About…

The poem is about a relationship that sours and goes awry .


Book 301 is intended to be a collection of poems by Mike Burr for 2010 with no thematic precept.

Hammered



isn't the hammer but how its wielded
isn't the bright sky but how we see it
and fortitude in knowing the finality of shape
and with careful attitude apply its curving hand
soft grain runs to the mill stone one by one
and so it is
achieving one by one
for no single stitch made a coat
no single thumb print a patina
but a single hammer blow made me love you
it struck and fashioned all
its bronze lovers shape encoiled
with one piercing percussive strike

like a jaguar from it arboured lair you leaped
and there i was all but dead
for in that instant antelope and cat are lovers too
else one escapes
so feline did you watch me play below
and barely dare to swish your spotted bush-tail
did your whiskers lust and itch
did your russet dappled hide sweat drip
like bushes mid the misty tropic haze
did your claws and tingle on the bark

and then we were a bed
up and down like sheets that soar
and plunge upon the drying wind
come and sit closer child
and i will tell you how it really was
there was no love and you were not born from love
though i love you now
even in this afterglow i love you
though you were made like washing on a sunny day
just there and dried and done
and though i thought abortion the route i would be proposing
so i found your mute beauty and your charm inside
and my premonitions of a hard and soulless world
subsided in your blue wrinkled bawling
its animal howls a far from the forest
where the deer a play in glades
and fret and fear its russet structures
he hated us and our unity
and bawled and thumped and so he left
taking shame and fear both with him

that day he returned
a visit and the hammer was just aside
we argued and his malice and his bitterness
annealed it to his hand and when he struck
i felt a slight tingling
but that is all
and the blood
i didn't miss it
but i am so sorry you fell upon it all
and that it stained your clothes
and through that fabric to your core
it isn't the hammer but how its wielded
it isn't the bright sky but how we see it
remember me upon a sunny day

Sources…

Started with a corrupted line from Austin Lawrence Panel Beater rest is a sort of corruption of a tale i was told whilst painting at Woking shopping centre


http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/membership/mempoems/pm2009/