Ray Malone

mea·sure 135

 

mind on the line, ear to the note’s

approach, the hand must needs be

steady, body too―eye blind,

to all but time’s inscribing

 

 

 

mea·sure 557

 

one slip of the tongue, the world’s awry,

away over the hill she went,

the words said, and the damage done,

the cry too slight, too lame, too late

 

 

 

7/seven 43

 

someone somewhere’s talking

 

call them, tell them to come,

one day, when no-one’s home

 

say, the walls will listen

well enough

 

to what there is, or was

or will be still, to tell

 

 

 

7/seven 49

 

to be seen here

from where the poem is

 

the pale way, to the sense

that something is

 

that some place, in sight, might

be lying in wait

 

to be spelt out

 

 

 

nine 53

 

the sound of your feet    then

there in the street

that time    night-time

 

step on step on the stone

 

it has not stopped

 

since

 

the lone way home    goes on

the same feet    sounding

stone by stone

 

 

Ray Malone

 

Ray Malone is currently living and working as an artist, writer and translator in Berlin. He has published in so-called small magazines in the U.K. in the 60s, and occasionally since. In recent years he has dedicated himself to working with minimal forms. 

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