POEMS
Here is a small sample of poetry written by Martin Vaux.
All rights reserved.
A Common Hazard
I am not a sympathetic beast
To etch on inky lithographs
Or reproduce on greeting cards.
No fox; a woodwose, wielder
Of dull clubs to bludgeon. My tale
Is ancient. Beard of savage fact.
A public shame, and boy-killer.
I am no thing for lusting on
Or to outright expose. No coquette,
Bare-shouldered on daguerreotype.
An un-ghost, monster, gazing
On through night, as if sympatico.
My shames whet no appetites
Save that of wolves, who howl.
I am not a fitting theme
For onto-lambskin-dabbing
In candled oily hues. No thing at all.
A man instead, who lives. Loose-
Tongued and base. To paint
In broad-strokes, and disgrace,
Masquerading as a common hazard.
Where The Dead Men Groan
Under the grass where the dew hangs wet,
And the earth waits warm as a drunken threat,
There's space in the clay, the chalk and stone,
Deep in the dark, where the dead men groan.
Ravens caw in the tall elm trees,
Black as Death with his hollow wheeze.
Flesh stripped bare from every bone,
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
Eyeholes bunged with sticks and mud,
Skulls run dry of dreams and blood,
Smiling wide at the great unknown,
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
Music played on a fiddle or drum
Is fine and good ‘til the dance is done.
Listen in close for their maudlin tone:
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
Daughters wed in virgin white
Redden at the horror of the wedding night;
Forced to witness and postpone,
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
Shipwrecks lie in the murky depths
Where sailors drift in pirouettes,
Lost and drowned so far from home.
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
Most are buried, some are burned,
Stars and moons are clocklike turned.
Ash in the wind's forever blown.
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
A promise breaks like all things do,
Mistakes are made, don't misconstrue
Sins for which they can't atone.
Deep in the dark, the dead men groan.
That grief is passed from son to son,
As one begins another's done,
And your father's father's all alone,
Deep in the dark, where the dead men groan.
O
Trace a circle in the air
and make it perfect.
Smooth and equal round,
a circumference of silent
sound. A sigh of grief.
It is impossible. Imperfect.
This imaginary thing
is uneven. Try again.
Retrace the loop, like
artists lightly gripping
pencils do, for practice.
Loop a finger, up
and circularly down,
with poise and grace,
and raise it up and
round. Another failure.
Not quite right. One
cusp too thin or fat.
Edges bulging, that
side. An oval, flawed.
Try another time. And
fail again. Another.
Fail again. Again.
Agains again abound
bittersweet. It's all I ask,
mastery of this, the
simplest of tasks, to
make an imaginary
shape within the mind
discrete, a single,
endless line of invisible
art where no ends
beginnings meet.
To wind and wind
and cast a spell so
perfect, pure and good,
so right, so true, that
should another see
the world as I do now,
share my perspective,
perhaps not knowing how,
but with no doubt, no
caveat, even at a glimpse,
they might conceive
the beautifully rendered
whole, and the aching
dreadful chasmic maw
of emptiness between.
Dead Friends on Facebook
The Internet has made me crazy.
I compulsively need to check.
Swipe down a greasy screen and pull the lever
Just to check.
Jackpot. People have checked on me.
I check on them. Signal proof of life.
When I have time, I scan their
Panic.
Fleeting photos of baby, kid, student, clubbing, posing, marriage, reunion...
And what?
Same again?
Same again?
Or... a quiz?
What sort of soul am I?
God, I hate The Simpsons these days.
I think, sometimes, of what will happen
When people stop checking on me.
About what happens when my bones
Ache too much,
My eyelids get too heavy, and
I no longer have the energy to check.
I have dead friends on Facebook.
People who died IRL.
And their profiles sit like static tombs,
Still glossy,
Iced over with old photos
Containing too few pixels per square inch.
Smashed screens, spider-webbing.
They didn't have filters back then, of course.
And then there's others who may be
Ghosts. Maybe they are people who
Flicker, like lights over blue water,
On and off. Irregular users.
Some may be imposters.
I could be like them, I suppose.
I could delete it all.
Disappear like a magician performing
Their final trick.
Step out the backdoor, hat low,
And vanish into the night,
Screeching and cackling,
Then silent.
Would they miss me?
Can I be predictive?
I'm having fun, I think.
I think I'll stay for now.
I think I'll wait and see
And live a bit.
Cute photo.
Spring
From solid sod dead as Hesiod
Touched by pallid icy sun
Shift knots of mortal fury which
Amphoral clay cannot contain.
The bitter face of warmth glares
And cloth is portioned, cut to fit
And some unworthy have excess
While others suffer scarcity.
Each has a counterpoint, scale, balance,
And each a shadow. White Death's bride
A sappy snowdrop clutch hatching.
All sins break howling free in sequence.
For harvest comes a famine, health
Disease, grace sin, comfort pain.
Bright berries bunched with poison
Fall, eaten by the birds and spread.
And from the thorny hedgerow base
Crocuses, bluebells, Wordsworths.
Revolutions rise and fall, crowns glow
And topple, bejewelled. Jackdaws hop
Seek glitter, rooks portend.
And all about is chaos thriving bright
With colours rich, diverse and sweet
As leafheld dewdrops shining.
Hope curls last from the butter earth
Petal wings bruised sopping raw
And Prometheus groans for Pandora.
O Mother!
O Mother! I am sorry
About your breasts, suckling
A mass of flesh, clung,
Twisted into nipples
Knotting pink beads
To thickset clots, rose
Weed-killer doused
Aphids on the leaves
Screaming pain, split
Your hips too hotly wide,
Slid rotten from your guts
To linoleum, reflecting.
Down the telephone line,
Grubby fingers in locks.
Your winding hair, twine
Curled plastic cable.
Poor joke. Piano lid shut
Firm, and out of tune.
Now the ivory’s loose.
Elephantine rage, tusking.
Sleepless nights, black
The windows, pray for peace.
Hope this offers respite:
Nothing’s doing.
Hum outdoors, hang
Laundry on the line. Pegs.
The mower, throaty, spins.
Weed the borders.
Slide a blunt blade down
Into the margins, where slabs
Have become overgrown.
Cleave neat lawn edges.
Stare, silent at a screen.
Computer buzz, nails
Grown, manicured,
Clacked out by nature.
Dress in white, dance
At your graduation ball.
Grip a chosen friend for
Choice was limited, then
Cut sandwich bits, spread
Up to the crust, pack
Lunchboxes shut as clams.
Pickled zing. Apple wax.
Peel the Edam too, thinly
Eating crackers, margarine
Worming through the holes
To stave off hunger.
Vanity table, your cheeks
Blushing, and the mole
Cautered from your neck
Into a pale moon scar.
One of many, melanomas
On your back, shoulders,
When a kid, ear cut, heat,
Sea, sand, like your father.
Grip screwdrivers, list,
Stern look and speech.
Fix conundrums which
Most would walk from.
On verandas, sit
Clink ice in your drink
As the haze rises, dull,
Not feeling as you did.
Pull at loose pages,
Scour, end-to-end,
Bedclothes, pool sides,
Both for ducking under.
Tape voices in turn
To send to the wilds
And bridge gaps; soon
Moving out of need.
Later leaving, struck
For human simple wants.
A home to build, sleep
No better. Still exhausted.
Count money, do work.
Makes you harder, though
Happy at a pinch. Friends
Fade, others rise
Like wine corks, popping
At the end of weary days,
That silent, cold house
Is not what you really want
Children grown odd, away
And from you, nearer to,
Rarely thinking as it hurts
Of those who never were
Despite your trying, hope,
Your blood, desperation,
Lonely, lonely labour
No-one deigned to note.
And now, smile, big
Whenever there is sun.
Serving, not so strong
But accurate as ever
While the winter waits
Grit your soft teeth,
Bracing, kept cool,
Yet feel it looming.
O Mother! I am sorry
About your breasts,
A mass of flesh, lying
Eyes bright. Penny pieces.
Chronicle
We mark in darkness, smiling, words
Between us dart like egret swoops
Or music chirped by laughing birds
In cursive pen-stroke dips and loops.
Our bodies are like paper sheaves
China-pale, for writing on,
Yet soft as fingered unbound leaves
Or feather necks of pairs of swans.
Together, in between our teeth,
We grip our narrative and bite
Into the marrow bone beneath
To feed the story of our life
In moonlight glow; our weave once spun
Outshines a thousand splendid suns.