Four Poems

Allan Phillipson
Department of English
University of British Columbia
Canada

arph@unixg.ubc.ca

Deep South v.1 n.1 (February, 1995)

Copyright (c) 1995 by Allan Phillipson, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the New Zealand Copyright Act 1962. It may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that the journal is notified. This consent does not extend to other kinds of copying, such as copying for general distribution, for advertising or promotional purposes, for creating new collective works, or for resale. For such uses, written permission of the author and the notification of the journal are required. Write to Deep South, Department of English, University of Otago, P. O. Box 56, Dunedin, New Zealand.

On the Inside
Re-claiming
Touching
Crows

On the Inside

Life
    contracts
bed; hallway; office.
                     Stairs
                           beyond
               those 
                    going
                    where
                    you 
                    can't

              bodily 
           functions
      only
just
     eat       shit             [and . . . ]
in here they go together
and that's pretty
much it.

The world
      contracts
   to a window

one lets you see other windows
lying down
trees and grass
standing up
           but  out   of     reach

the other lets you see what others want you to see
           news you cannot be a part of
           comedies in living roms
but this
is a dying room
           oldies in dressing gowns
unshaved, unbrushed, un buttoned and bowed
                     under
            wear
showing

you are a visitor
                  you tell yourself
but you can't leave
you must be
                  patient

Re-claiming

Until today
I accepted the word
of T.S. Eliot's
               Hollow Men
and Al Purdy's 
               Cariboo Horses

	wind in dry grass

is dead
a whisper of death
we try to ignore
dry
stale
life
    less   
               and yet-and yet-
today
	twenty five years rusty
	hair balding, glassy eyes
	snailtrailing through the slicked streets
	of a Vancouver winter
	reading on a bus

	wind in dry grass

conjures a four year old boy
blonde, blue eyes yet to feel the pinch
of glasses
	lying cocooned
	on a day so bright
	the clouds are white
	visions
               wind changed dragons
swell and sunburst into fantastic shapes
swirling through the blue
closer
	waving over head
	arms and scratchy legs
is the dry grass of high summer
warming
against the wind
cosy aroma of wild wheat
golden eared, green stemmed
bending under the full grain
life giving

             still

the boy will
rise and run
grasping and plucking
gently husking the wheat from its stem 
and throwing it wide
                    with golden lupin flowers
	fiery thistle down
through the air
spinning
	blowing
arms akimbo
	open hands
dancing
	away to new joys

Touching

In the sweaty sweet aftermath of love
I lie
     in spent flesh, mind circling lazily

through the curtain
	through the snow
               I can see a star
light   glimmer
	and I know
               that you are far 
to the south 
	by now
scattering suitcase
	Holiday Inn
motion
	but your eye will rest
on the ocean
as it always does
	and I feel you 
	touching
	the darkness.

Crows

That crow
is probably wondering
why we all look the same
hopping and jumping
and strutting around as we do
picking holes in things
and sharpening our claws
and wishing we could
fly