for tinder minds 

Why wide reading should be feared

Hence the library doors are locked

Monks and princes hold the key

Who knows what damage would be caused

If such knowledge was set free

The river

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

At 16 we bound our troth

Swore on gold and danced the aisle

Seven days we swam the river

But you were harbouring all the while

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

On the sabbath day you told me

Told me of your call to war

And though I wept and beat my breast

You took your shield and took your sword

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

Seven long years I waited

Seven winters, seven springs

Forgot your gentle touch upon me

Though I clutched your wedding ring

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

When at last the men returned

Telling tales of distant lands

I was left a black-edged letter

Crumpled in my shivering hands

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

There I left him long ago

To the river I took the letter

Folded round your wedding ring

There I lay myself beside you

There for the final time I sing 

Hey-ho and down to the river

Down to the banks of the wide Arno 

There I set my love a-floating 

And floating to the see we go

A love of food

My love is like gelato

Sweet and soothing on a summers day. 

Or is it that she likes gelato

In a broadly similar way?

My love is like ristretto

Warm, dark, full of energy. 

Or is it just that my love loves

A piping shot of black coffee? 

My love is like parmesan

Sharp, mature with a long mouth-feel. 

Or is it true she likes to chew

On cheese as hard as steel? 

Inner building

Were the skies as blue when they built you?

So much had changed, was that the same? 

Was every street as thick with feet? 

Did you hear every word of the calling birds? 

Did every stone sing at the hammer's ring? 

Did those colours shine true as they shine for you? 

Red, gold and green, the brightest I've seen. 

And time stands still as it always will

And step by step we see the echoes of our history. 

The teller

Every tale you tell is slightly too golden

I'm sure not all of these things took place

That man in club and lion cape 

Why does he now hide his face

As if ashamed to be part of this

Over-embellished soft disgrace

The watcher

Who are you, looking down

With such contempt in your cardinal's crown

Your face a fixed and fiery frown

Huddled in your hooded gown. 

Why do you haunt this town? 

Sun and rain

It doesn't rain here

Doesn't stop the perfect sun

The gentle play of ruffled hair

As heat and light rejoice and lift each sparkling mote

Of darting dust, and every hue they represent

The rainbow caught and caged in time

Eternal drifting, silent spills

Of universe born on cue 

And played out under the many suns

Ever again, standing in line

Spinning, circling, slowing

These thoughts pass me by

The bear

Among the angels carrying their tune

With bagpipes, clarion and bassoon, 

Beneath their wings and cherubic curls

That welcome gods into this world

There is a tree on a mountain top

An oak that grows from solid rock

Its bark is deeply lined with age

Each lobed leaf a storied page

Beneath its boughs there stands a bear

It hides, the angels unaware

That in its eyes the heavenly host

Would be quite tasty served on toast

Perfection

How can you pass without seeing me?

How do you not stop in your tracks

And wonder at my every line and curve? 

I am perfect in every way, 

Too many to count. 

Every detail reveals deeper beauty;

Gaze at me. 

Run your eyes over me, 

Stand silent, dumb and dutiful. 

Refuse to blink, still your step, 

Just look, forever. 

The dome

In the thick and hurried hubbub, 

Harried, hustled, jostled, jumbled, 

Amid the noise and thousand feet

That pound the dusty city street

Hoving suddenly into vision

A monument to man's arrogance

Over-abundant opulence

Far beyond common sense

It rises from the shimmering air

A marble facade, a modern wonder

An alien form that's found its home

The radiance of the sun-specked dome

Milling and moving

It's easy to believe in the modern rush

That all there is is you

And millions like you

Milling and moving

Crawling and covering every inch

It's good to be reminded every now and then

That there is still space here

Where you can still gaze north and south

And see no trace of humankind

No footstep, no tyre track,

The emptiness of a planet at peace. 

mountains

'crusted peaks of black and white

Pass beneath me on my flight

As ribbons spun from cloud and snow,

Locations I will never know. 

Each one, I'm sure must have a name

That some intrepid climber claimed

A lifetime's work to reach the crown

And here am I, looking down. 

Renaissance

There's always one to draw you in

Eyes askance, a knowing wink

They're in on the secret, 

This isn't real, just a painting, 

It's all for show. 

They knew what they were doing, 

These Renaissance folks. 

The craft

Inside every stone is a flower,

A swan, a laughing, man. 

You just need to know how to see, 

How to feel the sinews pulsing there

To curl the hair and smooth the skin. 

What would you find in there?

What memory live and vivid would leap to mind

Glowing in stone, reacting to your touch?

Cut carefully, cut cleanly

Craft the form and free the thought

Find the truth that lies within. 

The Old blood

Something of the old blood clings to these walls

Welcoming and warning

Marble shines and the Arno slurs, lazy and fat 

Hawkers call and curse, rubbish swirls,

There are memories here to be made and to recollect

Of meals taken, love amassed on beating streets

Footsteps fighting broken words

Tongues mixing and meddling here,

Away from the still and silent places

Where only vespers dare to tread

And here with shutters pulled I wait

Lying in hope for the night. 

The moon on a stick

You asked for the moon on a stick

Instead I brought you a bouquet of stars 

Plucked from the night

You asked for blood from a stone

Instead I brought you dew drops

Wept by the desert sand

Not every day

Not every day is perfect

Some days, some weeks, are just the worst

When your heart is sick with worry

And your head is fit to burst

And everything you care about

Is beaten, bruised and crying out

But your love is stretched too thin

There's nothing left but empty skin