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James Byrne: Two Poems



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James Byrne

James Byrne

James Byrne is the Editor and co-founder of The Wolf poetry magazine (www.wolfmagazine.co.uk). His debut collection, Passages of Time, was published by Flipped Eye in 2003. His second collection, Blood/Sugar, will be published by Arc in 2009. He is the co-editor of Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century, an anthology of British and Irish poets under 35, to be published by Bloodaxe in 2009, and the Collected Poems of Hope Mirrlees, forthcoming from Carcanet in 2011. He helped to organize the “World Poets’ Tour” for the Poetry Translation Centre at SOAS, London, in 2004 and has translated the Yemeni national anthem. In 2008 he won the Treci Trg poetry prize in Serbia. As a result his New and Selected Poems: The Vanishing House is to be published (in a bilingual edition) in Belgrade in 2009. Since 2006 James has taught regular Wolf Workshops, which have helped many students with first book and pamphlet publications. He was born in 1977 and lives in London.

Dowry for an Aerophobic

for Sandeep

Cymophane.
Silvering mineral.
The cat’s-eye winks
from its luteous coat.

Vitreous, though resolute,
its kindly glamour
kin-quartz,
kin-tourmaline,

though a purer mix—
history pinioned,
no bigger than an eyeball.

Between flights and cities,
beyond the laps of mothers
and the tactical silence of old men,

its deep veins sparkle —
my fingertips inch out
while yours smooth
over the dark green trussing.

Close up,
the borosilicate twinkles,
fire-scented,
peppery beneath the sheen,

each striation coils back
to a hoard of riches —
Azilian ruby, liquid fossil, beryllium.

(It's enough to pearl a lithologist's pupil.)

Notice how —
in the flat of your palm —
electricity stirs

clockwise/counter-clockwise.

Widowed / Unwidowed

for Penelope Shuttle


i.

Webwork hangs in fistfuls along the ferry dock

In blue diamond cold
it breaks
at the turning keel

Niche of frost
rumour of frost

The wave stuns
before it arrives

Across the Roseland peninsula,
ghost lobbies make company
from window dressage

Willowy sympathies at tearooms,
teeth in the wicker of a vacant chair

From Church Street to Arwenack Street,
to the swivelling flap of a shop sign
thirty years recalled —

a yard of blue and leathery Shakespeare’s
the microwave ping of hammered-in typewriters,
a Christmas tree hugged home from Harvey’s.

At night memory reconstitutes
a voice like solid blood —

The pillow turns on itself

The orchard owl
blots all sound
but its own sound

This is the year of the wasp,
of apples sung to the core


ii.

Everything that comes from the sea
returns to the sea —

Ash of a life
The burnished pebble
The starfish in its marzipan coat

In libraries of pearly blown dust,
through perfect darkness
and the echolalia of eight rivers —

I never went to University …
He was my University

Widowed / Unwidowed

Grief is there and there

A neighbour holds up a white orchid
with supreme inelegance,
scaly-faced, shy as a child

‘If there's anything I can do …’

The room is overbrim with bright water

The heart deals its pendants

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