Monday, November 19, 2012

Three Poems by Austin McCarron

Master of the Game

Sweetly singing, the sun
is like a youth of light,
a sea of broken hours.
I pick my way through
its clear eye and profoundly
dead the voices it blinds.

Quietly I descend into a tunnel
of flames.
I fight rats with rare diseases but
stars of sacrifice
I heal with breath of exotic visions.

I see hunters of glory, religions of hell.
Strange disconnected bodies approach
me for matches, howling with sickness
and joy.
I stare at pictures of destruction and the
silence of time.

On wings of dust, death is loquacious but
its smile is empty of words and
the odour of trees and
waves is rich like music of a burning sound.
Blearily I raise a glassy arm and
the tempest of my spirit is supremely calm.

The Disappearance of the Self

Slaves of history, in buildings of wire,
with lungs of birth, with hearts of light,
with eyes of flame, I have seen them off,
for the sake of magic, these dead spirits,
in a city of dark voids, in a garden of wounds,
in a wood of uncircumcised bones, in a mouth
of indignant flies.

Stunned by a dream of descendents, I patch up
a flag of wind. I survive the knowledge of self,
the death of being.  Half in punishment, half in
shame, I meditate on the offences of existence.
On beaches of Europe I raise the sand of water
until each country
of humiliating tenderness is properly restored.

On Flowers of Original Stone

On flowers of original stone
I lay streams of words in greenish light.
In cities and farms I celebrate the growth
of uncontrollable fire and wood.

I pass water on graves of wind and gardens
of choking soil.
Plainly I see a box of mirrors on its stained floor.

Gone before I know it, the festering
seasons, with corpses of pale and yellow flames.

There is death everywhere,
and its soul is sticky with vain attempts at love.

By evening the smell of earth is like great and
futile uprisings.
I open a gate of mountains, and it is like time
burning, the rush
of colours, the scent of rock, willing to explode.

Austin McCarron is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years.  Poems appeared in Poetry Salzburge Review, Van Gogh's Ear, Snakeskin, Ink, Sweat and Tears and others.

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