by A. O. Griffiths
by Pete Crowther
by Rosie Cartwright
Everything goes on outside my window;
All that is vile and all that is fine
In a pile of noises in the dark,
A creaking sign, a murmur from the park,
A sinister question posed in the rumble
Of a taken road;
A stark unanswered presence
That strode the glass one winter's night
Everything goes on, replayed through the glass,
Window talk as the dark frost sets.
Pass on, perpetual railway,
Walk in conversation with my bones,
A shoulder blade relaxing with the motor drones,
A rib inflated by the swelling klaxon
Of some distant incident.
(What can it be,
This climax of some misspent evening,
Loitering in my chair?
Everything goes on out there;
I catch a teardrop from the sea,
There is a jungle out there;
In the box.
Digital growth, latent,
In locks electronic.
As a lost boy in school
I remember a plait-full of corridors
Playing the fool with my compass;
Ogrish masses of wall,
An in-bred alikeness
Teasing my orientation.
Raw was the eyeball
As out of a corner
A wonder appeared.
The by-the-door intrepidation
Would blind with sensation;
Conundrum of “What is behind?”
The jungle unfolds,
Risk and command,
Wills of the disk
Entrancing the fingers;
The challenge that lingers
In the dueling of man and machine.
There is a candle in a corner of a restaurant
That lends a golden mist
To the singer in her haunt.
The smoke, in tendrils whisked
About its rays,
Makes subtle glaze
Upon the dancing candle-flicker
Like a sleeve advancing,
Velvet nuance in the key,
Insistent flame in melody
From the fingers of the wick.
Is this some trick?
Some wax-enhanced collision
On a table meant for two?
Precision, spent in irony,
And true to its deception,
Lets me woo you in the candlelight
And fake some succour from perception
In a flight of fancy.
Shall I discover something new?
A fresh origami fold,
A story of a princess and a toad
That has never been told before?
The city has the hue of something different,
The New Year calling
In the frosty traffic drone
Cast from the arteries.
Cut the frost
And there is blood so full of oxygen
That life unspent sings in an irony
Swimming in its world of amber