Originally posted on a blind catch in the sun:
all this time stealing poetry from myselfbecause because debt’s interest makes senseall those fields’ haydreams ever unrolledbutterfly butterfly meadowsweet blownall those souls loved-so love could not bewallflower wallflower now you may breathe A. H / K. H-H (17th November 2019)

Poetics (again)

you know all that ‘poetry is all the right words, just the right words, in the right order’ stuff well, who would argue with that? but, i was thinking – partly as i’ve been reading Rumi, and partly from my own, very occasional experience — and hey, maybe this defines my limits thus far as…

XVI (’19)

marsh grasses gentle in the breeze
dune path mile-halved sea
warm spring sun cool air lamb fleeced
dangers lurk in boggy places
path finder safe remain always

A. H / K. H-H (29th April 2019)

a place to sit

not a prairie
nor savannah
finite glade
passing forever into
an idea of Sunday afternoons
in sunshine
In love
gentle with poetry

A. H / K. H-H (28th April 2019, and photo)

personal feature

not white
like in Pather Panchali
nor wide, Onibaba
just right

A. H / K. H-H (28th April 2019, photo too)

Cairn, 2019: Untitled i (’19)

a doctor’s rose in foreign ground
wintering harshness in a folded lair
all past crowned summers gone
cut back almost into root
transplanted, grafted, remembering
her dream of pink, his Albertine

Cairn, 2019: burnt

i have not listened to the soil’s breathy gossip
since the oven crusted me

i have not had the field’s weeds’ wonder still me
since . . .

continued here

Untitled VI (’19)

if i am well, well, will i write?
what would that say of all i’ve writ?

oh the noise bubbles in my life
froth that pours so readily

it must it must it must you see
to boil away to clarity

a winding process that stops and starts
must forget its product to touch heart

completed here

One Saturday

a matter of life and death
beach clear, duned
sky drift cloud blue
first warmth of sun
works strange deposits
whale shit soft stone
sandy meander alone

continued here


do we create ourselves a problem if we make the lyrical problematic? even if doing so reflects what’s already problematic? like denying yourself a good hot bath? or even, perhaps, a dream of paradise?