D.R. Yonkin

Apple-Eaters All

Apple-eaters all, white meat half-chewing,
Tooth spit the hidden innards up-outing;
Apple seed eyes beading tight brown knobbies,
Breast-rough the bark the skin pale and shabby.
Shackled ice pits the surface the young stone,
Wrinkle smeared light shades the thumb to the bone.

Four-cornered orchard, bow to the waiting,
Sun spikes the leaves the holes the bugs eating;
Carmine gooseberry thistle down, the smile—
Toe-down toe-back, begin a dance that spills.
Stainberry the finger sucking loose seeds,
Loose the earth for toe-grip and knee-plunging;
Loose the wind from blue buckets for spinning.

Barefootin' frost grass high on a cow patch;
Jump, the lowest blossom branched out of reach.
Rib the darkness amongst the roots begone,
Water white stuff the swamps, the fur the fawn.
Curl the hairs on big tree's belly, leaf-lash,
Sweat cheek against cold stone for a wine glass.

Snap the window shade in mid-air the door,
Step out into sun-handle knob ajar.
Fern faceted heel prints the muck a-mire,
Finger-lock hands for clinging to the spire,
Nipple-nub branch tips offering pare the fruit—
Count the rubs no-bark where the others sat.

Heart your liftings to the gnarled apple-gods,
Peel your voices back to reveal the words;
Hold your ears snug where the knots make a boll,
Corner to your waiting fence, smile the sail.
Crutch your smallest hopes in the space of roots,
Bury deeply hardened seeds apple shoots.

Snail slick the trail the rocks the roady dirt;
Blow windly blow the bucket under the heart.
Chew bitter seed birthmarks raptured to stars;
Carry home the barrel the warm wine jars—
Taste the red-old days stored, the clear mind,
Cool damp for mold for mice for years behind.

 

Heresy

The fields of alfalfa are no higher
Than the oak's knee or the fallen farmer—
I can't pretend to be an empty jar
Broken on the hedge wall by the hired hand,
Drunken-shattered in contempt and scattered
Between the jagged stones where dark moss grows.

The clouds in the fuzz-brushed blue blushing sky
Are no further than trails of tooth-gapped spit
Trapped on the water beneath my flat hand—
There's no satisfaction in devising
Bible-lipped light tripping ways to confuse
Children who have ink-spots-in-water eyes,
Blistered beat bodies, and crotch-holding minds.

Yellow dogs race and run the leather trails
Into the toe and far beyond the heel
Of the mountain, where their master's wet lungs
Soft suck and return the sponge heavy air
To me and I raise my face and my hands
Over the fields of silent alfalfa,
Making the hum-noise of the blackest oak;
Sunlight bell-drops to the ground and stands up,
Takes my breath away and plants it still warm
Into the navel of the swelling soil—
Thus starts another day of creation.

Fire-Sea Song

Morning claims all light-filled creatures,
Breathes the lifting blanket clouds in,
Sweet water exhales down a spring.
No birds but star-coloured music,
No red foxes but streaks blaze bright—
Hunger, yes, the berries the grain.

A cow lies frozen in the grass,
Glassy eyes staring straight and out,
Nose milk-white is wet smooth shiny—
Then I see it is ceramic.
Calmness cradles-again I know
Clay is simple and good coolness.

Ridge-rounding barefoot the hillside
Uncut hay is yellow and green
Brown where other guests dreamed the night—
Some are clay, others just waking,
Their robes cling-dewey, white with wet
No stretch-yawning—the earth conformed
To bodies once for the last time.

Fly like deer the field the stonefence,
By the budding forest we find
Stones awaiting in a circle
Take our places to pant chanting
The fire-less fire, the wet-less sea:
Fire-Sea Song of life before birth.

 

Whether Comes The Wither

Whether comes the wither is too soon, yet
Not even the red bristle has blushed you.
But it will, I swear it. It will wake
And pull the ropes over the bed crack edge;
A nugget of oak will bind the torsos
Seamless, like an egg; divine like the vein.

If sleep should bend you into my spring hand,
Will-o-will the dream-master seal the space
Around our valley bowl in phoenix fire?
I don't know, I don't know. (your ankles show)

Brown on your mouth appears in a lip shape;
Fashionable is where eye meets eye.
But yours are closed and staring at the lids,
Chattering back and forth with the room birds—
I release my hand the sparrow the sly.

The lips creak on facial steps, the landing,
Breeze babies flop their fat arms in your hair
Curling, your hair burnished, the cheek the ear—
I am my finger the pencil drawing
You on the sheet, you draw me around you.

Where do I rest—on the ship at anchor,
The masts at harbour, the wet weeds floating.

 

Where Does The Advantage Go

Where does the advantage go, mind-empty,
Clock killing a tussled day, leaf spitting
Bits of frost? To the dust, manufactured
Oak trees' clavicles, bent to their angles—
Chipping jumps, the hoppers' aimless toeing.

Browning grass rumped on the high chesty hills
Spares and bares the bane glow in its gleaning.
O-crow-on-the-pasture see the blue sunfish;
See the lovers' glint in hands cupping
The high air dripping, a-lost and abound
For the dull eye-fleck constant between them.
The pop-yellow flies turn their crazing wings
To meet night intersecting, to act as
Sub-beacons of the day-collared plum trees.

No sepiad image, nor cribbered hand
Withholds the burst of clouds crossing the sun;
In the blue deep wires too loud a silence
Recognized with breathing, and breathing stilled—
Speed gathers the trees, handful of heather;
No bridge, too proud a crossing for rivers,
No hand too soft an organ for walking.

© by D.R. Yonkin

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