Gary Raymond

Gary Raymond is a columnist for the Welsh literary review CFUK. He is a poet and writer who has written for stage, magazines and anthologies. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry and debut novel for publication in late 2007.

At The Fireplace

The Fireplace sharply churned the blister,

An ancient grizzled stone-worn grove god,

Eminently unimpressed by your curl-toe

Ice routine – smooth legs tucked – one crane-like

Finger softly ringing the silent day

From rusted ringlets. That pressed Duke’s

Tunic stare sliding tongues up and down

The rigid prose of the novel

Sat exhausted on your corduroy plateau.

I can’t help but feel swift sorrows,

In the golden pixie shadows,

For those ebullient myth-men that flay

Their skins for such a selfish audience.

But that was how you chose

Your bones, wasn’t it? From those

Temperate days, no shoes, attic apartment,

Always huffing the cello through St Marks’ square

Always holding the cigarette at an anxiously low barrel

Always tucking smooth legs under bleached

Denim skirt and causing rumbust amidst

The novels of the dead. And my fists

Had nothing to offer but quick grubby

Nails and old dry sweat sunk into the grooves

Like rain between the roofs of some nervous

Border town.

And how we’ve moved;

From myth to solid tower block, from shade

To unredeemed light. All the way to silent

Nights upon silent days like house-moving

Boxes stacked full with prurient pasts and bashful

Souvenirs.