David Berridge
LIONS
what is a depressive character to do?
comes sniffing
pick one thing on my list make it bold in 72 pt
just grab the cherries & fast
exit because people here like to make things
a little special
a half remembered Freudian psycho
analysis of a drawing from the night before
summer solstice
dreaming I am having a bath
high brick walls all around me lathering
Great Age of Humanism to feel
poor table manners got me a face
has so entirely taken possession of the world’s mind
& on the banks of the Nile
the cars parked No
Cat God bent low to gauge
strength on balls of feet
the Taiga? Silver birch trees all around
do I have to hunt for my dinner? Again?
city of solidified reflections
woke by camp fire with a rifle at my side
I’ll sing the Kalevala
my jelly guts ooze of prophecy
yours too Cat God?
let’s both be KQingeens of all these endless wastes?
It seems I have to hunt now
celebrate & fear myself
my thoughts? semi-mystical missing limbs
you? Happy contented & fulfilled every day
paper espresso cup kicked past giant wooden wheels of
hose takes precedence over a clearness of mind
to introduce a lioness
a held out thumb measures it all
car & computer & house & work
keep pulling me down into
commedia dell’arte nights in narrow streets of
exercising for that early 1500s horse shoe torso
I return to
did not know about water & electricity
curve of eye brow the frown everywhere
drowns lacking horizon line to navigate by
sort this out the sea the face between & paint
it all seems unfathomable until a boat? bird
messengers & soothsayers of song crowd out
centuries dim & dark to meet
my resolution
I’ll look at you & mumble something
about surviving
arrows being nursed back
to a later martyrdom playing golf
in golden Autumnal woods of Kent
with a human head in retirement
what? human condition that’s alright that’s okay potassium slightly raised
I keep putting it off
hunts for a lion in a book?
do you hear the splashing from the bath?
will the tea bag never be strong enough
for the lion I am looking for laughs
always in the distance like bagpipes
to fit into the palm of one hand the measure
of pasta when I’m roaring
date? to celebrate thornfth of lorn lumber in limbo
all former purpose & procrastination
in thought faltered again gimmick of standing
don’t worry it’s blue & yellow & red
silver & gold & grey
but I won’t man/ woman
a lion’s botox mishap face
lathering the soap singing
six song settings of George Herbert poems
conceived as Norse World Tree
with lions
read to us from the bible? okay but
a roll on the back I have learnt
eat! go out! write Paws & Pads is better
song blessed itchy underneaths? it’s the Middle Ages
make use! Heaven
6 inches over top of heads a Burne-Jones quote p.197
inside a lampshade the insect rests
blank panthers prowl
concealed in flower patterns of exquisite carpet
& unsettling the peacock
lion! walking down the street whilst
the baby expletive rose for firmness
how was therapy? An ancient carving
you’re not what I expected from the website
street closed off I’ll wait it out
until professionals count is down
air stopping
beyond their cordon its propensity to ignite
a thin grey silverpoint line dashed on the plate alive
may be rain
as 2 poets are about to die
50 years apart to both
Emily Dickinson appears
a winter traveller in the mountains
skin = fur woken to snores & snout
lions asleep by a broken tree stump
a few steps from Rome Central train station come thornfth again
what is pointing at?
thornfoot bleak north
things to never get over over
ootf tho nor
free of need to celebrate outh thornfoot stubbed
toe
LION: that sort of face I have & others
of which my death mask will carry no trace
too fleeting for plaster or the stone
mason’s mallet & chisel to catch
or perhaps too much like stone itself
for stone to see I’m human
LION: to invent a city in my dreams
& call it Moscow is that good? A sign
of living well? & noticing? keeping
fine experience & store to draw upon
when winter comes & time a rhyme for wandering
unaware unnoticing in the grief at what
has been taken from me comes? I have to ask
& asking is the sign of what I really am
it is night again & setting off from rooftops
every park I fly above is a childhood home
what is a depressive character to do?
comes sniffing
pick one thing on my list make it bold in 72 pt
just grab the cherries & fast
exit because people here like to make things
a little special
a half remembered Freudian psycho
analysis of a drawing from the night before
summer solstice
dreaming I am having a bath
high brick walls all around me lathering
Great Age of Humanism to feel
poor table manners got me a face
has so entirely taken possession of the world’s mind
& on the banks of the Nile
the cars parked No
Cat God bent low to gauge
strength on balls of feet
the Taiga? Silver birch trees all around
do I have to hunt for my dinner? Again?
city of solidified reflections
woke by camp fire with a rifle at my side
I’ll sing the Kalevala
my jelly guts ooze of prophecy
yours too Cat God?
let’s both be KQingeens of all these endless wastes?
It seems I have to hunt now
celebrate & fear myself
my thoughts? semi-mystical missing limbs
you? Happy contented & fulfilled every day
paper espresso cup kicked past giant wooden wheels of
hose takes precedence over a clearness of mind
to introduce a lioness
a held out thumb measures it all
car & computer & house & work
keep pulling me down into
commedia dell’arte nights in narrow streets of
exercising for that early 1500s horse shoe torso
I return to
did not know about water & electricity
curve of eye brow the frown everywhere
drowns lacking horizon line to navigate by
sort this out the sea the face between & paint
it all seems unfathomable until a boat? bird
messengers & soothsayers of song crowd out
centuries dim & dark to meet
my resolution
I’ll look at you & mumble something
about surviving
arrows being nursed back
to a later martyrdom playing golf
in golden Autumnal woods of Kent
with a human head in retirement
what? human condition that’s alright that’s okay potassium slightly raised
I keep putting it off
hunts for a lion in a book?
do you hear the splashing from the bath?
will the tea bag never be strong enough
for the lion I am looking for laughs
always in the distance like bagpipes
to fit into the palm of one hand the measure
of pasta when I’m roaring
date? to celebrate thornfth of lorn lumber in limbo
all former purpose & procrastination
in thought faltered again gimmick of standing
don’t worry it’s blue & yellow & red
silver & gold & grey
but I won’t man/ woman
a lion’s botox mishap face
lathering the soap singing
six song settings of George Herbert poems
conceived as Norse World Tree
with lions
read to us from the bible? okay but
a roll on the back I have learnt
eat! go out! write Paws & Pads is better
song blessed itchy underneaths? it’s the Middle Ages
make use! Heaven
6 inches over top of heads a Burne-Jones quote p.197
inside a lampshade the insect rests
blank panthers prowl
concealed in flower patterns of exquisite carpet
& unsettling the peacock
lion! walking down the street whilst
the baby expletive rose for firmness
how was therapy? An ancient carving
you’re not what I expected from the website
street closed off I’ll wait it out
until professionals count is down
air stopping
beyond their cordon its propensity to ignite
a thin grey silverpoint line dashed on the plate alive
may be rain
as 2 poets are about to die
50 years apart to both
Emily Dickinson appears
a winter traveller in the mountains
skin = fur woken to snores & snout
lions asleep by a broken tree stump
a few steps from Rome Central train station come thornfth again
what is pointing at?
thornfoot bleak north
things to never get over over
ootf tho nor
free of need to celebrate outh thornfoot stubbed
toe
LION: that sort of face I have & others
of which my death mask will carry no trace
too fleeting for plaster or the stone
mason’s mallet & chisel to catch
or perhaps too much like stone itself
for stone to see I’m human
LION: to invent a city in my dreams
& call it Moscow is that good? A sign
of living well? & noticing? keeping
fine experience & store to draw upon
when winter comes & time a rhyme for wandering
unaware unnoticing in the grief at what
has been taken from me comes? I have to ask
& asking is the sign of what I really am
it is night again & setting off from rooftops
every park I fly above is a childhood home
© Copyright David Berridge 2020
David Berridge lives in Hastings, East Sussex. He is the author of Gogol is My Uncle, a book of poems from Red Ceilings Press, and The Drawer and a Pile of Bricks, a novella published by Ma Bibliothèque.
