Two poems by Ray Malone

Borrowed form 11

Then there was what to do.

So long alone with the lines.

Let go. Watch them wither.

Wilt. To a stop. Stare

at the ones ahead, the ones

resting by the river. With the sun

upon them, the air of wondering

lending them. Less than weight.

More than light. Wait where you are

while time slows to a stop, the water

pauses, for a portrait of itself.

Smiling. Say farewell to the page.

Wander on to the one to come.

The lines left behind. Let them.

Alone with themselves.

Scene 33

i

Where the snow lay white

without trace

but for the eye

and the sound of it

underfoot under feet

and the name and the face

at every step

of the way

ii

The strain we say

the strings drawn across

the pitch that sings

its perfection

as the wind in the wires

the endless bow’s length

its infinite friction

iii

As the snow melts the song’s

laid bare

lays bare

the way she went

iv

Once the music was written

it was impossible to say

where

Ray Malone is an Irish writer and artist living in Berlin, Germany, in recent years working on a series of projects exploring the lyric potential of minimal forms based on various musical and/or literary models. His work has appeared in numerous print and online journals in the US, UK and Ireland.