A selection of poems by China Hamilton
So the complex constructs fade,
As our twin exotic shadows,
Become our individual teachers
Their cries remembered, dark ghosts our vanished children,
Trembled so upon their abyss.
Too rich a blend of power and pain,
Searching in the night in vain.
But our so knowing fishes swam,
For something deeper quelled the maelstrom,
For already was the binding,
Valued more than simple rope.
They have seen the others weakness,
Honesty, pure love and lust.
Seen the beauty of the other, guarding now the mutual fire,
Guarding now our hearts desire.
Encased as so the corpse’s winding.
When the sun goes down,
Darkness fills the air.
Those healing rays,
That mother sun washes,
With wavelengths of spectral science.
Wither as the horizon reaps its cull of light.
Then we have dark air.
The air that is the night.
A shroud of air for corpses, owls and bats.
It whispers like a thief through window’s cracks
And fills the restless sleeping forms,
With dark dreams and night’s wind tossed storms.
It flits and flutters undergrowth and trees,
To ease the creatures that attend its breath,
And scurry round the rotting forms of death.
Of a Morning
Impotent are my words,
For moments of knowing crave eloquence beyond my wit.
Inadequate and as blunt a tool,
As the woodsman’s axe to prune a blessed rose.
That I should by chance,
Stray upon a wild orchid, hiding within long, secure grass,
And kneel down to part its tendriled hood,
The better its sweet purpose deeply understood.
It is as I regard your sleeping form,
A tussled head, a perfect back and watch you,
Oh I watch you.
My hand explores your silk smooth skin,
And with care,
Caresses, rounded cheeks and in-between,
The velvet, wet dark folds,
That guard the centre of your universe,
The secret knowledge there to glean.
But how can my poor conjured words,
Communicate the value that I place on you.
Proud, complicated Soul,
Your trust is valued as I would a moonbeam’s
Treasured traces playing through my hand.
For I have so much yet to learn.
The Moon and the Yew
Trees of the forest know my dear beloved Witch,
A knowing from times long past.
They made the beams that spanned her hovel,
Their besom growths did thatch it from the rain.
The straight ash made her spell bound staff,
The yew her hunting bow.
The hazel, arrows flying true that fed her steaming black iron pot,
Just as at her side the silent, wolf-dog moved,
Upon command it thrust from forest’s thickets all her food.
Across the light of monthly moon,
She flew upon her birch broom stead,
Its rubbing shaft her dripping cunt to feed.
The cat familiar clasped upon her firm young breast,
All its magic secrets close within her chest.
The same birch twigs in childhood’s time,
Corrected every little crime.
Twig and sweet round buttocks blood,
Forging such a blood pact tryst,
That later spurred the coppice’s winter mist.
In darkest times of hunted persecution
Dried forest kindling crackled neath her twisting feet,
Flames of cruel perdition, licking like a lover’s tongue
Bared thigh and mound, the vulva slit,
Upward to caress the rampant, screaming Witch’s tit.
So the woodland trees have shaped her countless journeys,
Birth, life, death and repeated resurrection.
Through a thousand years of tears and meditation,
The great Yew travels with the Witch,
Its ancient druid powers to teach and all bewitch.
Deep carved by her razor knife’s true blade,
Her thirteen Witch’s names invade,
The crusty bark the living record of it all,
It’s timeless strength, shared union of its circling roots,
That with each fullness of the moon,
My wondrous Witch grows so upon the potent force,
Its succour sap within her blood to course,
A menstrual birth this Woman’s well-spring, penetrating force.
And of the forest’s Magus magic wood,
The Yew is wrot into a devil’s phallus by this hand,
At times of energy so essentially required,
Her Witch’s greedy cunt and anus so inspired.
As through the hour-glass dribbles eternities white sand.
The Vain Hope
When the bugle calls, men or those but boys,
Shine their shoes and join the camaraderie of arms.
They see no further than the cordite smell,
Of training range and playground toys.
Pints of beer with barrack mates,
Old hands telling tales of glory,
Eyes are blind to the IED,
The wheel-chair lad a different story.
It’s brave you see to die this way,
And cowards are all who stay behind.
The blinded never see.
Without these willing fools,
Tyrants’ meat and drink.
The politicians pool of power,
Fed by those who fear to think.
Yet how can one imagine,
A world without a war,
A world without an army,
What would men do in such a world,
Where dreams of peace was all they’d have,
And battle grounds a football pitch.
No monuments and medals,
No sunset last post bugle blast,
No tales of glory from death’s endless past.
A fragile peace…Oh that would never last.