Celebrant

When the whale
– it was a flying fish in life –
dies, crabs and gulls will flock to it
hollowing out a temple on the beach
for you to live in for a while.

There will be a salt-gash.
It will tear
from your stinging eyes
to your churning guts
to the pit of your stomach
where the harpoon is still
firmly
lodged.

You will be visited by a wise woman
to discuss the gash and the service,
tailor your drowning to the one who threw you ice-cold into it.

She will invite you to dig deep
to find the ambergris
used in the balm of another person’s sleeping
wearing concrete slippers.
She knows how to make useful things
from the corsetbone and baleen
and blubbering.
Call it ballast
to keep you stable through the ceremony
call it a life raft
to keep you afloat in the turbulent wake of

passing.

 

 

***

Art by Elena Purlyte.

Middle Spirits printed!

Exciting news – I made a thing! A physical thing that exists, in collaboration with the excellent Elena Purlyte. Its a collection of illustrated poems – my poems, her art – that has been in the works for a good long while now. Check out some preview images below!

The title is in reference to the way people used to understand fairies and household spirits and pagan gods before they got bundled in with everything else that was either satanic or imaginary. I could go on about this idea at length (and maybe I will, in another post), but the gist is that they’re something ‘between’ heaven and hell. Supernatural, but still earthly. The pamphlet is essentially a collection of flights of fancy, some lighthearted, some darker, so the title Middle Spirits seemed like a good fit!

(I realise all this sound a bit pretentious and high flown, but that was pretty much the opposite of the point – I wanted to use poetry to express imagination in a way that *doesn’t* require you to understand metre or have read Wordsworth)

We’re most at the end of what was essentially a ‘trial run’ of printing and selling them, largely on a personal basis, which we did to get an idea of what they would look like and how much it would cost to get them made in that particular way (we used a website called Inky Little Fingers, if you’re interested). There are a few copies left from the first run, but essentially we’d like to figure out more properly how we’re going to sell and promote them before we print any more. If you’d be interested copy, drop me an email at allstar.lewis@gmail.com and I’ll see what I can do – if nothing else it will give me an idea of how much interest there is.

The two of us have a few different ideas for what might come next, potentially accompanying the first ‘proper’ print run. Prints, perhaps. Buttons, maybe. Tote bags, potentially (if only because me and Elena really want our own ones). And maybe even a second, shorter collection with a tighter focus. But in the meantime, it just feels so good to have something I can hold in my hands. Hype!

 

Elena Purlyte – Eyes of Trees

Ladies and gentleman, allow me to share with you some art by a good friend of mine – Elena Purlyte. I’ve featured several of her paintings in previous posts and in some of my spoken word performances, ones which were made specifically for those poems. But I decided it was high time I shared some of her work for its own sake. What do you think?

Personally, I find her work really captures the imagination. There’s an otherworldly quality to her paintings, the warm ones and the ones with a more sinister feel to them. If you like what you’ve seen here, then check out her personal blog and give her your support! Throwing your work out into the scary world of the internet can be a thankless task sometimes:
http://www.eyesoftrees.wordpress.com

With any luck there will be plenty more collaboration between us in the future. But until then, enjoy!
-Lewis

The Wolf who came to the Door

I’m delighted to unveil a new painting from Elena Purlytė, which goes hand in hand with one of my older poems ‘the Wolf who came to the Door’. Enjoy!

Lewis Brown

Once upon a time there was a widow who lived
in a house on a street on a hill.
She was largely content and she didn’t complain
excepting the tenancy bill.

She was largely content and she didn’t complain
she still had her job and her home and her health.
She kept a tight ship and a garden of sorts
for the benefit of none but herself.

But once of an evening when the sky opened up
and the rain on the roof made a din
a wolf knocked on her door with a dripping-wet paw
and asked if he couldn’t come in.

He wiped off his paws and took off his coat,
so he wouldn’t get mud on the floor.
He was oh so civil and very refined,
the wolf who came to the door.

She offered him tea, which he graciously drank
which was no mean feat without…

View original post 283 more words

Supersonic Spacewhale

Look! The supersonic spacewhale!
What an incredible sight –
surfing astral rainbows
at twice the speed of light.
Hunting shoals of cosmic krill,
star-hopping with impossible skill
the supersonic spacewhale rules the night!

In a galaxy of darkness
it keeps the shadows at bay
finds the evils of the universe
and drives them all away.
Doctor Who
has nothing on you
the supersonic spacewhale saves the day!

It is honest and straightforward,
as it squashes evil flat.
It doesn’t need a fancy costume.
It doesn’t dress up like a bat.
And you won’t hear it complain
‘first they think I’m a bird, then they think I’m a plane’.
No, a spacewhale is a spacewhale, and that’s that.

So when scientists are wondering
‘Is there life beyond the skies?’
don’t be surprised if someone turns,
throws up their hands and cries
that zooming through the starry void,
munching on an asteroid,
the supersonic spacewhale never dies!

***

Art by Elena Purlytė at: http://www.eyesoftrees.wordpress.com

The Launch Sequence

Art meets poetry once more – this time in space! Thanks again to the amazing Elena Purlytė for her work.

Lewis Brown

‘T Minus 5’

They said they should send a poet
to describe the Earth from space.
They thought it might do the world some good:
some betterment, for the human race.

“You know, I think that it’s not too late,”
Some bright arts-graduate said.
“We’ve sent up chimps,” he reasoned,
“So why not a poet instead?”

‘T Minus 4.’

The media thought it was a great idea
and the public was incredibly keen.
They even got seals of approval
from Brain Cox and the Queen.

Teams of engineers came together
to make this wonderful vision a fact,
this coming-together of science and art
in a single magnificent act.

‘T Minus 3.’

So they lured out a poet from hiding
with the promise of worldwide acclaim,
although little in his haste did he realise
that they didn’t mean literary fame.

Even though the suit didn’t fit him
and no one explained…

View original post 112 more words

The Boy by the Perfect Lake

Wonderful new art to go with an old-ish poem, courtesy of Elena Purlytė.

Lewis Brown

The boy by the perfect lake
Sits right on the very edge
Leaning forward, he is more above the water than he is on the land.
The lake is flawless, a perfect mirror
reflecting the sun,
and the sky,
and the boy.

His finger hovers above the surface of the lake.
He longs to touch it,
feel the water on his skin
and become one with his own reflection
but he doesn’t dare.
The water is too perfect,
and it does not look warm.

He is afraid his worries will weigh him down,
pull him to the bottom,
that his doubts will drown him
or his problems push him in.
Suddenly afraid he turns, looks behind him
but there is no one there.

He almost gets up, stands up,
walks away from the lake
and goes back the way he came.
Instead, he closes his eyes
and remembers.
Remembers all…

View original post 255 more words

The Launch Sequence

‘T Minus 5’

They said they should send a poet
to describe the Earth from space.
They thought it might do the world some good:
some betterment, for the human race.

“You know, I think that it’s not too late,”
Some bright arts-graduate said.
“We’ve sent up chimps,” he reasoned,
“So why not a poet instead?”

‘T Minus 4.’

The media thought it was a great idea
and the public was incredibly keen.
They even got seals of approval
from Brain Cox and the Queen.

Teams of engineers came together
to make this wonderful vision a fact,
this coming-together of science and art
in a single magnificent act.

‘T Minus 3.’

So they lured out a poet from hiding
with the promise of worldwide acclaim,
although little in his haste did he realise
that they didn’t mean literary fame.

Even though the suit didn’t fit him
and no one explained the console
the rocket left the atmosphere
with a poet at the controls.

‘T Minus 2’

“It’s beautiful alright,” Was his first thought.
“I’m glad that they picked me to go,
but apart from reporting how poignant it is
what was it they needed to know?”

So he sat there in space for a little while
looking down on the Earth all alone,
and it didn’t take long for it to occur to him:
“How the hell am I meant to get home?”

‘T Minus 1…. and Liftoff.’

They say they sent a poet
to help them understand,
but the poet still wishes they hadn’t
because he doesn’t know how to land.

***

Art by Elena Purlytė at: www.eyesoftrees.wordpress.com

The Boy by the Perfect Lake

The boy by the perfect lake
Sits right on the very edge
Leaning forward, he is more above the water than he is on the land.
The lake is flawless, a perfect mirror
reflecting the sun,
and the sky,
and the boy.

His finger hovers above the surface of the lake.
He longs to touch it,
feel the water on his skin
and become one with his own reflection
but he doesn’t dare.
The water is too perfect,
and it does not look warm.

He is afraid his worries will weigh him down,
pull him to the bottom,
that his doubts will drown him
or his problems push him in.
Suddenly afraid he turns, looks behind him
but there is no one there.

He almost gets up, stands up,
walks away from the lake
and goes back the way he came.
Instead, he closes his eyes
and remembers.
Remembers all the times he did not act,
all the people he thought he could not comfort,
all the times he thought that there was nothing he could do.
Maybe he was right
but still.

He takes a deep breath-
-and dives,
taking his reflection by the hand.
The water steals the warmth from his lungs
but he is alive.
His troubles are not gone,
but they can only nibble at his toes like fish
as he slips beneath the mirror’s surface.
Only, it is not a mirror now
it is a battlefield.
The boy dives down and ripples break
as the water goes to war around him.
The sun and sky are ruptured,
once safe and secure and out of reach
now by his very act of diving they are torn
like tattoos on broken skin.

The dive is glorious, a perfect ten
but soon the boy learns:
diving is one thing
and swimming quite another.
The boy struggles.
fights for his life,
out there on the lake
so far now from the shore.
Just in time it comes to him
he finds his stroke, hits his stride
strikes out across the water
and is gone.

As for the lake, it is as it was.
Or, almost as it was.
The mirror has been pieced back together as if from broken pieces
but the water remembers the splash that shattered it.
The sun and sky are not so arrogant now,
and while the lake is still perfect
it will never be quite the same.

***

Art by Elena Purlytė at: www.eyesoftrees.wordpress.com

The Wolf who came to the Door

Once upon a time there was a widow who lived
in a house on a street on a hill.
She was largely content and she didn’t complain
excepting the tenancy bill.

She was largely content and she didn’t complain
she still had her job and her home and her health.
She kept a tight ship and a garden of sorts
for the benefit of none but herself.

But once of an evening when the sky opened up
and the rain on the roof made a din
a wolf knocked on her door with a dripping-wet paw
and asked if he couldn’t come in.

He wiped off his paws and took off his coat,
so he wouldn’t get mud on the floor.
He was oh so civil and very refined,
the wolf who came to the door.

She offered him tea, which he graciously drank
which was no mean feat without thumbs.
Then he curled up by the fire and she in a chair
and they talked about where they were from,

about where they were going, and where they had been.
She asked if he knew a tiger she’d met.
He thought for a moment and then shook his head
saying it’s not the sort of thing he’d forget.

When she awoke in the chair he had let himself out.
She got up and got on with her day,
but hoped he’d come back the next time it rained.
They were friends in a strange kind of way.

And so he did, and they talked, and had tea and the like,
they had wonderful times set in store
but one night when the sky was accursedly dry
regardless he came to her door.

She was as shocked to find he was limping
as she was to see the cuts on his face
but she bandaged them up without panic or pause
and made a splint for his leg in good haste.

They spoke not a word on that dry summer’s night,
which slipped on into a dry summer’s day,
when she realised she’d miss him if he never came back
so she nervously asked him to stay.

At first he was silent, then he limped to her side
and whispered some words in her ear.
She listened, and thought, and at length understood
nodding, and blinking back tears.

The woman’s husband wasn’t the first of her losses
and her dear friend the wolf not the last,
but the woman in that house on that street on that hill
is a woman at peace with the past.

***

Art by Elena Purlytė at:http://www.eyesoftrees.wordpress.com