Tuesday, September 01, 2020

Tuesday poem #387 : Hamish Ballantyne : from BLUE KNIGHT




footsteps  downstairs
bye clare
    beloperone 
     booming 
     smaller 
footsteps
attic footsteps
dark drink a whole pot of
to stir whirrings of the orb
    booming: bone
       A RED SQUARE 
   no ifs: trepid
no buts  
    nothing
a red square creeps on wall

*
the size of envelope dawn
scours hills of the painting

clare leaves
early for horses
     haytoter    ours    (languagelesness and
 dunno that   dawn strikes 
dawn in a country she invented

*

scouring the hills for news
when I say name
you say fame
calling at the hillside
  echo echo
      loss 
loss
collection of dents in
the voicebox
    
*
     
bye clare but dreaming and didn’t
            say
my work is of another
  kind   foamshod
floating 
a miner in the heart and the heart
    of the mountain

*
     winter 
     squash
like messaien he was 
shot  by a hunter
   dumped his hands all 
           over the piano
        OVERTIME
into the boards like a bird
initial kid joy then the feeling
when child is the shape of the eye of a goat
     and paint drips down 
and kisses your brow

*

malachite in the gleaming cliff
  in the taletell
                   gewgaw
               sucked
skeleton 
 raw around the tall
        lake    

Blasted parallel to meaning
gaze down mineshaft
    realize it’s an ear

*
nanaimo dances
Heard the dawn
the others barged 
across harbour back
from dance 1 sobs 
whole way   a splash
horseplay   one makes 
crow of the rooster
Ill always   unwashed   
sheets smell enough to 
feign (smile) I have  
performed some deed 

*
clare holds aloft
(obscured 
by sun behind her hands
the donkeys grown
overfond and dogged
  hiccup 
clare translates all gesture
in the film we might see 
watch the cat for clues

*
red slash axing dark barely
awake return w fleck 
of gold in the pocket
white smoke  boiled
fish sweaty low hat NO
I WANT NO WINE
the river is high
the green world is poison 
a horse get on
     plowing your own furrow

*
never enough
  flowers
In the painting
the hillsides are red  god
           joy    to grasp a season so
like shooting an animal
blowing up its head




Hamish Ballantyne is a poet from Vancouver Island. He works seasonally as a mushroom picker and works on the Downtown Eastside the rest of the year. Hamish recently published Imitation Crab (KFB) and is translating Luis de Góngora's Solitudes.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

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