Poetry / Poets / Writers / Writing

Two poems by Byron Beynon


My father once sketched
my mother recovering in bed
from a miscarriage,
the hurt he never revealed
but exorcized in their room,
corners of silence
as she slept unaware;
a hard pencil
working the shadow of moist grief
from his mind,
his hand moving across the page
to capture the crystalline mirror of the moment,
losing himself on the paper’s cheekbones
in rhythm with senses which gazed
for so long
as the rain-swept afternoon
continued without respite,
a wasteland of hope
under a patchwork
which neither memory nor heart could erase.

I’m reading the club manager’s letter
inside an intimate room
overlooking a bay
where colours change at a secret pace;
he once shared a space
with Dizzy Gillespie,
a story of perfect pitch and smoke-
filled notes, informing me of how
the jazz trumpeter
once listened to him shave,
the almost-contact of his face
in the cold mirror of light
as he told him something real,
shelled a musician’s ear his way,
towards the sound he’d never forget,
that the electric razor
held calmly in his right hand
was in E flat.

Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His latest collection is The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).


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