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A flower is not a flower, it is a flowing.
It is that light which drifts through many leaves
to finally seem focused, not in my heart
but on precisely where your heart should be.
It is that light which shines inside your eyes
whenever I look into them, as deep
into a shady pool I sometimes peep
- and sometimes catch you waving back at me.
The Way
But everywhere the winter sun is boiling…
Beyond the ice and snow of sultry summer
the birds are squabbling in the trees. The fish
are swimming in their natural element.
How else could they survive? They flash and freeze
like trees seen waving in the breeze. They sing
because the wind is daring them to dance
or dive down deep into ecstatic shamings.
The soil is green. The harvest long. The song
is probably obscene. (The virgin girl
recites 'The Good Ship Venus' and the boys
jack off because Jill turns them on.) The moon
is grinning and the passing stars give way
to other traffic on this midnight scene.
John H.B. Martin is a poet who lives in London, England. He is a graduate of London University and Australia National University and has been writing for many decades. He has written four novels and is working on a fifth. His magnum opus is a six-volume epic poem. Most of his work is yet to be published.