By A lark starting from the heather; a lamb
amazed by a heron; a hare gutted
at a turn in the road; the familiar path
obscured by fern, bramble, convolvulus:
the gallery in my head is open
all hours – by turns, thriving and derelict.
The sparrow in my chest, where my heart lay,
now flings itself at broken panes, now stills.
At the end of the pier, where steamships docked,
black-headed gulls and anglers watch and wait.
The steel-faced laughing man will read our stars.
Under the planking, the jelly fish glide.
My heart is a fist clenched in darkness,
a sea-anemone in coral waters.
Black Headed Gullsbrambleclenchedconvolvuluscoraldarknessderelictfernfistgalleyglidegullguttedhareheartheronjelly fishlamblarkobscurepanespiersea-anemonesparrowsteamshipssteel-faced laughing manthriving
Kevin Dyer
July 1, 2009I love ‘We Prisoners’ especially. It seems daft to say to a poet why his poems ‘work’. Suffice it to say that this one does for me, surprisingly and deeply so. Thank you. Kevin Dyer.
John Huddart
July 2, 2014A wonderful collection of images. The title is superb, with its hint that the many subjects of the poem are the prisoners, as well as ourselves the prisoners of our experiences – our perceptions and our mortality. It works so many ways, like light through a crustal. Marvellous!
John Huddart
July 3, 2014