Ian Stewart Black

Modern master of classical poetry

Month: January, 2012


White cotton caress,
Flowing brown hair;
Delicate clouds
Of shimmering starlings.
Attentive eyes,
A smile, helpless;
A rabbit in the grass,
Startled and still.
Bated breath,
A pulse disturbed;
Gentle breeze –
And clear skies.
Bitten lips, anticipation;
Still so pure;
Youth, hope and passion;
On the bridge, a pebble.


The Cold Light

December dreams, discarded;
Ruined resolutions;
Fractured smiles and pageantry;
The lies of laughter.
The cold kiss of January,
Bitterness of morning:
Spectres looming still –
In coal-rimmed eyes.
Bankrupted bottles
Drained for absent answers,
And again for comfort:
Carried out of sight.
Gilded, leaden hearts;
Hope confined in memories;
The quiet, the old self,
And the cold light.

The Sea Inside

Life is but a waterway that feeds the sea inside,
As rain into a reservoir, and blood into a lung.
How is it my galleon became a vessel,
Hollowed out and swallowed by the waves.
How is it my northern star has burned its last,
And left the sky as cold as winter mist.
Has it come to be that Neptune’s fury lashes
As a rabid hound from in the deep,
Or have the angels wept a torrent of their sorrows
Down into the blighted, black abyss.
Upon the far horizon, there resides no dying light,
Nor lonesome moon to draw upon the tide;
In the darkness, I will suffer what awaits:
To drown amid the sea inside.