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the poet
Ivor Daniel’s work has appeared in the Cheltenham Poetry Festival's wildfire words, Steel Jackdaw Magazine and Writeresque. He lives in Gloucestershire, where he works as an English tutor.
the poems
Perfect Bed
I dream I am at Bembom Brothers
Dreamland funfair park
with Tracey Emin.
Hard by Margate sands.
I know I shouldn’t drink that Vodka
on the Helter Skelter.
Apart from that,
a Day as Perfect as the Lou Reed song.
We Kiss with Fish and Chips Lips,
Join Hips. A Turner Sunset
Going Down.
I guess it is the Golden Hour.
Blair’s Babes
and even some of his men MPs
are busy Changing a whole heap of things
for the Better.
Back in your room
we remember that
we even Changed the Bed this morning.
The linen soft and cool next to our Optimistic skin.
Questions & Starlings
Wow! Can the sun set blue azure and flame at the same time?
How do starlings twist and turn as one?
Who decided this is called a murmuration?
And who was that, going behind that awesome tree?
No...It couldn’t be..
sweeping
turning
swooping......soon arriving
from all directions.
swelling then melting then swelling.
streamlining
safe in such numbers.
pirouetting protection from predators.
twist
turn
swoop
swirl
your genie is out of the bottle.
shape-shifting
unsolid sculpture of starling.
you spinning top you sundown twister.
a magic carpet has slipped its cave.
. ...a cloud of iron filings .. ...
dancing from...
..and to ..
. . ..an ecstatic magnet.
if we could cast the ashes........
of our loved ones
as elegantly as your silken swirl
then that would be the perfect way to go.
intuiting when to turn
in complex shifting patterns
through a liminal space
between remarkable and miracle.
flying like no one is watching
or maybe
like God could be watching.
oblivious of compass points and rocket science
yet also knowing more than this.
murmuration motion poetry in motion
your swarm is the truth.
black mustard seed beauty.
then in the last of daylight
at the secret signal
a final funneling
collective swoop
down an
unseen
chimney
to land on your roosting grounds.
I labour with my leaden words,
and muse on whether starlings know
how spellbinding they are.
And God.
Is that you behind that awesome tree?
Is this the last, the only, evidence that you exist?
Was this your hobby all along:
the choreography of sunset starlings?
And is that just the slightest hint of disappointment on your face
at how the human cohort of Creation has performed?
Tread Lightly
I navigate
the micro fathom ocean charts
of flat portal
ice puddles
on a January farm track
With their trapped air bubbles
whorling patterns
coils
gyres
spirals
curls
Trapped otherworldly whirls
Secret as fingerprints
coiled like intestines
mysterious as a foetal scan
marbled as the white fat in Spanish ham
Iced lava lamps
but underfoot
Liquid light shows behind psychedelic bands
but monochrome
The frozen surface flat as frosted glass
The patterns captive Zany
This is the cat ice
So named because it can only
bear the weight of a cat
Cold-pawed agile
Although I am yet to meet the cat
who would leave the warmth of the hearth
to test ice puddles with its paws
or fret on other scientific laws
as hydrostatic pressure
capillary action
et cetera
I make a resolution to tread lightly
Publishing credits
All poems: Exclusive first publication by iamb