Two Poems by Sophia Argyris

DAY ONE

In the morning birds fly
closer than the mountains
closer than the sky.
Below them, in the valley,
waits silence.

In the afternoon is thunder,
rainwater falling into water,
we slip in too, let ourselves sink
like memories wild and deep,
into silence.

In the evening fire lifts into the final
breathing of light, and on into darkness.
We are a circle with flames at the centre
and all around us
rests silence.

 

HOLDING

Soft darkness in the belly of the valley,
lightning blinks behind the mountain.
Here on the path fireflies
like earthbound stars.

I have always been here.
I never left.

I am full of the land,
the air, tall trees
and the water where
frogs send out ripples
and solitary fish swim
through stillness.

Keep me safe
and I will always be here
loving you.

 

Sophia Argyris was born in Belgium, spent much of her childhood in the north of Scotland, and currently lives in Oxford, England. Her work has been published in several journals including Magma, Prole, Reach Poetry, Structo and Under the Radar amongst others. Her collection ‘How Do the Parakeets Stay Green?” was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams Publishing Ltd. 

http://www.indigodreams.co.uk/sophia-argyris/4584569248

 

 

 

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Happy Hour by Jared Nelson

Happy Hour

It’s so hot
the lake pulls us in
like happy hour
to the world’s most dedicated drunks

The rocks hurt my bare feet.
“We’re not here for you,” they say.
So I keep my sandals on
and my glasses
but leave my shirt on the bank

We fish for the sake of pretense
and give up soon enough
when sufficient time has passed,
and then the day is ours to
marvel at the line between sky
land and water
striations — variations —
birdfights like warplanes
minnows and fingerlings
slashing to the surface in the terror of nature

“We’re not here for you,” they say
“You’re not one of us”
I use my flip-flops like fins
limping to shore
wondering if they’re right
or only jealous

The birds can eat us too
if they only have the time to wait
then scatter our scraps like sacramental rain over the water
catching around bushroots where the little fish shelter.
“Finally,” they say.
“Finally.”