3 poems by Nick Power


To Nancy


You are sleeping now ferryboats are pulling into port

weary at dusk scintilla of the sun’s closing fight

dances on ebb tide like a flock of silver osprey


to the asthmatic fishermen

in this dock café your silence is wiser than any cycle of the moon


they blow cigar plumes toward the window in quiet respect of your slumber


when you are old enough

to understand, know, as you read this-


that the world, as was ours then


now belongs to you


Andrew Taylor's Appendix


High as a pylon here I am, the apparition again

floating through town gargoyles watch from Cunard building

there are voices all around me


I mill into Waterstones

to steal my millionth book

(one day I pledge to pay back

this debt) it is a huge anniversary edition

of Gravity’s Rainbow


as I make my escape,

sweating on the escalator

from somewhere near my

frontal lobe, I hear the faint sound of Andrew Taylor’s infected

appendix-


it is recommending me

albums to listen to in my enlightened state!


Low Spirit of Eden

Double Negative

Moonlight Drive

The Marble Index

Tracks and Traces


having left no track or trace

of myself I vanish into the subway


a momentary waking

as the train approaches


before a 10mg blackmarket

Diazepam

takes possession of me again


M6 Toll Diary


There is water beneath the surface of Mars. They are sure of that now, it is said.

That line from Orpheus: The role of the dreamer is to accept his dreams. I am dreaming about being among the audience members at a televised stand-up comedy show. I am the camera operative. Moving up and down the aisle, I choose who to film at the moment the comedian drops his punch line. I zoom in on a fat woman in pearls, who is doubled up with laughter, red lipstick smeared across her teeth. Her laughter is phonetically the exact sound of my mother’s name.


One hour ago I swallowed 2x10mg Diazepam tablets in a motorway service station, because the endless, expanding road on this journey is appearing to me as the spine of an infinite demon, and I would like for that vision to ease somewhat (which it has).


I’m riding drowsily in the back of a seven-seater people carrier. There is the faint sound of football commentary from the radio on the front dash. In lucid moments, I watch the beauty of green England blurring by. When I look skyward, I’m navigating faint star maps that appear slowly with the encroaching dusk. I am moving toward home.


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Nick Power is a musician and author of four books- Small Town Chase, Holy Nowhere, Caravan and Into The Void, and the co-author of Lowdeine Chronicles. His favourite poems come from the subconscious and he thinks they should be allowed to speak for themselves.