| From Shaman And I am something else. It was Siberian outside, The frost was like an undercoat. The stove with mica panes Was doubled in my father’s stare. He drummed on the sofa arm. And Yodelled with the wireless on. He had returned from the dead With the gift of tongues: He spoke to the dark Beyond the bedroom walls, Rapid as a Polish auctioneer, And the dog would wake With anxious anapaests, Howling like the dead. I am only my father, The healer with head wounds, Who takes on pains in his sleep. This is the sacred monster, The sound at the centre, Who is only my father, Irritating, unimportant, vital, The prophet in a Burton suit, Who knows that his myth Will survive with the maze. I am only my father Having a fit on the floor, Leaving the body behind Arched in a perfect crab, While gravity stretches my face And I hurtle to heaven. Collection of the Artist | |
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