B. T. Joy- Two Poems

Listening

the calling is only ever 

as good as the listening 

I know this most of all

by the Afton’s flow

where redstarts practice 

their trills and sequences of sound  

or currents pass and liquid fingers graze

the banks outlined by strings of tussock grass

the virtuoso may bow Vivaldi’s third

striking exactly each clean phrase 

but if, in the ear, music is sleeping 

curled up like a hare in its lazy form 

and doing nothing 

then there is no melody here; 

no vibrancy received; no regulated beauty

 

and so I don’t consider it a waste 

to sit by a riverside for days 

just listening

to the pine and birch trees 

celebrating 

with their sharp voices of wind 

with their bright, green tongues and splendid limbs 

or to the languages of birds 

or the cavalcade of water 

that laps inadvertently over 

a pilgrims’ path of stone 

  

I should stop talking entirely 

in favour of this ability 

to listen

I who’ve asked 

so many questions in the past  

though never waiting long enough 

to hear the answer 

Conversation 

I’m not saying it’s not 

all bullshit 

but let’s sit awhile 

has everyone gone now?  

the sounds 

on the loose boards outside  

gave in hours ago 

and the traipse of feet 

has carried itself home 

I’m not saying we’ll come 

to any conclusions 

but let me read you again 

that poem 

William Carlos Williams wrote 

for the plums in the icebox 

we’re bound 

to understand his meaning 

eventually 

or let’s talk again 

about the day you had; 

how the price of honey is rising

or of the benefits of buying 

a house in the south of France 

august rain 

I imagine

a son 

his mother 

tonight is not quite  

his last in the country 

though they’ve talked so long

it’s morning now

and it is 

his last morning 

a band is lighting the quiet floor  

pale and fire-orange 

like a misty dune of sand  

it stands between them

like months of deployment 

like the briefness 

of the low sun in this part of the country  

they discuss him turning 

twenty-one 

and the Christmas presents 

he bought for their dog 

and how hilarious that was

and how sweet 

yet what they never say 

is how tomorrow, or today, he’ll shoulder on 

his duffel bag and catch 

the same bus as many do 

at the army base in town 

I’m digressing 

more and more these days 

though eventually 

I forget them 

here the windows 

square with dawn

you were working early 

and you’re tired

but I feel like a child again 

unaccustomed to sleep 

no 

mother 

let’s read another poem 

let’s try to guess 

what Williams meant

by those delicious plums 

so sweet 

and so cold   

Biographical Note: 

B.T. Joy is a Scottish poet and fiction writer living and working in Glasgow. He has published poetry and short fiction in journals, magazines, anthologies and podcasts worldwide; including poetry in Forward Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Presence, Bottle Rockets, Frogpond and The Newtowner and horror stories in Static Movement, Surreal Grotesque, James Ward Kirk Fiction, Human Echoes, MircoHorror, Flashes In The Dark, SQ Magazine and Forgotten Tomb Press. After receiving his honours degree in Creative Writing and Film Studies in 2009 he went on, in 2012, to receive a PGDE from Strathclyde University and has since taught as a High School English teacher. He is also the author of two volumes of haiku In The Arms Of The Wind (2010) and The Reeds That Tilt The Sky (2011). His haiga have appeared with the World Haiku Association, Haiga Online and Daily Haiga. He was one of six writers nominated for The Ravenglass Poetry Press Competition of 2012; judged by Don Paterson. For further information on writing and publications please visit the writer’s website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet