Poet fell down? Second poem from Patrick Woodock

from: You can't bury them all (ECW Press, 2016)

I fell down in front of an Assyrian relief while climbing a mountain
by Patrick Woodcock

One shattered arm, enmossed and lean,
ends at the earth and bleeds on stones.
A darkened spider raised for shade,
his other holds.

Some drink below on crates and cars
and watch his chest expand, unfold.
As he coughs salt-shakered songs
his throat implodes.

He cannot turn and leave them now,
his audience of Kurds and Kings.
He falls in farce and cigarettes
to sit within the sunset’s gleam.

© Patrick Woodcock

New Poem from Patrick Woodcock

from a forthcoming book: You can't bury them all (ECW Press, 2016)

The Forgotten of Binavy Tour…
By Patrick Woodcock

Underwater, if violence is water,
within the zephyr if the ceiling has fallen,
there is no colour or coloured deception
just beige in our blood and beige in the air.

The old school has one wall, falling and gabled.
The house of my father sits somewhere near here.
Most doors are sun-ravaged, of odd bonded metal;
the irrigation pond is where men cool their beer.

The cemetery’s headstones are scattered,
misshapen - some are as small as the palm
of my hand. Smaller than infants, some
battered, some hidden, as if none ever mattered
or walked on this land.