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Transit Zone by Martin Burke     < back : index : next >   

N o t a t i o n s  ( 2 )

The flag and the poem – what can ever unite them?
Fruits and grains in August – moon songs in December and thereafter
Memory and language – components of the poem – my gift to you
Scent of hyacinths – and we, we are the gladioli of December?
Flowerpots on the balcony – as if this was Cordoba or Athens
The tram stop – for one a destination, for another a departure
Three apples, one orange arranged on a tin plate on the long wooden table
This stone from the shrine at Delphi – this stone from the Galway beach
On this bridge I am halfway between the past and the future
The linden and the birch tree side by side
The black slates amongst the red slates
The winter-stained wooden table in the garden
White and green – tulips and twigs in a vase
This calmness – prelude or aftermath?
The silver cigarette case – a gift – a luminosity in the dark
If I give you what I possess my poverty will be my abundance
The purity of this shell in water
An umbrella in the umbrella stand – who has come to visit?
Apples and bread - postcard of a dimly-lit hallway – these on the table this morning
Gifts – an abundance – the giving, the receiving
Exotic fruits – Africa/Asia on my plate
The rose bush, the elm, the ivy – new green in an old, old world
Poems – postcards – telephone calls – an enduring friendship
The pen you gave – as fine a gift as I have ever had
Red berries on a green-yellow bush – need I say more?
The ripe apples, the ripe pears – which will be my choice so as to taste the sap of spring?
Apples – apples and seeds
If I look in your mirror who will I see?
The colour of the half moon - the colour of her thighs
Moon – moon songs – words drift in my mouth like clouds across the sky
The resurrection tree – Easter has come to the world
A stone Buddha smiles – at my knowing &/or unknowing?
Black drapes and the windows closed – who has died by deaths permission?
The bridge opens to let two barges pass – I see you waving on the other side
The truth of a poem need not be - yet always is - the truth of history

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