Poem: ‘Clothes’

These are my favourite clothes, I
wear them for days on end.
See?
They retain their shape,
my shape,
even when I toss them
into wardrobes, or hang them from
skeletal frames, dis-
assembled, waiting for warm
odours of my living
return.

So say you’ll never throw them
out, and resist all
temptation to wash. Simply
lay them on a chair or bed – though
mark the creases,
the bulges of cotton limbs, fleshy
legs which have moulded denim,
now hanging in threads. And make sure
to study the greasy collars, precious
oils of my skin. Then take
hold of this shirt, stretch the faded
fabric in your hands and breathe in
the smell of years. Remember
the walks and our talks, when
there was only time to kill. For these
things, which may be nothing now, are
still worthy of note, the relics of
a single life
and not without right

image and poem © copyright David F. Barker 2013

Poem: ‘Turning’

Is there a point where the tide
stops,
a moment that I could see, or touch?
I’ve been looking
at tables giving times, exact
minutes of apogee, and it was
just here I’m sure,
right here,
where I pointed
and watched
and saw nothing, except
the foam stretch ahead of me
like phantom silk, all
along the buff triassic sand, as far
as I could see or walk.
“That’s where the waves
stop,” you said, “where the tide
turns back to the sea – and me.”

image and poem © copyright David F. Barker

Empty Promise

Strange to say, but as the snow
falls your nosebleed is like
a punctuation, something else
we can remark upon, something

other than this relentless cold,
our sparse Siberian spring. Harsh
economics brings with it
other extremes; people

who must choose between
eating or heating well into
April’s empty promises.
Some of them I know,

not the tragic ones who stare
at me from television screens,
directors tugging the stretched
strings of my heart. No – these

are stalwarts and forgotten
heroes, men and women
who have given their lives
once and don’t complain while

they slowly freeze or starve
in little houses, not so far
from me. Now they give up
on living so cold hearts

can balance their books.
But we fixed your nose, it was
easy in the end, though who
fixes this town and this world, is

anyone’s guess

Poem: The Creative

Inspiration is a leech on the
creature of conflict. How much
better it would be if our lives were
merely plain and ordinary, transcending
this light and shade, our existence
reliant only on plucking fruit
from a tree, cupping clean
water from a stream; and that
all my words and lines,
such as they are,
derived solely from love and light.

But we’ve seen to it, you
and me, have decided
to find out and exaggerate
every little nuance we have, to look across
at each other from these
dubious divides with poison eyes, our fixed
minds like two scorpions in a bottle.
And what we can’t steal or bribe or starve
from each other, we will fight for
to the end, till every last
sap of strength and all our blood is gone –
for that sweet taste of victory.

We’ve all spoken these platitudes,
though only seldom act
or relent. Even in our shadowy beginnings
the weary Gilgamesh knew; primeval
battles between dark
and light still raging on inside.
His remorse and grief leap out
at us from figures in dried clay like
they were made today, a reflection
of ourselves, our tears,
the lessons never learned. So,
if you must – go ahead.
Do your worst! Though please
make it your best
and I will write, endlessly

Poem: Abort

Sometimes
even when all systems say go
and blue skies beckon
like a smile that never ends,
it’s best to hold back,
to stop
and think
that any decision taken now

at this pining hiatus,
however right it may seem,
might turn our worlds
into something neither wants.
Your face, your smile.
Those eyes.
I shall wear them inside

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