Monthly Archives: July 2008

Barn Owl Feather

I can still smell the owl on the feather.
We speculate, reaching with our noses,
Whether it smells more like cat or dog.
It is owl, of course,
But we are not used to smelling birds.
I have smelled chickens,
And the body of a wren
(warm in my hands
a mouse of a bird:
i kept its wings for medicine
and now they are following me
knowing i know…

Thursday, July 31st, 2008 – 1:30 am | By Tom | Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | Comments (2)

Darkroom

In the darkroom, there is not space to breathe.
In the darkroom, there is not light,
Nor possibility of light;
Not love, nor the possibility of love.
Possibility is in the lightspace:
In the darkroom, there is only certainty
Or confusion.
This is how it is,
Or everything collapsing.
Never enlarging,
Except in the dismaying growth
Of disaster.
Nothing begins here:
This is the graveyard of hope.

This is…

Thursday, July 31st, 2008 – 1:28 am | By Tom | Posted in Poetry | Tagged | Comments (2)

Ivan and the Black Finch

Dark night. Wild wood. The moon howls. Gorse grasps, branch cuts, brier tears. You run and you run and you run. The ground is broken and betrays your feet. Ice grips, frost crackles. But this is not the night of beauty. You are lost. Crows cackle in the dark — this is their midnight. The darkness owns the land. Feet twist, hands reach, and you run. Why

Tuesday, July 8th, 2008 – 12:08 pm | By Tom | Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , | Comments (2)