N.W. Lea : Three poems

 

 

 

 

Small Nocturne 

The vestibule of experience
is not to be exalted into epic grandeur.
                                         —Marriane Moore 

 

Well then
who am I this severe clear night,
under the terrible near stars,
twiddling my epochal thumbs?

Who is the twister
and who the sycophant?

I alone love

to hate you in my shoes.
I take illogical delights
in this prideful style of shame;  

it is my trademark,
my twinkling coat.

A dopey yoke.

So a typical postindustrial day
consists of this: filling yourself up
with the vacant world and emptying yourself
of life.

Why castigate this teary night,
this mix of things?

 

 

 

Three Half-Holy Half-Sonnets

1.

the body becomes
a state, a bruise, beautiful.
Poison against poison;
I want for nothing special,
novel. Even my lies
despise you, contriver;
          dose thinking.

 

2. 

this is haute propaganda!
my heart, hankerings.
A hyper-vigilant kid mothed
to his nightlight, his secret
anti-prayer, his fix.
Sound & light bring fame
          and horror.

  

3.

the Real shrieks!
Or sits back and observes—
alien clinician. No!
careful Father,
scarified friend, standing
medicine between trees.
          “Nick, kill your clever nevers.”

 

 

Parasites

The sky is sour today. 

          ~

It
sinks
into its own
chiffony belly.

I can feel it falling.

          ~

I’ve been treating these last few days
like night,
making mischief
instead of work.

          ~

At dusk,
when all the gauze clears,
and heaven
is free again,

the warm wood
glows
with Grace-light. 

          ~

Sweetly, I prepare for war.

 

 

 

 

N.W. Lea is a poet living in Whitehorse, Yukon (also, his birthplace) with his supernal partner and their wild and beautiful daughter. Find his books at invisiblepublishing.com.

He has also published five chapbooks with above/ground press, including light years (2006), Present! (2014), Nervous System (2018), Five Mothers (2019) and Less Dream (2021). His next above/ground press title is forthcoming in 2022.