December 19 ‘21
Dusk comes down like ashes,
from a fire
a leisured bird makes dark
Factory stacks wave tuneless
the plant, a mile or two,
shine of sunset rarefies
the either eye
Fragmenting the Night
Darkness drips to the garden
through the sieve of the stars
and the splendid silver moon
collapses on its rotted mast.
I close my eyes. My imagination is blank as a book without letters;
an absence, perhaps more like
or a laboratory of nothingness.
The garden is near the end
of its life. Its hedges are withered, and last year’s tawny leaves
still hang on its trees.
There is a greenhouse somewhere in the south, half grown
over on its murky pagoda of weeds. Beyond the greenhouse, open ground. Empty fields.
The autumn sky’s abyss.
Above the shorn fields, the telephone wires hiss like iguanas
as the north wind returns,
and the blackboard
the imagination requires.
Nothing to see here except a touch of hoof and horn; in general, nothing sinister, just a file-on-iron abrasion for conversation, a touch of Devil’s Chuckle—Paganini, B-flat major. An agate— cracked—rolls in its socket and reflects the landscape, inverted, as the ebon chapel of the tree-torn, branch ripped sky opens in prelude to purposes dark, dark for heaven and us.
Finding a Voice
As a writer I am dumb; faux prosaist, my words shrivel and die on the page like animalcules over-scrutinised on a biologist’s
As a poet
I am worse—a wolf
in a church of words, chewing
on metaphors and choking
my throat with verbs. Lexiconic beast salvific, aprowl—
stalking the dark arrhythmias of Dante, Bishop, Bukowski and Frost. In the absence
depollinated of meaning, of muse— deprived of the honest
of an empty room, I snarl at Merwin’s formidable yoke and gnaw at the storied bones
of Plath, the tarnished amplitudes
Bio: Thomas Farr is a British writer of fiction and poetry. He enjoys travelling, running, reading and writing. He tweets @TFarrHorror