Selected poems
bowler hat
Magritte, the body flesh of,
is just
intermediary between earth
& bowler hat
(colours uncertain
pondering)
circulatory system
melodrama
staged on carpet,
ugly patterns
chaotic skin
beginning the depiction—
a mealy tongue curls in
analysis of a neckline
while accelerating decorations
protest the prison of days
— Barnaby Smith
Concubine
I swear I saw his chest go up and down
swelling, impermanent —
curled up yellow fingers falling
on blemished but once rosy buttocks
unquenched and stormy,
dancing a cumbersome dance
under the artificial light
of early evening
in each of them the great swirling
intestinal brain
whirrs
oceanic thickets of appetite that bring blisters
to thin lips. Honeyed insects for two hours
floating through each others' blood.
— Barnaby Smith
Decision in a foreign city
It takes a moment only
And the others are gone,
My lover, our friends,
Back to take the narrow lift
To our holiday apartment
While I wait for laundry
To shed its travel grime,
Tumble itself crisp and bright.
Later, we will find cheap food
In this city of love,
Practise our school French,
Refine taste buds and palate,
Joke with the easy waiter
About which football code
Is truly the best, but of course
Only if I return ...
It takes a moment only,
The dry clothes packed in bags,
And I am standing in the street
Looking left, looking right,
Lights and shadows beckoning,
Murmurs of strangeness beckoning.
Without a second thought
I could return to welcome arms,
To more laughter and keen words,
This holiday our first overseas,
How the light is cooler here,
How trees shimmer with a green
That isn't burnt or dirty,
How our national game wins,
Being the only one
That only scores goals
By foot. Or I could follow
That blood whisper of new streets,
New words to call myself,
Try on a new face, then another,
Stride into a future not chosen
By the past, not bound to it.
Looking left, looking right,
It takes a moment only
To imagine a third future
In which all moments brighten
Because I stood and chose
And, so choosing, will remember.
I stroll uphill to our room
With its view of the Eiffel Tower,
Which we won't visit, preferring
Shakespeare & Co, the Louvre,
The markets, the back streets
Of Montmartre, the love locks
On the Pont des Art.
I step from the elevator, wait
For our door to open, blood
Quickening with breath and gaze,
Blaze of city lights, hues of touch.
— Earl Livings
Remembrance Day, 2016
In a bakery in York, I stand silent
With other customers for two minutes,
Think of nephews who have served
And seen action, some still serving
On land and on water, some bearing
The costs of their service in bad knees,
Hard hearing, scars in hidden places,
And think also of you, my father,
Tending to aircraft engines
Or helping out on black-market runs
In small cargo planes, from the mainland
To New Guinea, that time a door