A fair perspective eludes
a feverous desire
now devolved to a black ember,
a crumb from its former whole.
Distrust corrupted our air,
the fire uneased, wheezing and resigning
unable to persevere.
Lethargy and double thought
rendering the flame impotent
emptied of passionate blaze.
Without heat to broaden,
nor a cold to collapse.
My words are shouted at midnight,
love and anger laboured
on unseen paper.
I die
my face unknown to light’s eye.
For whom do I aspire
to see my words?
to rescue eyes and ink cast earthward?
to validate muted loves?
to love
me?
Si je parle français ?
La vie à Lyon,
au Croix Rousse même.
Ici Je dessin le coeur des figures
qui me passent,
une plume à main
un piccolo à l’autre.
Ou viver no Brazil
Tomando um café e escreve em Portugues.
Minha língua dançando samba,
como bossas tropicais lavar sobre mim.
Minha alma de ouro do sol equatorial.
I sit here in passage
an architect of sand castles,
creations washed away
as I construct another.
Jostled by the rhythmic rock of the 7:44,
through swaying others, you
a jasmine flower.
Our eyes never met
our time dispersed either side of the carriages end.
-The closest we’ll ever be.
Our union was without words, embrace
nor an emotional wink requited.
I know nothing of you, but
your radiant presence
illuminating my overcast morn,
All before you,
devoid of beauty’s vivid colour.
I starved for a glance unreturned;
your eyes through the window
adrift with the birds.
Our motion breaks
and now we all change,
all change;
arrived at London Bridge
our encounter unrealised.
Upon Greenwich hill I stare
through swaying maples,
at grand temples of wealth;
unenvious of their material souls.
I long not for their goods
to adorn my soul,
to collect their fiat wealth,
to amass my self worth.
Instead I search inward,
for an intangible whole,
for completion found
in blissful quiet.
An alpha of all,
business and body.
My brother inhales the chase.
Complicit in his own addiction;
he pursues an ironic paradox:
The fruits of man
-purse and flesh;
his trinkets owning his future,
strangers
-love’s placeholder.
You, born the eleventh
in poetry’s month,
exhale pure air.
on virgin canvas.
Your purity shared
in the sweeping
loops of words bled
on page.
My soul pours
for Jeni,
Jhené,
and Janelle Monaé.
Their melodic oeuvres
a soothing poetic massage.
Beautiful heroines
birthing love’s shy vision.
J.C. FitzDerick 