Summer Camp With You
The pegs have been pushed very deep.
In the earth they look kind of content.
The tent looks shabby as the night gallops
In upon us. I can sit under the shady thigh-
Shelf of this elm tree, and you can paint the
Sky.
It doesn't really make sense this trip.
It seems like you get an idea and then you
Just have to fulfil it.
So I will ignore you, in my female way that
Sometimes I can adopt.
I think I might like it here, everything seems
Okay, save maybe the tent, all is great:
The flowers are shooting and the sky looks
Clear. This commentary is interesting to me,
Speaking to me.
Short love affairs.
I am blessed here, with you, we are blessed
Here. The pegs have it right though -
Sorry, that's my tired mind. I like to call
It tired because it sounds better than mad.
I will leave my fingers to play with the falling
Heads of the blossom while I go and walk.
I wish I understood this paradox,
This phantom reality has drowned the logic
Of the thistle. Stamped perhaps by a child last
Week. I like to think that I might paint your
History one day. Nothing else can save me.
SOS -
You ponder around camp, searching always
Like the good student, idiosyncratic of my youth:
A thought at which I run a little, alone I can run
In the daisies. It makes me depressed to think I
Am like the daisies: all white and picked at.
In the search for love a girl guide I think might
Pick ''I love you, I love you not''. And then what?
With this I stop running (gimme, gimme, gimme)
And bend down, touch my toes twice, spin my
Head and yell - eeh eeh eeh eeh eeh eeh eeh.
The sound breaks the goggles ahead,
The air, tight and virginic closes its legs
Against me, but my eeh seeks the light.
So I plant my seed in the twilight, give
Birth to the night-time with me, watch me
And celebrate me creating.
You know I'm not that strong.
So here I go again. I bring a companion,
Licking my shoulders the painful tongue
Of the sexy sun scorches and sends
Shivers simmering to my head.
But I have the handful of daisies and
We are content, like the pegs, we are happy.
So I fool around some more,
Crying and laughing I skip like the frog tossed
Out of a car window.
I think about putting two fingers up my nose,
And peering through from the clouds, to look
At how I am running and frivolling around
Below in the field.
From here I like to imagine that I can see you,
Dazed and amazed:
From here the world is my toaster.
By Matthew Hannam
© 2003 Matthew Hannam
(All rights reserved)
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