ditch,

the poetry that matters

Gregory Gunn

Gregory Gunn was born in Windsor, Ontario, grew up in four small towns throughout Ontario before moving to London. A graduate of Fanshawe College as an electronics technician, he has worked in that field ever since.

Gregory Gunn has had poems published in Inscribed Magazine, Green’s Magazine, The Toronto Quarterly, Songs for Every Race, One Earth, Aim Magazine, Psychopoetica, Dream International, and Cyclamens and Swords. Also published are four collections of his selected poetry.

THE FINAL STEADFASTNESS

Regardless of inauspicious palms
pressed together for aid prayer
to monolithic immortals residing in
stone abodes of the blessed,
irrespective of the optimism
that has been reduced to ruination,
the haemorrhaging sanguine chrysalis
bursting in prevailing westerlies.

                    There is the eternal
                     gyrating earth,
                     its perpetual dance
                     inside a uterus of air,
                     its hysterical break of day
                     after the night was fruitless.

 

BINARY ATTRACTION

We are a radiant union,
a double star seen as one
orbiting a mutual median,
stabilised by compulsiveness
we do & do not generate.

We pull each other’s weight
in space, reciprocate fiery heat,
teach ourselves Love’s elements
and a way to think worlds
of earth’s vitreous periphery
without ever bending toward it.

Somewhen this had to be espoused:
eclipsed in some correspondent cosmos
where slightly different versions of us
are making an alternative choice.

 

BANQUET OF HALCYON DAYS

At the low-lying hem
of the braided stream I discern
the first vernal flowers
in the citrine salal,
                             the algin of water.

A pair of robins trill
in the mossy green moor.
An artist meditating on mind & matter
Sketches by the capacious
                             flux of lambency.

Liberated from the frenetic
urban life, this a temporary
quietude offers islands
                                of felicity. 

Piscatory seagulls,
their pinions upcast toward
Eastertide, fly aloft over
the light-pervious
                                legendary prospects.

Meticulous messengers
Proffering bounties:
a harvest of mellow fruitfulness,
a fair Lucullan festal board,
                                a banquet of halcyon days.      

 

 

EPIPHANY   
                                                                               
Eventually I will ingest everything:
the firmament’s sudden light,
dusty astral trails, crushed rose
petals seasoned with citron wood.

I will gobble bolts of blue,
breast-feed on apices, refresh
the inner man by imbibing
The chiaroscuro: internal
reality’s machinations.

Then with glittering hands,
I shall capture the unremitting
fugitive déjà vu which gives
my heart the slip, leaving
behind only its shade in
an abyss of languishing.

And maybe during a hypnotic
twilight, lulled by your sotto voce,
a cathedral of constellations
overhead, naked and raw,
slipping out into the fullness,
the silken flesh of moss, mud
and algae, shedding the last
of my straightjacket skin,
ad extremum
the revelation of pure blood
and liquid fire!

And I would be, we would be as
we were before,
my Dulcinea:
a single breath
sculling the night sky.

 

PLAIN EXCURSION ( SACRA CONVERSAZIONE )

A portal of the yellow sand plain
has been unlatched,
bones of words
flutter in the frozen air like dried leaves.
I have cleared my mind
of all mirages of meaning
into the unyielding narcissism
of the word.
For interned within words is the posterity
of expression,
and I am stuck in its sticky preserves.

In the vitreous wilderness wind
an angelic aberration materialised, flattened
against all future fringe benefits of actuality,
so transient,
so multi-fold, she was enveloped
by the blank sovereignty
of its shadows.
She luminesced, dustily nacreous
in the languishing light
of the once-worshipped Isis
and I witnessed the spirits of the words,
poignant, graceful,
twitch her wings
like cellular kites.

Now, in the superannuate verbal celebration,
when suspended letters are insects
in the amber of reason, I sing
this sandy empire of cuneiform,
as antiquated words,
the ghosts of ghosts
chant our vacuous names:
chambered sacra conversazione reverberating
across the desert’s arid plain.

 

 

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