Steve Lang – Three Poems

Though from Scotland originally, Steve Lang has travelled widely, especially in Africa, and currently lives in El Salvador with his family.
Steve’s poem, “Raphael” has been nominated by Ariel Chart for the 2021 Pushcart Prize. ‘Plum Tree Tavern’, ‘Grand Little Things’, ‘Oddball Magazine’ ‘Unearthed Literary Journal’ and ‘Indian Periodical’ have also published work from Steve’s new collection, Cuarentena. Poems have also been accepted for future publication at, ‘Founder’s Favourites’ and ‘BeznCo’.


Tilma

Do not fear sickness
For at the hidden river
I’ll appear once more
To the dutiful nephew
Array his red flowers
That tumble headlong
From his humble mantle
To reveal not me
But my vivid impression
Then recall my words
To him and you
And that poor soul
With the arrow in his neck:
Am I not here
I who am your mother
Your shadow and protection
Your fountain of joy
Commissioned by One
Whose hologram yet haunts
All three chambers of
My inner eye?

12/12/20


After the bowstring breaks

Not today;
With Magdalene at the empty tomb,
Having shuffled the mighty stone aside
Diligently, night by numbing night,
Head-bowed, eyes closed, prays the pilgrim,
Reaching for his pain again
With intuitive, devoted fingers;
Vessel to the wind that sang
Through him, with him and in him-
That filled the arc of his aching sails,
And carried us over the Jordan.

But back here stuck, at the junction,
Hunched below the broken clock,
His beanie pulled down low,
His Gibson planted neck-deep,
Beside him in red Delta dirt,
Like a country bus-stop marker,
Or macabre, hollow headstone
For the grave of the very same devil,
Who might be here
Tomorrow.


Columbina

This queenly cinnamon Columbina
With a flourish instantly self-defined,
Flowers reverently fading behind her,
Serenely swinging on her orchid vine,

Watching me unperturbed, poised and calm,
Perhaps the same I nursed, soft-cooing,
Cradled in close-cupped, prayerful palms,
Stroking and searching her silken wing,

Feeling with dread for the jagged break,
Yet here now self-composed and whole,
A scraggle of straw in her sweet-peck beak
For the nest she’s building over the wall,

In some fruitful, fragrant tamarind tree,
Elsewhere, apart from this arbour and me.

 

 

This entry was posted in GR - 9 Print 2021, News, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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