Peter J. King (3 poems)
Aviary II
i.
from the ground
the starlings seem in mourning —
wheeling in the evening sky funereally fine and inappropriately joyful
look closer, though,
and see the iridescent
emerald and sapphire
mingled with the jet —
the way the sun sparks colours
from the intricacy
of their plumage
and the beads that are their eyes
ii.
orange-red breast glows
puffed against the cold
head cocked
one eye on the feeder
in my hand
to be replenished
one eye on the swirling field
that links Earth’s molten core
with solar winds
that sweep out from the Sun’s
corona
iii.
all we see
a streak of neon
turquoise down the stream
or
a shiver on the wind a splash
and frantic silver flapping
drowning in mid air
gulped down whole
convulsively
Temporal Crimes
Arrested
read my rights
my bio-facts recorded
they scraped the time from
underneath my fingernails,
and matched it to the fortnight that I’d killed.
The judges threw the book at me,
but I’d erased its pages —
introduced its quondam author
to the secret joys of poetry;
she switched from law to literature
and died in poverty, the book
unwritten.
They jailed me anyway,
but hadn’t seen my name
on the construction contracts for the prison;
so much sea-sand shouldn’t
be allowed in concrete
(yet it took me seven days
to loosen all the bars enough
to let me fly the coop).
When I do time
I do it my way.
Ecomoney
1
in yawning;
or some scandalized
intake of breath
breathe,
and in breathing
suck in pestilence.
2
a precise leniency, a
brief performance of
judgement,
skimming
the white, frothy scum off
the cuff.
3
unlettered
salivating at a
whistle
afraid of symbolism;
straining, gasping,
sobbing for a hold on the thin air
irritants unheeded and still
4
and still spraying
verbal over insect bombs
and
scenery
remembering grey
remembering neutrality
skies’ full
up there — look
a sort of sanctity
a mirroring
unsilvered,
sinking
5
some future anvil
cloud
hammer-head
flasked and brought back
dissolving
peeling the outer layers
exposed guts and conjoined
alloyed:
6
lean forward
into
the vane
whirling
invisible
in
indecision
But you know which way the wind’s
blowing strong
dry and thinning
7
if words could help —
a patting of stomachs and
lungs
stillness
windless bright
greyly
sad
Peter J. King (b. Boston, Lincolnshire) has been published in a wide range of poetry magazines and anthologies. His latest collections are Adding Colour to the Chameleon (2016, Wisdom’s Bottom Books) and All What Larkin (2017, Albion Beatnik Press).