Brian Turner: Six Poems

Bemuse

 

She said of herself

I’m the way I am

and I’m not changing.

 

So far that seems

to be true. There’s

no hybrid in view.

 

The more things change

the more they

bedevil and bemuse.

 

 

 

Networks

 

The internet’s listicles

have me listing to port

to keep millions of “stars”

from coming aboard.

 

God knows what’s going

to happen if we’re

the pinnacle of all

life, and persist like

 

barnacles. Every day,

every hour, we click

and log on, go to school

and sit there, absent.

 

 

 

Trader

 

They said he was rich, meaning

he had lots of money, and a deadpan ostentation that went with it. The living

dead dominate dystopia’s realm

where consciousness and conscience

war. If we’re to appreciate the galaxies

we have to take time to gaze at the stars.

 

 

 

Chum

 

Likes, friends, the more chum

we spread the more our pond

fills up with eager, hungry fish.

 

 

 

Dog

 

There’s a dog up under Blackstone Hill

that you can hear

a mile away, easy. It sounds lonely.

 

Every valley, every town, every city

has their lonelies, individuals

aplenty, wondering where plenty

 

comes from, doing their best to cope.

 

 

 

Rugby

 

A sport not a pastime, where bulk,

belligerence and battery

go hand and hand with courage,

athleticism and skill,

 

and the bounce of the ball’s

unreliable—insouciant

one could say as well as fickle,

and where indecision

 

joins, packs down with chance

and relentless coldblooded

calculation; and balance and thinking

quickly while on one’s feet are

indispensable, to be treasured.

 

But who would do it today

if fortune didn’t come with fame?

 

Brian Turner