Sixpenneth poem

Alan Brunton

like a tale
clutching my mind
behind
a gentle wake
as once Professor his
oyster on a string
to mass confessed(

Sings the Nightingale

You interposed in
linen dowry
your sake of self
and isolated
one eye to the
other eyes—
thus misspawned
I am good
only to poeticise,
to half see
at year's fail
and half create
teased like a
chromosome
between male
and female—
schrapnel-blooded
midwife you
cut a tongue
from an acorn
tree and
rammed a painter's
knife straight
like a rifle
between my knees—
in my head
and father's lung
an axe of
turtleshell
to husk the question
marks off poems and
will them
back to you(

Chants the Owl

Confessor professed
to nesting eggs
for a shilling in hell
and nailed his
oyster to the
floorboards
in his cell(

Sings the Nightingale