Weekend Poetry: Dominic and other poems
A serious house on serious earth it is.
Hesitant, weekend travellers
hours till the coach & too early to seek sandwiches; we’re tugged
by bells into this vaulted shell.
Our presence un-make us tourists. Our eyes,
ears adjusting so much dark light high light,
pocked, blocky walls, a half-moon of stilted chairs.
We squash up to a thick pillar, a quivering woman in red wool.
The candled dusk, bro
ken by Norman windows, small white squares above:
illuminate matting, seats, and stone. An iron rack of bulbs alight;
the theatre starts with communal song;
the blond, ear-ringed pianist,
an uncanny Elton
A bevy of clergy (five men, one woman)
file from darkened wings,
assemble and sit like a council of wizards, all tall hats, billowing robes
to our winter coats; a bell ringer dressed in white, smiles
The old bishop is a balloon of approval, buoyed
to baptise this sheepish teen.
People of God,
will you welcome Dominic?
How he can he look so Anglo-Saxon, so pagan?
Is this your faith?
This is my faith
Dominic murmurs & promises not to be ashamed.
He vows to reject the devil & come as he is,
(in skinny black jeans, a hoodie, lobes
pierced with black hoops, his long hair a dark curtain).
His friends fringe the back pews;
gothic as the walls, hard eyed
as he affirms an invisible Jew
Will you be claimed as mine?
How might a more accurate realism be achieved?
We had a snow storm yesterday nightsix inches
or more. O sweet spontaneous earth.
Was out for two hours shovelling the driveway, the walk
up to the garage.
We’re all good.
So, with the anticipation of being enlightened I ask, ‘who
turned the rock into a pool of water? The hard rocks
into springs of water?’
Sandra was in the hospital again, but ok now.
She’s still in the home. They say it doesn't hurt—
It's only fainter by degrees.
I go see her 3-4 times a week.
Consider a semi-permeable membrane.
Sometimes it is said that an oblong is a rectangle
whose sides are different lengths
partly or totally unlike in nature, form, or quality.
For the world, which seems to lie before us, has really neither
any road or trail I have never travelled gladly for a person aged 75
or over and eligible for the full personal allowance.
Everyone else is ok. I keep on the move.
We accept that these things can be achieved
only through our own efforts.
Hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving
Dick, Clara and Frida will be coming.
We will miss Tara.
Too bad she passed away.
Let us be true to one another.
I have stilled and quietened my soul
like a weaned child.
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
Your family are moving on. Soon
you will be alone, and life goes on
through literature people learn
about the experiences and struggles of their ancestors:
Stamp Duty, Land Tax
on property and shares – how they work,
how much you pay.
road, narrow and glazed
with old icy snow.
The long lights
sliced the night.
Outside the Milky Way
swirled and was still.
scrambled out the car
LEAVING ABERYSTWYTH, 7:30AM
ant, m o r n i n g
across soggy marshes, roll
ing, rolling towards shoulders
the arced back horizon.
I see you see you see
you everywhere. Dazzling
water flashing silver, fluttering
reeds stoop to the oncoming rush.
inland, the light
dims to moss and shadow.
Slopes hem us in.
Bushes, outcrops, tangled hawthorn
make divisions and maps.
A white hull
looms from brown woods
and breezes move
through old trees.
- Maria Apichella won the Melita Hume Poetry Prize and her poetry collection, Pslamody, has recently been nominated for the Welsh Book of the Year People’s Choice Award.
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