Soaring Angels
Baudelaire peers
into
my vain effort,
his blood filled
seering
Paris days
condensed in a
Red-Hot Chilli minute.
Bukowski lurks
at the end of
every bottle,
his failings etched
in America’s
sprawling heart
of whores and hardness.
Wagner’s rampant
strides
thwack with
the thrum
of idolised war
above Hollywood China
foam and trumpets.
Van Gogh painted
with devils
curled like cats,
met fame in death
like i met
the Blind Owl,
the Dunce and
Socrates the charmer.
And meanwhile
beneath and above
them
I take
a sip of beer
and study my
sunburnt skin,
their sunburnt wings,
think probably
they’re only here
because I’m not.
Li Po’s Boat
Let me
drift upon
Li Po’s boat
between
wet-trees
and gibbons
clung to banks
let me
hear
their howls
embraced
and torn
by a low hung moon
let me
see
the sounds
of slow worn time
sifting through
mountains
let me
be a breeze
held aloft
by dreams
of butterflies,
ghosts of men
we are
all trapped
spirits on
Li Po’s ocean
searching
to be lost.
Drifting
age
blossoms
into
youth
the dead thoughts
of sycophants in echo
surround me
drifting
like
dry
leaves
in a summer
sadness
drifting is the truest
state of things
thoughts, lives, words
all just
circles
sinking
into suns
breaking
to smiles
and whirlpools
all things go through time
and on into the mystery of silence
—-
Henry C. Smith is 27 years old and lives in London with his beautiful, little wife. He has a few poems in the upcoming Evergreen Review, and a couple of others dotted around. Anyone wanting to contact him can do so at henrycsmith@hotmail.com. He describes the preceding poems as, “…loosely about starting with a lot, ending with a little; the drifting passage through time of thoughts and men, and just where writing and poetry fit into that… hope you enjoy ‘em.”
