Linnet Phoenix

 

Writing the Sunrise

violet, you had once said,
was the colour of the sun
in the most beautiful sunset
you ever yet witnessed,
overlooking a beach
thousands of miles past

this morning, as I left you
above fields of powder-milk mist,
the sun was blood orange
in a violet mixing-bowl sky,
in an ocean trench of purples
where the clouds held secrets
in mauve shadows of their eyes,
& it was painfully in the now

I didn’t stop to try to photograph
the blush of the clouds’ undersides,
or the pastel smudges of pink
that reminded me of you
drawing fly algaric in a pre-dawn
moment of your inspiration

I remembered, in the witching hour,
wanting to part the ghosts of cloud,
to rearrange those seven sisters
with my cool fingertips raised up
as I prepared to crumble constellations,
&, as you smiled in the dark,
I could have sworn I tasted ultraviolet

Linnet Phoenix

How We Made Fire

I wonder how it first started,
as I sit trying to flick the sparks upwards
so they no longer dissipate
as the blade of the axe touches down

did man see fire, raining
as the meteors were braver back then?
did they collect lightning,
having learnt that angry gods gave gifts?

my blade strokes unknown metal.
I think of all the flints,
the sticks & bones they collected,
I think of burning flesh

did they chase the wildwood fires
to capture living embers,
to enslave flames for domestic use,
caged in crude lanterns?

when the pine logs whine & spit,
when the wind fans our flames to a holy rage,
when the turpentine trees explode,
when our houses are cremated

we never shed a tear for the ashes,
or say a prayer for the dying embers

 

____________

 

Writing the Sunrise

violet, you had once said,
was the colour of the sun
in the most beautiful sunset
you ever yet witnessed,
overlooking a beach
thousands of miles past

this morning, as I left you
above fields of powder-milk mist,
the sun was blood orange
in a violet mixing-bowl sky,
in an ocean trench of purples
where the clouds held secrets
in mauve shadows of their eyes,
& it was painfully in the now

I didn’t stop to try to photograph
the blush of the clouds’ undersides,
or the pastel smudges of pink
that reminded me of you
drawing fly algaric in a pre-dawn
moment of your inspiration

I remembered, in the witching hour,
wanting to part the ghosts of cloud,
to rearrange those seven sisters
with my cool fingertips raised up
as I prepared to crumble constellations,
&, as you smiled in the dark,
I could have sworn I tasted ultraviolet

 

 

 

Linnet Phoenix

 

 

To the Men…

who have told me
for decades now
not to mention
what they said or did,
not to discuss
their bad behaviour,
not to repeat
their dirty secrets,
not to share
their toxic truths

not to shatter
the carefully-crafted
illusions painted
of their victim status,
not to share
my side of the story,
condemn the coercion,
not to stand up
for myself
and SCREAM aloud,
a tiny voice roaring

FUCK YOU!

____________

Fragrance

The sharp intrusive
tang of wild garlic,
an always reminder
of where I am,
where I once was.
Sitting miles from the place
my memories belong,
transported by a fragrance
through the fabric of space and time
to the wooded edge
of a nameless field.
Part of my heart
remains there still.
That day I sat
down by her side
I kissed her goodbye,
I held her while she died.

Linnet Phoenix

 

 

Gravedigger

What a terrible death,
to be drowning
in too much love

Look up, human,
speak the words,
for even gods need
a prayer to stop
the rain falling

___________

Orbital

Nobody told her
she was a satellite,
reflected light
from a rock-star.
So far away
his light still burns
her face

____________

 

https://linnetphoenix.blogspot.com

Two Poems by Linnet Phoenix

A Pocketful of Rusty Stars

It was a hell of a night.
I woke up with a pocketful
of rusty stars,
wearing a denim jacket.
A guy called Jacob
asked me to call him
an Uber with a Sat Nav
back to previous night.

I sighed, breathing out
fire-engine rose petals,
caught in bay hair
as he lay cat stretched
on a February sunbeam.
I asked about my envelope,
an origami bird unfolded
as if the stars were mine.

He nodded slowly “We all need
a patina to know ourselves.”

____________

 

 
Valentine’s Day

Fuck
Valentines…
The only
heart
I want
is my own,
returned
in the same
envelope
I posted,
long ago
before
I knew me.