Metaphor failed to enlighten
those domestic vistas

when, apparently, I should have been
me, me, me

which as universal truths
explain how the world works.

All these years of love and suffering
were nonetheless some coherent order

when writing about myself and the
hurt and joy and killing and poetry.

There's death
and then the task of articulation.


The Figurative Committee
make the most of their own
sod-breaking, warning me

of hearing a cliché
as it clanks, especially about
growing older and

digging frosts – the vegetable
patch completely dug
getting an enforced embargo

[that one too about to be
a spade-end on a stone like…
excised, being heard],

advising how to use the
ordinariness of getting older
without calling it an idea.


Pour Me One

Come out of your terrible hiding
and pour me one

somewhere in the shadows where
I see your last drink.

What do you say?
Dregs in the bottle?

If you're not speaking about advice
I'll have those last best

fancy ideas.


Not Only in the Metaphor

as mirror to the beginning
it is keeping calm

in symmetry
and equilibrium

in the simple meandering
rolling along

therefore has epistemology
syllables for balm

whence the nothingness
but also their meanings

a simple start being articulated
and just a few sounds

    © Mike Ferguson 201