Damian Garside

ON EARTH

in my dreams I am
still drowning

battling to get my head
to the surface
but no surface exists

and so
my battle for the air
longing for land

eternity of the test
which must be
a quest

my mind circumnavigating
every sunken city
on Earth

WHERE

where are you?
when
are you?

I can only imagine
forgive me if I humour
myself with the thought
of you reading this poem
streaking through
the galaxy
at near light speed

puzzling through this conceit
deploying all the
intricacies of your
programming
possibilities of
your circuitry

wondering how it
could be I got you exact
nailed you, labelled you
almost
perfectly

a life that I can
only dream and so

did dream

and now we you here
you might just allow yourself
to dream of me

ZERO

zero
was worth more
than a poem

no civilization I know
stood or fell
by a poem

but zero, gorgeous oval
that you are
you gave us infinity
opened space
and time

and terrible
singulaity that
just swallows swallows

zero
my best little beautiful
paradox of the absolutely
essential
number
that can never be

a whole Arrakis desert
in your history
sheer
possibility

quietly, quietly
zeroing inimagining the poem

that simply cannot be

NO SURPRISE

no surprise
this is just a mirror
and you know mirrors

see yourself there
wondering how the light
could figure you out at all

no depth you have
is what you assume
perhaps
definitively conclude

but when the reflection
moves first, poses
a question
how can you
be so sure?

and who is meant to
act nonplussed

downplay the magic that
undeniably exists

something transformative
in the air you pick up an image

try to place its scent
hold it
up to the light

strange how it
lets itself
react
to your presence

PLENITUDE

now where in the great book
does it speak of plenitude?
because I
did not get any
get any at all

so I mistrust these books
these books of huge substance
that say everything
supposed to call
angels, summon semons

but in terms of my
small wealth of experience

these texts of divine good
and implacable evil

do not bring forth
hosts
and legions

just suggestions to
temper a cosmos
of sublime
or supreme indifference

with sad and small
and limited revelation

all cool breeze or,
contrarily, hot air

CAN (NO LESS)

Poetry is what is read
as poetry

no more; no less

that fat book of prosody
that you bought
(so heavy
in hardback)
is mission wasted unless
you fancy yourself as sonneteer
or the bloke with
the penchant to pen
the occasional rondeau
or vilanelle

as for me, as you can see
pretty much an
ignoramus when it
comes to things prosodical

indeed things strict and linear
not entirely my bag

read me (if read me
you must, by compulsion
or insistence)
forwards backwards
upside-
down

head to tail in oxygen-rich
atmosphere
or zero-gravity

your poem your choice

read me
any way you like
way you can.

WHISPER

wrote you a poem
not for reading
not for reciting
either

this is sweet, sly
little poem

decidedly
for whispering

straight into
that small, soft ear

breaking into
tiny, petal-like
downward fluttering pieces

every false barrier
every
fourth wall

fall
of Jericho:
their bricks and mortar
seen to
magically
dissolve

SPIRAL

Must check
the physics of its orbit

for I feel the planet
is off course

its circular pathway
around the Sun
has gone into a spiral
a downward corkscrew
nothing
Fibonacci about it
regular
or golden

this is what you get
when you give
the keys to the door
to a gang of
stupid, selfish
power hungry apea
who
in their hubris
branded themselves
“humanity”
set themselves, in
their imaginations,
to conquer
the galaxy

let us just
take a solemn moment
to laugh at that now

Train (Snowpiercer)

You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?

Author Archives: Damian Garside