TWO POEMS – Damon Moore

Henri Matisse

Image: Henri Matisse – Horse, Rider and Clown (Le cheval, l’écuyère et le clown) from Jazz (1947)

Damon Moore runs an arts project in Frome, Somerset. He has a particular interest in the narrative style but his short-form poetry has found a home in RAUM, The Literateur, Eyot and Forage amongst others. He is travelling somewhere in Europe at present and gathering material for ’28Articles’, a Brexit related poetry-film series under development for his YouTube channel.

Table Manners

I am fond of this horse,
shut in a stable
who recognises my presence
with the briefest of commotions
never asking who I am.

I am fond of this horse
because both of us worry humankind,
call it what you will,
never has a seeming plan
and what we are comes down to how we behave
as much as anything.

I am fond of this horse,
when horses it sees a short way off
with impeccable table manners
have given them
a field set for dinner,
where swallows flash,
and solid circles of cattle settle.

I am fond of this horse
head sunk low,
who finds it so disagreeable
being left all alone to think.

The Doge Reads Post-Modernism

Ready? No. Not ready.

Otherwise,
taking a prior place in the mind,
I would have to notice that noise from the barn. Again
take stock of goats within,
their flatbread ears resembling a Doge.

Have some you goats!
Chef knifes in the rain.

Sometimes on this earthly realm
we prefer togetherness,
wherefore greetings on the hoof,
How are you doing?’ are essayed.
No need to mention…you know…, your problems.

Easy enough
when not encountering
a human soul
yet everything must be ready for when they appear.

Buttercups drag
upon the knuckle of my knee.
Fusty gorse odours, rough musk
entrancing enough for shame.

The wheel is very big, it has to be, to turn the self and all our
…………………………………………………………………………difficulty,
trumpet, in the blind press of space,
midst smashed honeycombs of stars
one puttering satellite when men are lost to their instincts
and women make the better hunters.

That thud might be some thought of theirs
knocked floorward.
Such wrecks we have made of ours,
our self-examinations.
Goats make sure of the ground beneath their stomach as we
………………………………………………………………………..cannot
even for one thought, maintain quadratic stability.

Overhead, streamers of mauve and orange sprawl
on black squared barns, their ever-open doors,
barns lacking starlight, willing to act as the jug into which we pour
………………………………………………………………………..our poetry
as I plead with the sky, please don’t go any further,
sequester this emotional temperature
we cannot determine and with the equanimity of a Doge,
shod in double sets of dainty hooves,
at the high-noon of post-modernism.

 

 

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