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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 Blue Nib, Poets Reading The News, Street Light Press, Spillwords Press and The New Verse News.

 

 

Sleep in my Eyes

 

​Then there was your mahogany

warm desk

 

your teachers table.

 

long arms stretched out

exercising in black and white

laughing in colour

on children’s monkey bars

cut off windows

 

a frame for your face.

 

your tears

your grief walking

your side glanced attacks

 

attached to my back.

 

outside the children are playing

I wonder if it’s all right to forget

I wonder if you’re all right

 

through your louvres

through your laughter

 

in colour.

 

 

The Winds of Your Father

 

On this long stretch of road

something’s burning

(I think it’s outside)

 

throat smoked black

 

lungs snap like cling wrap

over tonight’s hot plate

 

supper is ready!

 

children

 

take off your masks

and wash your hands

 

in the southern waters 

where your friends swim

 

in the hallway

 

outside

 

everythings burning

 

come inside Cowboy and Indian

children

 

out of those wet clothed winds

where it is dry and warm

charcoal and tangerine ceilings

 

Dry your hands. Set the table.

 

Your father will be home soon,

 

turn the news off.

 

The Caribbean has just flooded

and my tears are wet

 

in your fathers raging winds

 

and I have burnt the supper

and it’s black 

like outside

 

like your fathers raging winds.

 

 

Sleeping in my Pocket

For Patti Smith

 

On the edge of this dream

out here

 

in this Stetson desert 

there are words. Saying nothing

 

carved in this sand with a cowpoke

hand

Hawk Moon hand.

 

You were playing cowboy 

in our younger days

sitting here drinking coffee

writing about nothing

 

and everything.

 

I shared a dream with you

shared your

 

cowboy mouth

a Mexican gypsies kiss

her arts blood ink

 

the moon in your hand

lightning on my knee

 

playing cowboys in younger days

 

the loss of men’s memories 

 

Camus

Genet

Rimbaud

Blake

my husband 

my brother 

my father

 

my friend 

 

the loss of men’s myths

carved out of desert hands

hat and coat crawl back

against this wind

 

my friend

 

I’m on Greenwich Village 

poet’s coffee table time

 

and you’re not here

 

I can see the moon

between your thumb

and forefinger

across the table

the lines on your face

always handsome 

 

and you’re not here

 

we shared the edge of a dream 

a book a poem a song

a kiss

 

a life

 

and you’re not here

 

your copy of Beckett 

is sleeping 

in my coat pocket 

 

dreaming of gentle hands

to read

 

but you’re not here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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