Starlight
It is true that its glimmer is so faint that it disappears where the eye tries to fix upon it… yet… it gives an impression of brilliant beauty. —'A History of Astronomy’ —A. Pannekoek—
you have to squint
or gaze sideways
to see the farthest star.
its light is peripheral
& quixotic—but if
you peer obliquely
you can spot it.
I never look at grace
full-on, either, but try
to be discreet, peeking
askance through slitted
eyes. with this technique
the spark & flicker partnership
of humour & decency
should have a half decent chance
of reaching me.
Why?
trivial as a zit on the face of a lunar eclipse;
distant as Neptune on a night unlit & dark
as tar, unsightly as scars & crowsfeet
on the cheeks of a hollywood starlet,
this word…
trifling as the smothered heart of a humming-
bird; ridiculous as a turd on the Queen's
kingsize sheet, bleak as the brothers
Karamazov in their white Siberian sleet,
this word…
fragile as frost-brittle buds, foolish & tiresome
as lust, as oddly lost as a glass eye from a
china doll in grubby silk, detached as the
Flying Dutchman in an ocean of spilt milk,
this word…
wasted as a piddle in the sea, grotesque
as the stain of puttana in the Vatican; silly
as the riddle on the guillotine that its victim
will never read: this irrelevant, insolent
word.
Sunday Cutlery
forks & tines &
juggled knives—
the flying cutlery
of exhausted couples
reflect the inner massacre
of our hacked-up lives.
sharpened all week,
we wield the tips to nick;
to prick juicy drips
of delectable gossip
for the neighbours to lick
from each other’s necks;
to fling at the spinning
sacrificial disks
of homey entropy
to which we’re hogtied
blindfolded, as if
they were gut-spinning
Wheels of Death.
but it’s sunday…
today, can’t we quit
the slicing & dicing
the crazed sawing back
& forth of routine? abandon
edges of animosity? on this
one day, let’s carve
ourselves free. let’s curl
into the quiet contours
of release, stow our ivory-
handled weapons snug
in their velvet vaults
& make a toast. after
sunday roast & spuds
have soaked up life’s bile
let’s spoon past midnight,
afloat in the gravy of love.
"Starlight" "Why" and "Sunday Cutlery" by Kerry Rawlinson
kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad & bloody-minded optimist who gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil. Winner of Princemere Poetry Prize 2024, honorably mentioned in Proverse Press and Fish Poetry prizes and placed in others, e.g. Bridport, Canterbury; Room; National Poetry Society and Palette, she has forthcoming or recent work: League of Canadian Poets; Pinhole; Touchstone Lit; Novus Lit; Passager; UCity Review; Drunk Monkeys; Wild Roof Journal; Suburban Review; Grain; Rochford St. Review; and more. kerry is still wandering barefoot through dislocation and belonging—and still drinks too much (tea). kerryrawlinson.com @kerryrawli
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