VisionsofOrion
Note to a Young Blade
I’m muting the memory of you:
the self appointed morality quack—
a sophomoric windbag in my daily feed,
dishing up the secret sauce
with reverse camera as default setting.
Your serpentine schtick – so irritating –
so lame it’s in dire need
of hip replacement surgery.
Your serpentine schtick – so tiresome –
worse than a fifteen second ad break
in my favourite youtube documentary.
I’m muting the memory of you:
short shrift through a darkling lens.
©️ Orion Foote
Octavia in the Flesh
I am the blip on your one eyed radar —
a catnip to this neurotic night fever.
I am the dirty rubber swing
in your rearview mirror – a bullet train;
barrelling along at full steam ahead.
To kiss the lips of a deathly sun
in the maelstrom of morning’s song —
La Vie en Rose twisting on a knife edge.
Orion Foote
Photo ©️Orion Foote
Auburn Brogue
(Four Chinese Quatrains)
I broach the chill of deep night:
my cape trimmed neat in black braid.
In times of strife, this heart cries -
yet sings of you as dreams fade.
Our bairn was fair - her pale voice
a thrush-like song from warm nest;
smiled like the sun at first light;
small face turned with mouth to breast.
Let us sing of days gone by,
we as one we'll make a choir
we'll drink to death, our cups raised -
watch snowflakes paint the church spire.
©️Orion Foote
Carlotta’s Song
Our naked voices will grow silent –
swallowed whole by a periwinkle sky.
Our hands without word of a lie
on tangled flesh – a chorus in bloom
over cool hilltop grass far strewn;
far from scars beyond this island.
Isn’t it queer – your humid vowels
breathing down my neck like rain;
like warm showers that come again.
As if this thing – more than desire –
could melt shadows like an open fire;
night’s chill wrapped in white towels.
And what of secrets on a jaded slope:
honeydew & small manuka flowers
in lieu of words & disappearing hours,
scribbled down – hidden from sight
within arm’s reach of incessant light;
scorched pages curling like smoke.
©️Orion Foote
Note: An imagining or dream sequence of Katherine and Maata Mahupuku alone together – or together alone – high on a hilltop overlooking a bay near Wellington harbour one afternoon c.1904. The form is inspired by the poem ‘Secret Flowers’ (1919) from KM’s journal.
–
Baxter at St John’s
How you fill the armchair:
neck & shoulders tilted back
with eyelids falling south;
dreaming with every star
beyond our penitent dome.
Once drunkard – now poet’s Christ:
mouth turned from bitter sponge –
how time trembles when voices
shatter the glass night –
our words crackling over ice.
©️ Orion Foote
From a Valley Pew
Let the sky’s breath
tell it’s ancient story –
it will remain here
long after we have left;
after a horn player’s lips
have turned the night blue –
calling a different tune
as summer grass fades.
Listen to the clatter
of children – teeth
rattling like castanets –
treading barefoot over stones
through icy water;
my page gathering words
like morning flowers –
leaves applauding in unison.
©️ Orion Foote
Diary of an Upstart Crow
i
To waste the hours without fair reason
In cakes & ale to drown thy demons
‘Tis blackest bile & darkest cape
That stains this light – steals my fate
A book of hours – my soul’s delight
When rancid winds doth blow with spite
If I should wait until the morrow
Celestial skies mine only sorrow
Let Marlowe curse, might Jonson weep
Pretenders all – where worms do creep
My mind would dance upon this page
And players speak upon the stage
With goose’s quill by candle’s glow
In roundhand bliss upon the snow.
ii
Would that I in days to come
In finest strokes of oakened apple,
Seasoned with pure mind & gum
Would set my hand by moon & sun
Flee from courtly whim & dagger
And shun these taverns of rowdy vice,
Where moistened lips twist & blather
In darkened light with furtive swagger.
Would that I should start with crackle
To tell what maketh men consider –
To take thy leave from Avon’s babble
Cease the witch’s tongue with gravel
Would that I should leave no trail,
Nor writ on cobbles – to no avail.
©️Orion Foote
Diary of an Upstart Crow
Would that I in time to come
– With finest strokes of oaken apple
Seasoned with pure mind & gum,
Should set my quill by moon & sun
Flee from courtly whim & dagger
And shun these taverns of rowdy vice,
Where moistened lips do twist & blather
In darkened light & furtive swagger.
Would that I should start with crackle
To tell what maketh men consider –
And take thy leave from Avon’s babble
That stokes the witch’s tongue with gravel
Would that I should leave no trail,
Nor writ on cobbles – to no avail.
©️Orion Foote
Radio Budapest
(for Eva)
Listen – an ancient tremor
is shifting the landscape;
teasing the waves
with her dark barcarolle.
She’s gathering stars
and sinking to baseline;
the static of Radio Budapest
crackling inside her throat.
In the voice of another
she’s as still as a frog –
wrinkled fingers entwined
over dark pleated skirt,
head bowed & weighted
away from the light –
her eyes cutting my words
into sad tiny fragments.
©️ Orion Foote
The Dead Poet’s Case File
Ok, I admit it:
I’m a sucker for another
burned out poet’s epitaph,
but I’m telling you – this is
as close to confessional
as it gets around here.
I’m warming to her –
inclined to take her side
while she doubles
as reality celeb by day
and muckraker by night –
it’s a well devised ruse
to throw us off the scent;
probably Givenchy or Dior.
I’m looking into her ex:
he’s hoodwinked himself
into thinking she’s another –
a doctored identikit photo
acting as a perfect foil
to his own self grandeur.
His moth eaten alibi
will never stand up –
it’s case re-opened:
I’m pushing for a conviction
and I don’t care who knows it.
And oh to see his face
when her posthumous lyrics
hit the book review pages.
©️ Orion Foote
Visions of Orion Poetry 