MY OWN SELLANRA (After Hamsun & O’Hara)

Des salutations et des adieux
Lunch Poems in my pocket
Dare I sneak Meditations in my laptop bag on the way to work?
Can I dial a 911 to rescue a self cut in two by preoccupations on the side of some minute form of sanity?

Whistling in the wind like Isak’s scythe
Cutting through some form of literary truth-seeking lyricism offering hope
Just another mardi matin or a something-else?

A little meditation in an emergency
An every day chameleon
A false yellow label folded into the pavement
Mashed by not-so-lonesome boots in a painting by Van Gogh

Like the fresh cut grasses on Isak’s land
My own Sellanra
Waiting to be raked
The promise of a machine in the days to come
Hiding secrets like Inger
Inside my little faux leather bag
Is it really so il faut savoir?

No heart on the sleeve on the way to another day of grinding
Fresh cut timbre
In the water-powered sawmill of Sellanra
For these new dialogues je sais par coeur
They’re buried so much deeper than that still-born
In that shallow grave by the river-stream

Running down through the property I may never fully own.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February 2018

 

FACING EAST TOWARDS THE RISING SUN

Facing east towards the rising sun
Struggling through the fog in the face of the flocculent clouds
The self-named Poet Laureate of 32805

Sang an anthem of remembrance in honour of a breathless crescent moon shaking like a scythe in the hands of a tall tan man with a Samuel Beckett face

Wise weathered worn like leather
withering in his bones
Tremble tremble tumble tremble
Like the memories of the autumn leaves on the trail of Rufus Morgan

A waterfall whispering hopefulness
Such that he is once again able
To shake off the youthful longing of his yesterdays for the haggard vision of a wee small moment of today.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines

ALONG THE THAMES

 

Along the Thames along the Thames
The push of the World moving along
Barges pulling cargoes
Captains of Industry taking a break from lifting pounds to lunch
Pigeons puzzling over scraps of scones on the sidewalk
Poets taking pause to observe to breathe
To smell the fishy salty briny browns:
To feel the feels of the pulse of the City
Floating heartbeats aboard the Tate to Tate

Painting word pictures on a phone
After viewing Rothko in a room of Rothko’s
Nine
Crimson blacks and brownish browns
Marooned
Subtleties of meanings wrapped in colour

Four seasons spread across the walls of a room inside the Boiler House Level 2 East with two and a half inch slat unfinished scandalized oaken floors that creak with each step whether sandals boots or soft soled walking shoes

As a young girl makes a game of triggering the alarm her father ignores
And a baby cries and a woman sleeps or meditates on the contoured teak bench
Arms crossed, crisscrossed arms
Within a view of Monet’s lilies
Floats floats floats
Along the Thames along the Thames

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, July, 2017, London.

1493F07E-BD9A-4031-A9B1-43FA7C1BC42F