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!




take off your masks

and wash your hands


in the southern waters 

where your friends swim


in the hallway




everythings burning


come inside Cowboy and Indian



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


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 






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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