Poetry ~ 2: Writing Voices - John Brewster, poet, writer and creative writing tutor

War Photographs, Corris Institute, Wales

Outside, it rains and rains.

Inside this institute,
this corris of coffin wood and slate,
I come across a window,
a saturated, steamed-up
glass of faces.

I stumble from picture
to number to name and back again,
trying to give their past
my kiss of life.

We exchange breath.

Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes swim behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush moustaches bristle and twitch;
hair loosens and smiles widen.

There is a snigger and a sigh,
a boy’s deep hand upon my shoulder,
a girl’s wet breath upon my ear.

Till all the photographs have disembarked
and I am left alone on the gangway,
swinging over land and sea and air.

And still, with less remorse,
and more welsh wilfulness,
outside, it rains and rains.

Wordings

Some need their wording
propped up and hinged;
others, standing
ecologically correct.
But I need mine
falling as child-cast twigs,
divining line through space.

the romance of the hourglass

   if only you loved me
       if only you loved
             if only you
         if only
             if
              me
      loved me
           you loved me
    only you loved me
   if only you loved me

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