Gary Robinson


Found 10 pence
in a bus shelter this morning.

This coin of the realm
has come far
and now on my desk

Lion in a Crown
dances its silver skin.

Though I prefer
the doubleheaded eagle
of the ruble.

Always a sky man
while lions sitting on thrones
are superfluous

they should be content
with teeth and claws
the obedience of a dead gazelle.


On some days even the sun
and its clothes of light
are weighed down by the cold,
while our eyes carve dunes
in the old of winter.

Thinking there are mysteries
in beaches, dramas of sand
we may uncover.
Writing a line or two in these bodies
which become their own narratives.

A chill month freezes plots
which must await another season
to begin a pen of blood
and its delirious chronicles.

When summer breaks upon us
every groin becomes a scribe.


A grout of crows
in her throat
under a plague of sky,
the road smeared like a black stump.

Once she offered a mild wave
a cool gesture or the charity of a coin.
The pedigree of her white gloved hands
performed before awkward bows.

Abandoned outside the city gates
she staggers on feet swollen like thorny branches

and drags her pain to huts
endures stares, the malice of thin hounds.
Panic and cursing now
when her palms open raw and black.

‘Are you going as far as Peterborough?’

Cat on its back
and if dreaming at all
you’d figure dreams of
stalking birds or mice.
But getting closer we saw otherwise—
there the strange penis
shape and colour of lipstick
and erect as the thumb
of a hitchhiker.


Days there is danger
of spontaneous combustion
being put to the test.
So enraged, the most trivial matter
could make a pyre of me—
a toque of ashes
where I’d been only moments ago.

‘summer gardens won’t last
deserts can’t imagine lawn mowers
the stars crumbled well before the sky’s
mad break from Heaven’

forms slide and collapse
chaos finds an angle
slips in
like blackbirds bringing
their shadows their dark suns.

When it happens
you and I will be disordered
like vision come savagely
to the blind.

Maybe I am upset
because there are no ruses to help
the virtue of patience
becomes its vice too.

The lengthy wait leads to nothing.
Except one. Possibly one.
One affirmation.

‘the old man saw a little girl
and died of young age’ 


Gary Robinson, a writer and poet from ottawa, ontario, canada.