Mark Goodwin - Blackbird Stir

in my friends’ new house
in their attic between

two big brown bookshelves
randomly packed with poetry

I pass

sleep’s pages through
my head and my head’s

pillow is
a waking word

and the ajar skylight conveys air
as a bird’s opening

of song

*

at one morning now
in a corner of beak

my entire life liquid
on a blackbird’s tongue

long song-notes hold
a gloss house of sound

in the top of this voice-house
& light rhyming I sleep

I sleep between clear eaves
of soft death graceful

as one immortality’s moment

*

outside in part-light’s dim glee

outside over Sheffield’s hills
houses’ roofs flutter & flow

roofs like wings & beaks
with sleeping beneath

*

between two bookshelves
between two halves of beak
between attic roofs

I am in

a blackbird’s dream

Mark Goodwin - On Blhà Bienn, Skye, January 1st 2002

For Nikki & Chris

now snow has no foot      prints but our      own
after      noon light a gold      for ever      plating

silver      instant      jagged Black      Cuillin miles
off amongst cloud in      flated by sun      breath

all      dangers of a lifetime      collected laid      out
as black back      bone terrible &      beauty      full

Bl      ack Cuill      in crinkled      silver seen through
wind-thrust spark      ling snow specks ang      er

patient as glaciation sheet      steel-stone bitten and
bent by      some heav      en's sky      blue edge sun

lays light      years of distance      across a rusted
sword an ero      ded vibrance      spindrift l      ays

                         glitter across our

faces      glinting ice      -clogged lo      chans cling
amongst a p      ile of planet-sp      linters people call

Black      Cuillin Black      Cuillin Skye's smashed
plough      -blade now      turns thickening air's pur

ple & gr      ey ground      over world      sleaks
through sky-rip into vast      black behind every

thing a moon-      drop of frost’s      blood touches
and just      balances      on a motion      less tremble

of ragged at      om-narrow horizon      now snow
has no footprints but our own an untrodden-

on day      ours to write our      pass      age acro      ss
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss ...

Mark Goodwin - A Worth

December a Chat      sworth’s frost
is private      keep(s)      out we      sneak

through a weak      ness cross      an e
state wall go      through a bro      ken

down gap where      badg      ers pass
and some      people tresp      ass

we enter slants      of late light man
gling in red bracken      sun’s win

ter membranes pla(y)      ting mass
ive fat oaks      golden & ground      glist

ening pale pink where f      rost uttered
water to delicate      solid we      climb

an oak-peopled hillside through nar
ratives escaped from dark      German

ic woods but lit      by late beyond-noon
light in an En      gland dreamt a little

stream’s sounds do      not sing but
stretch      space to a sm      ear of sil

ence we      as our boots are g      ripped-sc
ratched by bracken can’t      hear here or

there      but at least we      just      feel an

edge of silence sli      cing fairy      tales as
hun      ched oaks reach      to      wards our

shapes by being      totally still we      re
lish our in      tru      sion through our minds

and a painting      our brains do      to ground
to make      land      scape’s e      scapes

*

we leave      a wide Der
went to flow a      way

from us qui      etly
through      dark we

gently climb park
land towards Eden

sor’s spire Lin      dup
Low is allowed to a

public crossed by
an un      fenced B6012

and      in a dark this r
oad rivers headlight

-noise we know      we
will find diffi      cult to

cross Chats      worth
Ho      use is lit

cool blue like      a
digital      copy of its day

time self on      an
horizon a      stag silhou

ette turns      his
head moment      arily

entang      ling his antlers
with bran      ches printed

clear      & black against
sky sun      has just left

Mark Goodwin - Star Frost, A Corie Làir, A Strath Carron

hill-framed      sky’s      cloud
less bl      ue pinks      at its
rim as day’s      ghost be

comes      becomes      towards
real becomes and      fills
world our fingers scor      ch

on boot la      ces & gaiter zips
we are cr      isp between Chri
stmas & New Year’s Eve our

old      selves suddenly spec
tres of some      others in
nocent of      everything other

than      this this      year-end mist
has      wrapped birch twigs hea
ther & rocks with lit grey splin

ters the burn rum      mages un
der skins      of ice pat      iently sear
ching for      gravity pines      wear

frilly jackets of white sky-breath
and one pine      stop      -framed by
hun      dreds of its still likes walks

with      us star-prongs      have gr
own over every High      land detail
of      here here      recreated as cry

stalline copies of fo      rest &
corie & mountains beyond      this
breath      ing & passing      of our

selves through this per      fectly new
world is a yoga of      ground ground
takes us in      to its star shapes      a

robin stops bobs stops bobs be
fore      us leading us      up a
slippery footpath each      bootfall

crinks against master      piece ice
-broaches tra      gically but for bil
lions up      on billions of tiny

delicate sym      metrical shapes wa
ter’s spoken has frozen to we      go
to      beyond beyond      the tree

-line high &      out in      the open ice
-wires nest in      our noses as we
breathe ourselves towards Corie Làir

& Sgor Rhaudh ri      zing above
the corie’s grey frost      -base to frisp
golden rid      ges of crystal      line

desire where sunlight cracks & cra
shes si      lently speckly      -white ptar
migan are invisible but      they are

there and they see      with frost’s
eyes night’s veins waiting just
below a world’s      rim darkness just

lea      king in and free      sing
into this      bright we are warm      as
our bones burn      like frost I want

to stay

still in this      high light stay
here as a solid vow
el      a crystal man      an

an

Mark Goodwin - Lit Lichen, Tŷ Uchaf

we walk the track to Tŷ Uchaf

our Petzls solve
the dark around us so
we are surrounded by
a close cool bubble
of blue light

we are clothed
in a technological veil

we move
our bubble along so
keyhole sized portions
of a landscape repeatedly
develop and then
fade

away behind us and just

before Tŷ Uchaf
black & haw
-thorn forms spook
from inkiness into solidity
their plant-silence greets us

diode-lit lichen clings
tangled like fibrous silvery-green snow
to the convolutions
of their spikes & branches

it is a faint Christmas-ness
grown thick & Pagan

and balanced in the lichen’s
green rinds glistening droplets watch
like numerous mouse eyes

we turn
the key in Tŷ Uchaf’s lock
and we feel

in our minds behind
us (in the dark) the points
of thorns clogged
(or clothed?)
by frothy strands & splodges

of lichenous thoughts

=====

Mark Goodwin's first full collection, Else, was published by Shearsman in 2008. 'Lit Lichen, Tŷ Uchaf' is the first of five poems that Gists and Piths will be publishing over the next week or so.

Two Poems by Matt Merritt

Uchronie


World broken by countless horizons. No light or sound
flows over them. Swifts scythe rents in the present

momentarily, air crackles and closes in their wake. Wait
while wind harps on wires. Symphony of electricity

and shadow plays behind suburban curtains.
Mirror-fronted new-builds placed face-to-face

make infinity, the hollow earth wracked by rumour
of alternate existences. Walls between lives thin

to near nothing. Suspect the survival of stations
never stopped at, dayglo line-workers in on the secret,

while trying to map points of divergence, signposts
to each new reality. Back up on the street,

late arrivals resonate the heart’s cage. Still
they keep coming, wiping the dreams from their eyes.



Variations On A Theme By JA Baker

I.

walk from east to west
by hidden ways

sun at your back
looking for the places
they might be

pause at the corner
of time and space
and expect
no/any thing


II.

two possibles mid-morning
then fuck all
all day


III.

fire-eyed owls
cling to contours
afraid to let go of the earth

but test yourself
against the wind

first select
            the correct
density of air

perfect angle
of attack and hang

then notice how every
incline smoothes away

and all foreshortening
is undone


IV.

so many times
he has described this indistinct
perimeter

knowing all the gaps

the rough margins
and secret places

the points at which
it is as well to go on
            as turn back

he has mapped the shape
and compass of lives
traced
the heavy progress of days

beaten the bounds
of possibility
wearing his divinity
lightly


V.

prey to your imaginings
in the owl-song hours

a long low murmur
            slow beneath the skin
thrills the thicket of sleep
sends you out

beyond sound and sight
bare tops of trees
knotted with life
                          untied
by first fingers of light

a tether pulled tight
                                tight
then sprung

as some wild hope
puts up another
heart in hiding
and clear-eyed
races it home


==========


Matt Merritt's collection Troy Town was published by Arrowhead Press in 2008. He also has a personal blog, entitled Polyolbion, which you can read here.