4 poems by Juliet Powys

Sisyphus

You have become a mountain range.

I scale the relief map of your reclining body, and survey
Your hoods, ridges and canyons.

I set up camp, and attune my breathing
To the bulrush sway of your many grasses,
Pressing my cheek against the smooth stone ledge
Where I have laid rocks for my fire -

Sticks and tinder.

& in the morning I will smear the ashes
Warrior-like across the bridge of my nose, and strike on,
To reach your cloud-ringed summit,
& prostrate myself in view of your circling eye.

Snow

And I wonder how many people have seen London at this altitude

Seen the million mouths opening and closing in the snow on the ridged rooftops
And the beautiful nudes knitting the aerials up to the brooding sky

Whether the lights behind the blinds spread like new warmth through the
Floorboards and keyholes, and how many people are standing out on fire escapes
Like me, with stronger roots in the sky than in the covered ground.

Wreck

Strangling heat under the jetty, spikes
of old nails, bent up between planks
crook and rust, tearing at the skin,
channeling off to harpoon the sun.

Closeness gnarled and spiky and fierce,

Boxes thrown in the river and
found as curses by divers
exploring a wreck.

Curses brought down the ship.

Cooling against the glass
like sleeping snakes, hands -

pinned down in a glow of light.

Quailing softly
the moonless faces whisper up
at the crackling energies of
a swimming sky.

 

Fly

Returning from Paradise to light, a thin caul between the teeth, suggestion. Later you will twist& tear, frantic, unpacked cases withholding grace. The veil is lifted, in the failing light. It seems you have missed what called you home.
Behind grey eyes, a semblance of monotony, monochrome days with the bloodflowers gone, drained away& blocking the sink. The river still flows. The tower is still standing. But there is a heaviness in you which has evaporated, lost in the steam of the kitchen. & you cling to the drawer-handles, clothes horses as you’re lifted upwards, heels grazing the ceiling, your apron paisleyclose to your blushing face. Feeling your way, your ringless hand reaches the open window. Fly. There is nothing left for you here.