Martin Jack

 

Zero Event

 

approaching the hour of Zero

its thought

 

words misbehave

make death bed

 

confessions out of the little

we can cough

 

into life –

some cheated, put on a smile

 

for the length of their experiences

alive in a mirror

 

before zero was

a glint in an artilleryman’s eye,

 

overlords throwing

obituaries at the Third World

 

of us without

the power of attorney,

 

the power to recognise Zero’s

masterplan working through the exclamation

 

points of cities-

they have statues in which to tomb,

 

we’re still surprised

each time the absolute claims

 

 a roundless mouth

tackling what is unseen

 

 with an aphasic sponge

a silent screaming across the sky

 

for the prayers

we can’t make into art

 

On A Stance of Marianne Moore

 

 With a stained napkin, she stays

sensibly cool as a scalpel,

her grip austerely cut, unflappable,

the rag’s temporal storm

fronts held in watchful pallors

of the skin, which sharpen

keenly like an owl

to police them.

 

 After one wash, should I pray

like a pauper, Miss, that you soften

with sermons the dirt threatening

in your sleight of hand?

Will my faith soon flutter

to fright the heart?

 

 Stalwart, enchantingly

sound, palmistries meet

wrinkled souls with a quiet fist:

her clean sheathe for scuttled

perimeters of pain that live

on in fabric as a family

of schisms by which she writes,

soothes troubled time and place.

 

t p u


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

THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY & GRAPHICS...since December 2002

Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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