James Simp­son

The London Magazine - - NEWS -

Tiger Head Son­nets


My grand­fa­ther searches for flints, for bulb frac­tures, for shat­ter marks. A kestrel is ris­ing like smoke over tu­muli.

There were kisses in words, parcels of silks like petals, carved wooden gods with ele­phant heads.

For in the end he knew she was the mir­a­cle it­self, the se­cret which ev­ery god re­fuses to ut­ter, that we are all, for­ever, in­car­nate.


The days pass when we too turn to am­ber, when we too fail the clot­ted earth.

Pheas­ants crank wheel through beech woods, mist hangs in the long grass and bur­nished leaves jour­ney im­per­cep­ti­bly through fath­oms of air.

Be­hold Blind Tiger you have been dis­fig­ured for us and carry all our sor­rows;

for we are greater at our method of count­ing, al­lo­cat­ing num­bers to the dead.

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