Mark is an artist, painter, piano player and poet, and radio presenter, with one self published poetry collection, one poem per day for a year, and an illustrated collection of William Blake poems.
Milk
Milk, warm thick fatty
nourishment like heaven’s
breath, the fuel of life
that radiates and sparks
this new delight.
This sensation of life,
liquid breath, butter sun
love from my mother, what
delights await these sky-blue
eyes and tiny nostrils
in this world of swirling
scents and sensations, lights
like delightful milk,
warm thick fatty nourishment
like heaven’s breath,
liquid breath, butter sun
love from my mother.
Hunger
The whisper of blood,
and the pleading of bone marrow.
The stretch of thin fingers, grey
towards crumbles of caramel biscuit, golden
sticky-toffee flavours, in mouth
moistening hope, in anticipatory dream
of the sugary aroma, cracks with teeth.
I wander the streets.
I gaze at stalls, deep eyed and sallow
like The Scream.
My wool coat squeaks when chewed.
The hope of a lardy nutrient.
I close my eyes and circle the rim of an imaginary plate,
glass bone, a bed for a warm shape to fill me.
Reality squirms in my lonely knotted guts as they weep and plot to kill me.
The whisper of blood, and the pleading of bone marrow.
I make a wish, and I wait.
Ready Meal
These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,
with salt and sweet butter carrots,
and green sprig.
I eat in silent stare, away
in some mythical land of carefree care.
Each trembled fork is slow, and grey.
A million meals of yesterday.
What would it feel like to cook food for a friend?
A surprise message arrives.
These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,
with salt and sweet butter carrots,
and green sprig.
Assam
Oh, like tea,
do you remember the ice-thin china,
sharp on the lips and sweet-cream milk,
in rich Assam, large flake
bitter and dark in the transparent pot
brown breath astringent universe,
like seas of people seeking love
in rust-iron skies of a warm Autumn storm.
I tasted my lips, and yours,
and we sipped and silent smiled at the calm day,
and every October floss cloud paused,
then cracked, and pulled in wisps away.
Food
If I had the time I would pile
sweet creams and delights
of edible architecture upon the white glass plates
that you bought for me on the day that we first met.
I would offer you caramel brown sauces,
and mint scents, red jellies and courses
of elaborate designs, like crystal spires
of crisp sugar scaffolding,
that sparkle like child-eyes.
If I had the days, or just a morning for love
I would paint for you such patterns
of aroma and anticipation, in roasted meats
and earthy roots, with warm fatty juices
and sups of rich wine.
I would climb out of bed and be happy, again,
and look, with a kind light upon the white glass plates
that you bought for me on the day that we first met.
I would climb out of bed, with strength,
and cook spaghetti, with green oil,
and mascarpone meringue, drizzled with chocolate in fine lines,
like time on the skin,
like the time that I don’t have now
for food.
