Little Night Music
my light, inside my mouth
worms of music crawl, heavy
as my darkest bone; the bone's bitten side
bears a mirror in which no other appears. In
there a body grows and folds into itself. I think
it is mine. My eyes are refusing to hear. My ears
no longer see this music that smooths me out as pebbles,
soothes my darkest reactions into the muteness of seas
as their green thinning waters wait
I become a feeling
of stigmatised silver.
When God took me I was milk,
when he sung me I was its perfect whiteness.
Somehow my crucial pieces became a clock inside
A fly scraping His skull.
In the rain I touch
the edgeless-ness. A rhythm of lies
between my body and me. I believe
this - !
my body, a heretic of my pain. My fingers,
crippled and crushed, collaborators off target.
And that slippery war
annihilated and silenced,
slipping dead through its own pulse. And my eyes,
always turned towards the same point(lessness)
The Sound Shrouding Teresa
Far too often I find my hands working;
there are too many discarded statues around here,
air and dust. I throw Teresa against the wall,
that weird doll inside my chest falls,
her no body against the off-white muteness of plaster echoes
just as it was when I've finished
with being a girl, and threw my dolls against the wall.
If I had a knife I'd have called them all after Marie Antoinette.
There was nothing behind their smile and those mouths,
they lied about Golem song-words and the skin of God.
Only out of the black moments of sex and that terrible longing for death,
I have brought something back to breath. A slow sound in ebony warmth
of old violin cracking inside my freezing fingers. And for the statues
I arrange lilies on the razor's edge.
Melody Of Darkness
it's the cold mass on the table in the mortuary
it's the black bird pecking on its own wings mid-flight
it's the Christmas fish in her last bath
the other side corner of a cemetery
I would rather if it were music drifting from the doors
through the windows, through grey and heavy air
(not song-sheets, rain-pissed in the gutter)
a yellow flower wind-torn in a mountain's spring
or just a thought -
a thought dissolving in a cup of coffee in its white delicacy
(in blueberry china touching an antique table in
forgotten house with history stashed in its dust -
but lingering on
lined in memory of fingers (touchable) sonata of a lived-in skin.
Petra Whiteley was born in Czech Republic, but England has been her home since 1993. Whiteley’s poetry collection 'The Nomad’s Trail' (Ettric Forest Press) was published in 2008, a chapbook 'The Moulding of Seers' (Shadow Archer Press) in 2009 and ‘Exhibition Of Defined Moments’ (erbacce-press) in 2011 with 'The Liquid Metropolis' out recently. Her children’s book Watchmaker’s Quartet And The Shattered Pendulum describing a surrealistic adventure has been released on Kindle in 2011. Her prose, poetry and articles have been published widely in webzines and in print. She reviews CDs and interviews bands/musicians on regular basis for the Reflections Of Darkness.
terrific poems, Petra !ReplyDelete