The Joy of Poetry II

Waking up on another grey and fatigued morning. Taking up a fresh book. Crisp black on immaculate. Stepping into an enchanted forest where sunlight danced [Danger! Danger!] executing indefinite forms and colours… welcome to assumed reality. An earthy smell with tones of Styrofoam. Woodland flowers, gum and empty beer bottles on the litter. Leaving the city's drum rolls and scraping tram wheels behind. A choir of birds, manic at first, then dying out to absolute silence…

I was submerged in magical wordplay, reading with wonder and joy. Following the lines in trance, singular connections made in the brain, coupling cold lead bars to felt-packed grand pianos.

Anti-cantos. Lightning on the Bilges. The Sublunary. The Trodden Mystery. Song of Masks. The Power of Paralysis. Sorry I shot the Horse and the Dog. A Tiger Underway. Triangle. 27 Poems and No Song. Swine Pink Postcards. Desertology. We Saw Ourselves Change Into a Small Group of People. No Folksy God in Your Backyard. The Voice on the Third Floor. Sacred Comedy. From the Earth. First This Than That.

Black magic jugglers, burlesque entertainers, great migrations, knife fights, drunken gold-diggers on a Saturday night, silent murmur to pipe-smoking Gods, a car that doesn’t start.