Thursday, July 2, 2009

Two poems by Daniel Miles

by Daniel Miles


Helpless. Helpless.
The rain stone wind
blows all down the pain
that surrounds.

Rumbling mountains. Soul
filled seas too, with their
white raised flume of banners
morphing, are helpless.

Centurion beneath
was helpless, his eyes
would not look up! Hammer
of nail helpless, helpless!

Wake up to where creation
failed. Where no one is right
in their own minds. We are
safe and unsafe. We are helpless.

Observe the plaintive
injured deer hiding in the trees.
It tramples the acanthus that
helplessly sheds its pollen.

The quiet shivering shadow
anchored deep in the black ocean
watches waterfalls of pain
pour about. Helpless!

The indistinguished lover
full of fear, sails close
behind in the consuming dark.
Helplessly searching.

Dream of life is helpless.
The massy scab of insects helpless.
The ossified cretins of mind bound
patheticly towards death. Helpless.

Thunder shakes the floorboards.
Unspeakable events bleed guilt
into the wombs of nations
of peoples. Bloodlines helpless.

Children's eyes pitch momentary
dreams in the blackness between
shining constellations. Fading
to the mouth of earth. Helpless.

God sleeps in the long tongue
clouds of the uninhabited valley
end of earth. Humanity spins
its webs there. Helpless.

Starving sinew in filthy nest,
watches the flight of the water,
filled with brethren
that fly ragged and helpless.

Silence in the old town.
Born again worship speaks
from the fire side. Candles
flicker. Their words helpless.

The great decimated rock
spinning in the emptiness,
demented with a madman's chorus.
Earth goes on dreaming. Helpless.



The cold dead lung of Dorset.
The crawling suck of its tongue
turning the pillow of bended knees.

A single smoked sardine throws
its flavour to the hissing potatoes.
Sweet black hair matted to your scalp.

Maple wood deep in my aching palm.
Satisfied, I did not quit. Entangled thought
in deep with the preacher in the wood pile.

I tell you of the howling that runs the belt
of this horrendous confusion town. Where
the ploughmen wipes his brow and shivers.

Dogs gnawing bones back off into the kennels
.Pianos bang deep with discordant value.
Every edge is thundered with its horrific cry.

One deep mournful sigh from the grill,
from your lips that crack with questions.
"The howl wants to escape me thinks".

A single smoked sardine lays it's belly on the
white plate before me. Spots of pink oil grow in
seeps and fits. Your eyes perfectly motionless.

A pine branch curves with a squirrels tail.
The puddles outside, frosted and foggy, reflect
the broken wing of the searching dark sky.

Potatoe pierced, open it's rank flesh
to the singing hot knife. Uttering a voice of its
own, it steams your ring locked fingers.

"What do you think it wants?", I ask ,
"shall it never part?". Sipping tea, you reply,
"It is our flame flicker, our nuisance beauty."

The room is bare. Good smell of hot food.
Aching spears of maple under skin. Your
strange, raven beauty staring deeply my way.

The cold dead lung of Dorset,
The howl. The woken morning birds.
One great swarm of resistant black.

Author bio:

Daniel Miles was born in London but moved to Essex by the age of six. Thus he is most at home amongst the meadows and countryside, and the connection to bucolic surroundings has influenced his evolution as a writer. Miles studied the visual arts for a period of time in 2000/2001; study that only reinforced his connection to poetry. While many have influenced his writing, his first great source of inspiration was the work of the Poet, Arthur Rimbaud, closely followed by Ted Hughes, with whom he shares the close connection to nature. He has been published in Osprey and Eviscerator Heaven and his poetry is also forthcoming in Eleutheria.

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