On First Watching Lynch’s ‘Twin Peaks: The Return’

what has returned here
lacking limbs lacking hands
fingers toenails

what has been left behind
outside the glass box of your brain
where the scream shudders in
slapping kissing mutilating

what has been lost is smile
pie, coffee.

The knowing grin, but warm.

a cold darkness fills it
and flesh and facemap and wounds
wounds in the head

what has been let free
was inevitable as the scream

in its shackles it was complete
beautiful, horrifying

now the bullet passes through
cold, and leaving behind it
cold

A horror, a beautiful horror
but cold

Evening Song

Here legs run and their humans
A pack of females, entangled
But they laugh, they joke
There are rivalries.

That’s okay, that’s not the worst
By any means. The field is clear.

Across the way small brown birds
Forage for worms, for shoots
And all the while the sun slides
In and out of haze and clouds

And thin sheets of light glint
From many soft lenses.

Sylvia, nature,
It’s not the lack of inner life
This simple celebration.
It’s simple, but not only simple.

You can keep honey hives, you can.
But certain bees can clump and sting whenever.

4, 3×8, Waterfall

A myth can happen anywhere,
Yes, even here where the black wier
constant as evaporation

As constant as the bird-song thrall
Never lets up, always pouring
Dark and when the wier is eaten

Still its constancy will shatter,
When all and the wier go up, splat
In the suns final inferno

Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it.

Museum Fatigue

Blue bed – soft sheets
And pillows in torn pillowcases
Pillows hard as matted pleats of hair
Quietly lying, thinking fine
Thoughts like twined-gold jewellery
Loot of colonial vessels.
Maybe – a staff made of whale rib, whale song
Or masks in the darkness
Of a glass room, speaking
Languages I can’t speak with.

I can speak the blue bed here
Heavy sheets and my drowsy shirt
All human elements heated
Til they propogate crisp museum light.

Poems About Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath

Ted guessed
By the blue-black sheen of the bookmark

Knew,
when, on the 49th page
Three days before the writing stopped
The entries began to more and more
Resemble claws and talons
Scruffily dipped in ink
And smeared across the paper
Making a real mess
That he had to burn it
What else could he do?
Then went to lie down
Face down
In his face upwards body

***

Ted caught a Sylvia
Oh what a fish
He kept it close, and they lived
Happily as man and fish live.
After a while, he let the fish alone, she bit
Besides, you know what they say about fish.

When someone put Sylvia in the oven he cried
Why should fish have to die like this?
Rather than swim glinting in the thunderous foam
Scattering scales, each part of the water’s poem.

From time to time, and when life
was nearly through
Ted tried a little smoked Sylvia.
His taste buds were suited to her
As a fly is suited to a fish –

Now they swim together,
Amongst the many pages, they swim.
And we thread new lines to catch them.

***

Who killed Sylvia?
Aurelia killed her. Make no mistake.
She knew just what she was doing.
She lit the fuse
And bundled her into a white heat
pressure, pressure of a skull forge
Of an american all-girl third degree
burn to the brain.

After that her skin flaked slowly
Small stanzas of skin
The scar-tissue exposed would sting
and then burn and numb again.

And when the fire achieved her core
She climbed into the oven
To finally feel at home.