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Poetry:

199 Greenbay

by James McGoram

17 July 2009

There are days, and we all feel them,
when an unnatural atmosphere pulls at the world,
dragging us along regardless of motive or desire,
so many motes in the amber light.

But on this night the elastic earth pulls back
and I hug it with my toes
wishing for a clear day to lie with my back against the earth,
to own the air,
to call it into question,
to call it into being if I must,
to bring it alive but for a dream.

A creator might fill this gap,
might dream us all should we sleep,
might put us back on our feet
with kind words mumbled through the blankets that enfold the heavens

If only I could believe in what I can't see
then day would not follow day nor car follow car,
and if I force the metaphor along,
these blessings would not drift above motorways
and the steel cynlinders that eat their way home,
through bedrock, through fossil, through history itself.

There are days,
and I wouldn't be alone in saying they happen more often than before,
when I feel warmer, perhaps more magnetic too,
or to explore the idea,
drawn inwards by this volcanic city,
a tug not at heartstrings or patriotic murmurs,
but a viable threat,
sitting on the lip of this crater like some hollywood virgin,
nursing a clear portent of death.

If this unsettles you, it unsettles me,
lacking drama by nature,
though I hope not poetry,
and prone to the licence this allows.

But after all, there is an eternity to lose.

Dropping, for a minute, the weight of discussion,
we observe the remaining light in the sky.

The asphalt wrinkles, drawing moisture from our eyes
mothers and fathers run home along the yellow lines

Surely there are oceans, at this very minute, that swell towards the moon,
surely murders too are in progress,
and space travel and tv drama are being pursued with equal vigour,
power bills and religion and sin come and go,
surely this has more weight than wishful thinking in this iodine air,
or my fear of the fear of gods that might dissappear.

Surely there is a bus coming soon.