Anthony Mason

Black Snow

The stars do not go;

“Gentle into that good night”

but flicker, epileptic

amongst a billion other dying lights.

Like children wailing in an orphanage.

Motherlessly hushed

by a stranger, indifferent as the moon.

Face as blank as an unrecorded night.

Mouth as hollow as a lampshade,

suspended from an unfamiliar ceiling.

Wept asleep; ash white faces, crescent

in the folds of wet pillows.

They slip away silent from december shine

like the sliver of light

through the gap of a door opened slight.

..Those missing hours strung overnight

into some kind of constellation;

by a violin, mourning from an open window;

where a young woman has not slept,

nor cared to eat

but traced over and over  like a suicide note

The trails in the snow left by a hearse.

..and the footfalls of children, having no pattern;

they do not go calm, into that solemn street.

If Shadows Could Bruise

I would watch waves

lap against rocks for hours, days,

until I gained a childlike sense of time again.

Though the sea moves

in formless origami

with no limit to its expressions

there is nothing written beneath the waves

that fold and clamber over each other

like blankets over blankets

on a child that is cold regardless...

..because a child's reality

was turned inside out

like an umbrella left

upside down in the rain.

I did not feel cold, I only felt

that the snow understands

how I wish to live.

Seems I have lived a thousand childhoods

and in each of my past lives none has

seemed my own.

Poetry only makes things worse.

The way I will always hold my gaze at a tragedy;

as though there existed no margin

between the opening of ground and sky

or if a child might have left

a confetti smile in wet glass

picked up from a church puddle.

I would think of how

the sun might splash a new mosaic

through it

onto a strangers face unknowingly.

I learned from watching clouds

and strangers that would

sit next to me as a lost child

and ask me what I was painting..

why the colours so dark?

..because some colours

will simply not wash away.

To see the world through my eyes

is to be withdrawn from it altogether.

If there are children who go

wildly tracing footsteps in the snow;

I was the one who kept indoors

and watched from the window

tracing each snowflake

as it passed the street-light glow.

If I reached out to touch

a statue that resembled me

and the eyes were wet..

it's the closest I could get

to recognising my own feelings.

I don't have the voice or the emotion

to narrate my poetry to an audience.

I would rather they listened to the rain

and read my poems when I am gone.

...Even the snow

wants to be over and done with

before people start to come out.

These poems are on pause

in the honey coloured iris between

the red and green of traffic lights.

The rain in static re-runs of old movies..

An actress looking into your eyes

and for a moment

forgetting her lines

..these are the lines of those moments.

Its just one of those things;

when you need to be inspired,

nothing else will do.

Anthony Mason © 2012

Silent Movie In Black And Blue

Things are either dark, or they glow

and do not last;

they choke and sputter gracious

in the bedraggled blacks

like chimney sweep heads detached,

while the sky has its back to the world.

The sea bruises the rocks;

Blue, then stills

when someone comes to view.

Waves folding; darkly

like a hand over a telling mouth; hush.

The moon has the whiteness of a blind woman’s eye,

so perhaps its other senses are heightened

A widow who dresses her children like dolls.

Like a sewing machine, precise in her loneliness

and all the more efficient.

A ladybird crawls onto a child’s finger

like a droplet of water on glass.

Front down in the grass; she blows out

a clock flower, wishing the same of her past.

The ladybird opens its wings; just like the De Lorean.

The moment when Dorothy sees Technicolor

for the first time, is reversed.

The ladybirds carapace resembles a painting by H.R. Giger.

A boy fell from his bicycle

and scraped his chalk knees on the pavement;

The reflectors still turning on his wheels

like Polaroid’s spilled from a suitcase.

The sky holds close

photographs of the departed

like a second skin.

Gravestones huddle close

as gossiping children,

one stands away from the others; shivering.

Grass whispers in seeming.

Leaning; passing their secrets along

in little notes. A clock flower tears it up;

tosses it against the wind.

Bits of broken bowls line the pavement

as if the moon had fallen.

One woman is picking up the pieces,

without the strength to weep;

Staring into nothing as she sweeps.

A meal untouched going cold

on her kitchen table.

All their faces, paused in one expression

Like the moon before it fell

or the clock before it stopped.

A sea of yellow cabs waiting

like Scorcese’s translation

of Wordsworth’s daffodils.

My fingers are the bystanders at the scene;

the horrific image on the pavement-

the dead dove- is someone else's art.

Anthony Mason © 2012