Love Poetry For Couple

Funny how a yawn travels through a room a pied piper gathering all the rats In that instant we all draw from the same source a great swallowed gasp shoved into our lungs like socks stuffed in a bag and the long outward sigh That we try to hide it up our sleeves makes us culprits in common like playing truant with a friend It�s mostly like this our bodies that bind us together

Skol A man I talked with in a bar in Berlin once read poetry, he said, with passion, served with distinction in an army he loathed. Beyond which he said little. He drank Schnapps. He advised, as we parted, to avoid epiphanies as I would gunfire. His phrase for ordering a Schnapps was 'to dim the lights'. The sentiment of goodly things The birds are back at the feeder now the

. The cry of a gull from God-knows-where And the church bells And the cars forever passing And the girl screaming at the stopped car And the horns tooting And the girl saying: That�s crap, that is And the little man in the passenger seat laughing his head off And the lights of Paddy Power, all bright and shiny And the smell of coal-smoke And the cheap hotel room where 1,000 other

A lyrebird Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash. All genres are destroyed at last. History, mistakes, swallowed up in a nominal grub. The slow wild alcoholics of the nineteenth dare make no reply. I tip my beak to the sky. A nest-building lament starts up. It's humans taking up too much room. Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash. The enclosed imagination buys a hunting

SOUTHBANK 1 When the system crashes, and the screens, and palm-hugged beaches that saved them, crinkle out the office tilts like a ship. Small murmurs of surprise, voices like children who�d been playing in the shade, shocked by sunlight, flurry and subside. The thermostat shudders its seasons of freeze and sweat; furry square windows seal in the boredom

A Bogong moth darts out of darkness to seize fire - it�s burned away its tarsi, yet continues to swoop, kiss, careen, sizzle, fluttering and candle-banging like fawn-crazed Nijinski. I look up from my book accepting the immortal, fatal dance of life and light, like Icarus�s father resigned to watch his flying boy hurl against brilliance. When you were a baby night crying, often the

Thoughts of the Father Ku / Work on What Has Been Spoiled � Setting right what has been spoiled by the father. Danger. No blame rests upon the departed father. He receives in his thoughts the deceased father. It hurts when you know thoughts of the father are in the son like a repertoire of non-events. Thinking how the father spoiled the son, the sons of broken marriages, my own. Not '

In one of the side streets of a small hot town off the highway we saw the garage, its white boards peeling among fronds and palings. The sun had cut a blaze off the day. The petrol pump was from the sixties� of human scale and humanoid appearance it had a presence, seemed the attendant of our adventures on the road, the doorman of our chances. We pulled in, for nostalgia, onto

Some injudicious thoughts about this city. Nothing else can be written. I perch in my flat on top of the Square at that dullest hour before dawn, wreathed in Happy by Clinique For Men from Farmers in the Plaza. I lurk in the mirrored department of luxury and when the girls go off to mend their hair and drink tea I spray at random. I love perfume but don't want to smell the same night

It�s the same again this weekend, wild weather, rain and delays, and a long way south, suspension on a cloud, books take you everywhere. My epitaph may be that she was a small woman who spent her days in small airports flying on very small aeroplanes to middle-sized towns. Editor: Jennifer Compton I was thrilled to bits to find copies of Fiona�s