Martin Jack


British Weather


In between thunder

we frown the sound of rain


99 layers

of suicide weather


in the brick museum

we solder


on as static

wilting customers of empire


and fog

sticking like a broken record


to the climate

of English romantics


that bores the American prairie

into changing


lanes beyond castle ruins

of Shakespeare critics


melting in the Jerusalem

where chariots fall asleep.



Shedding Skunks


Soon we’ll wax about the I

as nothing but abstract pain

like Lowell’s skunk of the damned

shedding the love affair

with a winter coat.


Where egos build victim

art out of biography,

I can’t help but want exits

out of the tunnel vision confessing

creates as an obsession in the mirror.

Where the reflecting inward, hooked

on mania, straps poetry

to the rack.


Exits beyond the skunk

require a language of others,

objects that skin peel off biography

until the first word spoken

opens pores like a parachute

landing softly on fire-rinsed fields,

where we plant telescopes, full

of galaxies, alternatives to self

that will not scare.




t p u

Martin Jack

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #45August 2006   ISSN 1479-425X


Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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