Tony Beyer
Driving dreams
1
tonight it’s a truck
loaded with something dangerous
in one of those films
on winding mountain roads
always a mid-point is reached
where there are fresh clothes
and a meal never to be eaten
the pursuers
hold grievances against us
we don’t understand
having done nothing to affront them
territory and its boundaries
hard to fathom
unshaven in a sweaty shirt
wrestling the wheel
2
the white line
divides right from left
in the brain
dull clunk of half-filled bottles
underfoot
the bulging sack
immobile on the back seat
best daylight we’ve had
all day
after the rain’s gone
after the low cracks of thunder
3
nothing you say
distracts me from the road
its suave curve
enticingly three-dimensional
repeated in the mirror
the wild life
and local inhabitants
tend to run or bound
away from us
pests hang by their ankles
from the gates of farms
Ancient text
after Kenkō
a certain elegance
to both sides
of the argument
whether the moon
is more beautiful
shining openly
or spread through a lattice
dressing each of us
in a suit of lights
equally there are those
who are convinced
the wind is invisible
yet relish the sight
of grasses seething
or leaves flowing sideways
yellow red brown
the moment autumn
detaches them
a leaf skeleton
so resembles its tree
in proportion
it is an obvious offspring
though I dissent
from lamentations
concerning the fate of graves
first the stone mossed over
and its inscription lost
then the mourners
who remember the dead one
each in turn deceased
so no one can describe him by sight
and even the pine
that sighed over the mound
by moonlight
is cut for firewood
and the low acclivity
levelled by the plough
all of which seems fitting
and wholesome to me
Tarkovsky dreams
we are in the dune room again
climbing then sliding down
tumuli of moon sand
apparently dumped from some vast scoop
mirrors are always bad news
as are silhouettes and shadows
you need clear forward vision
to know what you’re up against
reality comes packaged in black and white
like prison uniforms
barcodes or the contemptuous gaps
between the inquisitor’s teeth
Missing
some things it’s better
               we don’t know
like the moment
               the grim gauntlet
will snatch us away
               from where we kneel
in the garden
               teasing out weeds
or stand in front
               of a library shelf
selecting someone else’s
               story as a diversion
there are always worse
               ways to go
as the news tells us daily
               but our reluctance at any time
could be a kind
               of appreciation
Pause
just by leaving it alone for a while
how quickly the planet is restored
endemic species revisiting gardens
sightings of sea mammals offshore
noises normally silenced by traffic
of secretive animals in the dark
the stars are more visible too
ancient assurances of continuity
knotted into sisal twine or inked
on parchment by our ancestors
who might otherwise not recognise us
without this pause or stalled frenzy
keeping us all still long enough
to remind ourselves who we are
Science fiction
last night
I watched a movie
showing
cars on the road
people walking
shopping
seated together
eating and drinking
talking
going to a movie
themselves
at a cinema
working
in offices
and factories
gathering
to worship
chosen gods
or quietly
to bury
their dead
it didn’t say
which planet
this was on
Tony Beyer writes in Taranaki, New Zealand. He is the author of Anchor Stone (2017) and
Friday Prayers (2019), both from Cold Hub Press. Recent work has appeared in Hamilton
Stone Review, Landfall, Mudlark, Molly Bloom, NZ Poetry Shelf and Otoliths.
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