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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

3 Poems by Mark Tarren

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Mark Tarren is a poet and writer based in Queensland, Australia.
His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various literary journals including The New Verse News, The Blue Nib, Poets Reading The News, Street Light Press, Spillwords Press and Tuck Magazine.

 

 

 

 

The Arch of Tears

 

Deep between the covers
of this journal

we sleep safely in the pages of
our shared knowing

we gather the breath of letters

this calligraphy of water and stone
that flows like unforgiven monks

swimming hooded
in these ageless waters

The Arch of Tears.

Caves are birthed
from the wells of memory

where all things have begun
in silent speech

caught from the air

illuminated in

The Book of Tongues

our communal sheath.

Within the skin of a leopard
the cartography of our fathers

continually calls back to us
across the charted womb of heaven.

The heart is a library.

We borrow and return volumes of curated memory
each finding its place of forgetting

and then the heart breaks
and we remember.

Under this gentle canopy of history
I lay down naked beside you

in our haunted knowing

and gaze together
at the death of stars.

 

 

 

The Tea Makers

 

I walked the chicory road
to find the house

chicory, coffee, coconuts
to the gate
rust soil plumes

there was nobody there.

Still the house stood
with
corrugated rust
brown

your skin
wet beads

your rusted face.

Moonlight

carves out the old satellite dish
rusted out now
our bed brown.

Sleep with me
in our satellite bed
in the cool of the evening
with your brown face.

The house
windows boarded now

oranges, mangoes, pineapples
to the stairs
floating to closed doors.

Underneath lay
the rusted bones of
tractors
the guts of lost engines
brown bowels steamed

heat.

Sleep with me
in our satellite bed
in the cool of the evening
with your brown face.

Tobacco, ginger, pepper
to the crops
circles ripples around
your spiced eyes

your breasts.

I suckle the Jackfruit
fleshly moist petals
the sweet aroma of

apple, pineapple, mango, banana

your skin.

The forests dried out
and died
opium through bananas
drought in my mouth

my seedlings, my plantlings
your hand
through leaves.

Can you still taste me?

 

 

 

Bounty Hunter

 

There was leather dirt
in my boots
that cut upwards

away away from
carved stars
half birthed calves

away away from

these words

trapped away
from
a half starved truth

money apples
coined fingernails

from
bloodied blossomed hands

under my skin grit lay
worthless dollars

gloves fell wordless
away
with the whip.

Touch my hand. Smell it.

 

 

 

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