'It's just me and you, mate,'
I said from the bed.
It was still and silent
and shadowed the light.
The hum of the fridge
is a beautiful sound.
The flash of my zip-drive
is a beautiful sight.
The ambulance siren
is like the film soundtrack
Bringing Out the Dead
I remember that morning
and what that driver said.
I remember sucking
on an oxygen hose-
the elixir shot through
in place of the blues.
The light from my i-
Pod is beginning to fade.
I'll go to sleep and
let my dreams invade.
or Raymond Carver
It's Thursday 26th of April 2007 at 5:40.
The rain has stopped and the sun is out
I know nothing about radio waves but
I think they are stronger after the rain.
Your signal of poetry and prose makes me
travel to your spot by the river.
Your dad is holding a string of perch
and a Carlsberg beer. I'm there in the water
in the folds of white waves.
The fires of your inspiration ignite this pen
to move across the page with a
fundamental accuracy of statement.
I'm trying to get away from wheel-
chairs, nurses, physios, bed-rails
and walking frames, I want to escape from
surgical words surrounded by the clinical white
page, stumbling down the hall with a force as
irresistible as the tide or the splint on my right leg.
Those black hills became my Matterhorn,
my bright shillings of March.
Even back in the cold depressed '70s
there was a coloured world in black and white
I saw Farringdon Gardens' flames go up
in coloured embers but televised in monochrome
and a line of camouflaged tanks on the street
while the moon landing was on TV.
My world was like a silent movie
based on World War I.
Everything was tarred and feathered
but it was just my heart, my world
was like a dream state coloured in black and white.
When my father got out of jail (internment)
we went cruising in a white Vauxhall Victor
waving goodbye to a border post
and the sun clad on galvanised steel
the magic colour of the Mournes
and the freedom of no-man's land
crossing the white-lined old border post
and the colours of Kavanagh's ditch.
The hat rests
on the bedpost
cool was there.
It»s splattered now
It doesn't fit