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Rowan Taw - 2


Driftwood

Wood drifted into
floating sleep
buoyant dreams
ebbed and flowed
tangled limb desire
swept through her
empty branches
logged and lodged
in her knotted mind
tumbled smooth skin
sonambulant senses
wished for his bare bark
to envelop her sea damp
contours offering her
the fantasy of sap rising
– heartwood restoration
but a drift she was
dry and dead inside
yet the sea journeyed
her home to a shore
where lovers saw her
poverty and loneliness
they adorned her with
sentimental souvenirs
and she became
someone else’s memory. 
​

A Decent Butcher's

[from "The Butcher Series," I] 

​She never used the word ‘homesick’,
she merely complained that 
“you can’t find a decent butcher’s."
 
We didn’t know that as she purchased
the weekly groceries, she was thinking
of a wink from twinkling blue eyes.
 
She couldn’t find a decent butcher’s,
for her heart was calling her back
to the butcher boy she left behind.
​

Milk Tears

My body cries
milk tears
willing satiation.
In poverty
my body gives a
pauper’s feast:
lacking quantity,
lacking flow,
I lack his latch.
Bottle beckons –
inanimate competitor.
Gradual coaxing then
mother and son meet.
My body cries
milk tears –
joy of early
morning feeding.
​

Office Boy

From the moment he joined the office
  he stared.
I thought it was a phase that would pass
  he’d give it up once I was
   familiar,
but it’s been nine months, and

still

he stares.

Every time I pass the floor
  from water cooler to desk
    his eyes peer – fixed on me from
     underneath his Lego haircut.

I’ve tried smiling,
I’ve tried ignoring,
I’ve tried warning:
     “It’s rude to stare!”
        “There’s such a thing as work place harassment, you know!”

Still

he stares.

It’s got so bad, I’m tempted to nut him,
  (as I walk, unavoidably, pass his station.)
I probably would have done it already,
  but one thing deters me:

the lawsuit from the James Wallace Trust
  for destroying their portrait.

Sister Mary's Eyebrows  ☊

Summer evening with visiting
Sister Patricious and Sister Mary.
Sister Mary has been teaching us
to chase the devil.
But now playing cards are packed away,
and Horlick’s is being made.
There is a firm knocking at the door,
Sister Mary seems surprised that
an unexpected visitor could be
calling at such a late hour.
The visitor is my 6ft tall, 
long-haired friend, Aidan.
Sister Mary looks shocked that
I should have a gentleman caller
so late in the evening.
Her eyebrows are somewhat raised.
Aidan is ushered in to the dining room,
where we are all gathered.
He needs to speak with me about
our plans to attend the Glastonbury festival.
Sister Mary’s eyebrows are now 
walking up her forehead.
We continue our discussions
and Sister Mary gathers I’m
going to be in all male company.
Her eyebrows climb closer toward
her hairline.
Simon has his own tent,
and Aidan has secured a
good sized tent for me,
him, and Joel to squeeze into.
Sister Mary’s eyebrows are now
teetering on the brink,
eager to escape and throw
themselves off her cliff side face.
If it weren’t for her habit,
keeping them from encroaching higher,
I do believe they would have taken
the leap and fallen off.
​

Self-immolation

Smoke wafts to your nostrils’
reincarnating olfactory cells.
You don’t need time
to analyze-recognize;
there’s instant reaction -
incensed aversion,
the air shouts an aroma of ‘wrong’.

Then you see the flames:
darting, flicking, licking
their devils’ tongues.
They engulf, engorge, envelop.
Monk’s robes disintegrate,
as the chard blossom of the lotus-
sitter distorts his features.
The air becomes blackened
by the cracked skin bubbling
sacred, scarlet rivers -
his whole body weeping
disrobed tears of maroon blood.

You ask:
is this an act of love,
or of protest,
or desperation?

You ask:
where others would strike
and hurt another,
is this the only act remaining
to a peaceful people?

With heartbreaking futility -
You ask….

Picture

Rowan Taw's Profile
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She Wrote Four Letters

[from "The Butcher Series," II] ​

On recalling him to mind,
she wrote four letters -
some twenty years late.
The first was accusatory:
What the hell had possessed him?
Had he lost his senses?
To try and formalise their flirtation,
calling for her box of chocolates in hand,
she fifteen, he fifty-five.
How could he risk reputation for repudiation?
She cast the divining dice,
"empty of intelligence -
thoughts are empty;
just as the wind moves
through an empty valley.
You are becoming too worried
and mentally aggravated
for such a small purpose."
The second letter was more temperate,
removing emotion,
stating things matter of fact,
acknowledging a toxic third party
had encouraged the liaison,
and may have deceived about her age.
The dice read:
"Nectar rays of the moon",
but still she was unsure,
and had now heard news of him:
"he sold his business to people
he himself had trained.
He helps out at Christmas,
and jokes that he is the 'Butcher's Boy'.
He is a lovely guy."
He is a lovely guy, she murmurs,
tears of joy in her eyes.
The third letter is written
with nothing but affection.
How he had read her correctly,
that she had longed to reciprocate.
That he is the one she still thinks of,
remembering their kiss.
The dice read:
"The white conch -
one's thoughts become renowned
like a pleasing tune."
She pauses, speaks to a confidante,
an older man, who will listen,
gives her freedom to express,
who'll accept her, non-judgmentally.
Her fourth letter
turns
into a love song,
she sings and releases it.
The dice read:
"House of Good Tidings."
She doesn't need a reply.

Divination quotes taken from
​"Mo: Tibetan Divination System" by Jamgon Mipham.


When  ☊

When love is at an end,
I turn to the dead again;
they can’t falter from my projection,
nor suffer me rejection.
When love is at an end,
I turn to the dead again.

When love is at its start,
I walk from them apart,
caught in such fanciful delight
that is attachment’s plight.
When love is at its start,
I walk from them apart.

When love is at an end,

I turn to the dead again. 

She Descends in Sunshine

She sits in sunshine
– not in her private room.

Communal lounge an open space,
fresh air filtering aging staleness,
curtains straining light, a translucent
membrane partitioning her internal
present from her external past.

She’s self-aware. She knows
she won’t remember my name.
She knows that facts are missing,
memories are slipping. She knows
she misses her sons, but how many
she can’t recall.

Her fingers fidget, nails immaculate,
shaped in soft rose enamel,
her daughter’s act of tenderness.
But she would never ask
her children to come.

We talk as others bleat:
baa-baa-baa single syllable
repeats – an adult child returned
to the babbling phase.
The sound fades as staff stall
his daily escape attempt.

We look on, as she looks on
this descent of man,
knowing her own trajectory,
mind falling in slow motion.

We talk of weather, the darkness and
continual rain. She doesn’t believe
in letting it get her down – we must
make our own sunbeams.

So here she sits in sunshine
– not in her private room.
​

Existential Origami

Every morning I make these folds.
Gentle creases encourage
   initial shaping,
blank paper expanse
   transforming,
as valley folds take hold.

Every morning I make these folds.
Manipulating fingers
   push and merge
swallow wings
  along imaginary
…………………………dotted lines.

Every morning I make these folds.
Through fragile, temporary
   structures
my mountain folds
   summon up existence.

Every morning I make these folds.
Finally flight path ready,
   my plane of existence soars.
But how many flights?
And how many planes and paths?
For every day I make these folds.

He Nods

He was an acquaintance of friends, but
he and I have never been introduced.
He gives a casual nod of the head,
a fleeting, passing acknowledgement that
he’s seen me hanging around before.
With a shrug, I nod back, as
we both turn from each other.
I remember the first time I saw him,
when I learnt his name, but he
doesn’t seem to know mine…yet.
I bear him no malice or ill will.
I wonder when we’ll formally meet,
when will that day come when I hear
my name on Death’s lips?

               ♢
Go to page 1 of Rowan Taw's poetry.

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