Jeff Guess

Sunlight on the Garden The sunlight on the garden Hardens and grows cold, We cannot cage the minute Within its nets of gold; When all is told We cannot beg for pardon. Our freedom as free lances Advances towards its end; The earth compels, upon it Sonnets and birds descend; And soon, my friend, We shall have no time for dances. The sky was good for flying Defying the church bells And every evil iron Siren and what it tells: The earth compels, We are dying, Egypt, dying And no

MacArthur Park Spring was never waiting for us, girl It ran one step ahead As we followed in the dance Between the parted pages and were pressed In love's hot, fevered iron Like a striped pair of pants MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark All the sweet, green icing flowing down Someone left the cake out in the rain I don't think that I can take it 'Cause it took so long to bake it And I'll never have that recipe again Oh no! I recall the yellow cotton dress Foaming like a

Max Harris was without qualification the most important supporter of my early poetry and we shared a correspondence where he encouraged and praised my work. He also gave me advice and he was a stern and uncompromising critic. My writing seemed after each note or letter from him to leap into new heights and dimensions. I owe him and later his daughter Samela a huge debt for their belief, confidence, regard and published praise for my work. On the Death of Ms Adele Koh She died

There Are Too Many Saviours on My Cross There are too many saviours on my cross, lending their blood to flood out my ballot box with needs of their own. Who put you there? Who told you that that was your place? You carry me secretly naked in your heart and clothe me publicly in armour crying ‘God is on our side,’ yet I openly cry Who is on mine? Who? Tell me, who? You who bury your sons and cripple your fathers whilst you bury my father in crippling his son. The antiquated Sa

My Busconductor My busconductor tells me he only has one kidney and that may soon go on strike through overwork. Each bus ticket takes on now a different shape and texture. He holds a ninepenny single as if it were a rose and puts the shilling in his bag as a child into a gasmeter. His thin lips have no quips for fat factory girls and he ignores the drunk who snores and the old man who talks to himself and gets off at the wrong stop. He goes gently to the bedroom of the bus t

Psalm 139 1 O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me. 2 Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. 3 Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. 4 For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether. 5 Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. 6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. 7 Whither shall I g

Country Christmas Morning Three trees on the broken hill's face bare now for brown and rock the road that winds out in ungraded heat from half past five silence on the wire fence-line sheep that shelter in each other's shade pool after pool filled with the tricks of eye and light a slow church bell for early Mass like gunshot down the ranges the small crush and crowd of six or seven dust-baked farm cars crows that chorus from a gravel gradient - always the same for any birth.

JGuess ‘22 Mary's Plea I have no shadow of a doubt he is my son but now I make no further claims for him before when he swam and kicked below my heart I said a lot of things dreamt for his future as all mothers have now as he struggles screams sucks at my swollen breast questions about a visitation stars and signs I will go over with you later recall them on another day in different light not to dispute but balance and put right but now please clear this place of all of these

for my son David Christmas Morning This is a quiet morning so quiet it needs careful listening to between the dark and light a shuffle in warm corners the rustle in the grass and are they feet or fingers wings an eyelash soundless wink and things will rise and clamour from these stirrings later into unmistakable noise and laughter a small sense of what disturbs the dawn we decorate and celebrate the day but now this is a quiet morning. Jeff Guess

Tiny Wings An argument of sparrows in the roof roosting beneath the thin brief shelter from freezing stars, adds to an orchestra's hum of other's scratching in the floor of chaff. The sharp sawing of a blind cricket's rough high song. Mice find safe nesting in the warm earth. White ants nibble the fabric of the room. Worm, flea, roach and slater share spoils of scrap and leavings. Tiny insects swarm and sting, But for a passing respite in their tough universe of sound - the s