by Tim Dooley

The Pear Tree
after Giacomo da Latini

How wonderful it is
that this tightens its hold
dragging me back at all hours,
like an artist whose mind
is stuck in one place
with the old image again,
all powers focussed
as if at the start
on a form held in the heart.

It seems I’ve taken you to heart
as if the real thing
not the copy that I’ve made.
I feel such shame
that I just look at you,
the light catching your form}
on the other side of the canal,
like a believer
confiding in an icon.

by Tim Dooley

All stories have some truth at heart, she said
thinking of the story told in the church
across the way from the pub in that far
village they’d reached across headlands, shaky
cliff paths, stone stiles and easy–giving mud.
The small black–painted chair with a sylkie
carved along one side inspired the tale of
Matthew the boy whose treble held the breath

of Sunday folk and even caught the ear
of the fish–tailed girl from the cove below
who keened along with him until he found
her hiding place and swam with her into
the open sea. What sort of truth is that?
It is the heart’s truth that such stories have.

by Vyt Bakaitis

Bad poems
more than enough to drown in
too soon

(breath’s refrain)

(wind huff)

2.
I WILL MAKE THIS NEWSPAPER MINE
LEAD–LINED WINDOWS AND ALL
KINDS OF CRUD TO FIT AND FILL
TO THE SKY–HIGH MARGINS

It could be that, according to Blake
to start with a fart
inarticulate to oblivion

3.
There are few translations in the book, in halting versions, mute
imitations, fakes or frustrations. No stray paradoxes, strict
adaptations. No paradigms, or paraphrases. At best, traces of
reluctant agitation. All those voices.

4.
Now the shark has set his teeth
these he’ll flash right in your face
what Macheath has for a switchblade
he keeps hidden just in case

by Vyt Bakaitis

Colors faded with assorted voices
that was when I first closed my eyes

and the blur was astonishing

The next thing that happened
before it had ever been

the first news the war had ended

and not been there either

that the sun the moon the stars kept me spellbound
and that had been the one wish

only to tear the letter with the invitation
open with my teeth

new ponds the fish no longer swim in
while coins devalue as they sink in the brine

slow–motion spin
with the sun no longer
losing its sheen