Awakening the beast

The flower in our path

Electric magenta in the bright bright sun

The green so lush all around

And dappled shadows on the ground.

I saw you move to touch the bud

A darting tip of tongue between your parted lips.

That seemed to wake a horned beast beside us.

The shades of red and pink are not what stir the bull,

It is the movement of the cape.

Or is it your rose lips that part

And leave a little ‘o’ right where a straw would fit?

Is it the breasts whose nipples I imagine

Pressing darker fuchsia through the cotton?

Perhaps it’s your hands

Just big enough to gently hold

The ballocks of the bull

Who snorts and paws the ground

And lowers his head to charge?

Is it our mutual dance and tease

With lips and tongues

And vivid conversation?

And who is the matador on their toes

And who is the maddened bull

That rages at the red?

 

 

 

I heard Rumi wrestling with Pablo Neruda

I heard Rumi wrestling with Pablo Neruda in the park in Wakefield.

 

Their verses were clashing like arms and legs.

 

The dark water broke the light into white leaves rustling on the waves.

 

The dark light entered your eyes and made them black with desire.

 

The sun rode on the clouds like a boat and bobbed the one bright spot

 

That shone from the centre of your pupils.

 

Why does the light cause its opposite?

 

The eagle flew low over the water and called the count

 

As Neruda was lying pinned on the grass.

 

Your lips half opened as they read their poems

 

And I bent to close those soft fleshy gates to heaven

 

With my own awkward mouth

 

Like a cup seeking the nectar that will be poured into it.

 

Neruda heaves like a beast and sends Rumi skyward

 

Flying off like the dove that the eagle hunts.

 

He rises victorious and sinks his legs into the solid earth,

 

Clutching at our sides as we embrace.

 

I kiss you on a glorious day in the park in Wakefield.