Newyears

Posted on August 18, 2013 by Allison Grayhurst

Newyears

The crow is painted white

not black today. I am lost, too lost

in the empty closets.

These machine people are like cannibals

sucking the oxygen out of us

contemporary believes: A woman flutters her eyelashes

like a bored crocodile snapping its jaws at flies.

A sparrow cleaves like air to the mute trees.

(There is no glory in the mass

coveting excitement like violent steeds)

The lights go ablaze – beer-belly men

smash their bottles into the grey stinking mist.

Beside the brick buildings

horseriders ride through a decade of fire and complaint.

The spotlights are spinning – No smile is real.

In desire, in design

the firmament is shut out from sight.

Luckless angels walk through

the scavenging crowd. Fame is singing

all dressed in fur – rich cruel shine.

The flares set off a new beginning

as ice-balls are hurled by the hands of reckless devils.

And they call my name: Blue New Age!

I am in a mud puddle fondling this insanity.

I face the pimpled stranger.

City of shadows, street lamps, revolvers;

tonight, hearts fall into the hands

of twisted, consuming lust.

Tomorrow, the show is dust

and we wake

with Time, like time

before.

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

First published in “Prophetic Voices – An International Literary Journal”, 1995

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

“Grayhurst’s rapturous outpouring of imagery makes her poems easily enjoyable … Like a sear the poet seeks to fathom sensual and spiritual experience through the images of a dream.” Canadian Literature

“Allison Grayhurst’s Common Dream is a massive book by a talented and enthusiastic young writer, with a feel for descriptive, meaningful verse. Philosophical and very deep,” Paul Rance, editor of Eastern Rainbow, U.K., spring 1993.

“Her poems read like the journal entries of a mystic – perhaps that what they are. They are abstract and vivid, like a dreamy manifestation of soul. This is the best way, in prose, one can describe the music which is … the poetry of Allison Grayhurst,” Blaise Wigglesworth Oh! Magazine

“Rich images and complex, shifting metaphors drive Allison Grayhurst’s poems. She focuses on sexual love and interior landscapes, widening to include the heart, eternity and all.” Next Exit

Marrakesh

Posted on August 17, 2013 by Allison Grayhurst

Marrakesh

Up the proud hills,

through the red Moroccan

morning, girls sing

as flies fill their nostrils,

arms covered in clay –

terracotta flame.

It is winter and sheets of sunlight

overpower the paths. They go down

into the casbah with bare feet

& clothe:

dreams of indigo justice.

A little boy guides tourists through

stealing kisses & cash.

Tall as stretched flowers, the blue people

come with their ancient arms, swinging

like whale fins from side to side. Bees crown

the orange juice with buzz & sting, as the snake

charmer carries his wealth on his back,

(around, around), like a

heavy fear.

The rains come.

Pant legs lifted to knees,

eyes smiling in awe. Rains

as thick as the devil’s sobs. Rains

as wild as the children

who need no remedy

from the bending ocean

of froth & sky.

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

First published in “Reach” 1994

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

“Somewhere Falling has a richness of imagery and an intensity of emotion rare in contemporary poetry. Drawn in sharp outlines of light and darkness, and rich shades of colour, with a deep sense of loss and longing and the possibility of salvation, this is an unusual book by a gifted young poet. Grayhurst’s voice is one to which we should continue to pay attention.” — Maggie Helwig, author of Apocalypse Jazz and Eating Glass.

“Responsibility and passion don’t often go together, especially in the work of a young poet. Allison Grayhurst combines them in audacious ways. Somewhere Falling is a grave, yet sensuous book.” – Mark Abley, author of Glasburyon and Blue Sand, Blue Moon.

“Biting into the clouds and bones of desire and devotion, love and grief, Allison Grayhurst basks the reader, with breathtaking eloquence, in an elixir of words. Like lace, the elegance is revealed by what isn’t said. This is stunning poetry.” – Angela Hryniuk, author of no visual scars.