ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Warren grew up in London, England and graduated with an Honours degree in Mathematics from King’s College, Cambridge. Michael moved to Toronto in 1972, and then to Ajijic, Mexico in 2000.
Michael was a member of the “Blue Asterisks” poetry workshop for eleven years in Canada, and also a director of the Phoenix Poetry Workshop in Toronto. His poetry has appeared in many publications, and has won prizes in Origins and in Poetry Toronto.
His book of Collected Poems A Particular Blue was published in 2005. His poems also appear in the 2017 anthology Romancing The Muse.
A Particular Blue
There was, one afternoon, a blue-
it was wearing the clothes os sky and cold
and water and air, but was other, interior. Few
colors could be so old.
It was like Ophelia drowned, her hair
the floating clouds upon that hue,
that silent, stark despair
which yet contained no residue of sadness,
only the peace of complete madness.
And I went to my forest, and there
in a pool saw reflected that blue;
and I was afraid of death,
calm and insane as a color. Breasth
was a point of view
*****
A Pile of Leaves
Arrangements for burial
burial of the dead
unexpectedly altered
by November winds
Sun in retreat
late in the fall
tangles its light
on empty branches
Loose down the road
changed in their beauty
leaves lie scattered
Midas’ delight
Still life arrangement
frost on the leaf
leaf in the sunshine
sun in retreat
Blue-gray on blue
sweet-scented woodsmoke
hangs in the silence
Kyrie eleison
******
Blood Donor
Today I gave my blood
(My country ’tis of thee I sing)
I gave my blood today
(This is my body, this is my blood)
Afterwards a kind nurse offers a cup of tea
(Drink this in remembrance of me)
and informs me that I am type O.
I wonder if my blood
would be compatible with her blood.
I wonder how much more blood
will flow in the gutters of history.
Soon my blood will flush another’s veins —
O I love all men and all women
especially those who are type O
******
Found Stone
I found a stone
and put it in my pocket, pleased
by hand-held shape and time-worn smoothness.
I kept it for a while until
because it was smooth
because it was beautiful
because I could find no use for beauty
I sent it skipping across the lake
to drown and be found perhaps again
by one less profligate than I.
In any event I knew
that it would have a use
(such beauty must)
if only being found
and being lost.
*****
Frozen Waterfall
My crystal cannot bend the light
no water moves down falls of thought
no flower grows around the straight
pure lines pedantic winter taught.
What once was clear and free is held
fixed to a certain point of view.
No love can burn within such cold
no measure run from me to you.
When (will you ever) will spring come again,
when will the earth (hold me) relent,
when will the sun kiss me (with rain),
flow to my frozen world’s intent?
*****
Here …
I have thrown a stone
into the white lake
and watched the ripples
forming, receding.
I have picked a rose
to dissect its beauty
satin petals reduced
to a fine powder.
I have pinned a thought on the page
a moth in formaldehyde
shimmering wings
rigid, without flight.
The thought of a rose in stone
whirls in my mind
endlessly reflecting.
Only the lake remains, silent, sorter,
and the white birds riding.
******
Night Ferry
Behind us
a continent moves away,
churches and castles,
summer palaces,
empires and dreams of empire,
slowly away
into the past
almost without motion.
We go up on deck
to observe the midnight watch.
Then phosphorescent wake
marks out a path
in still water.
Above
the Ram
the Bull and Great Bear
wheel round and round
to the insistent throb
of the ship’s engines.
On a night like this
I know
that all times
are equally present.
Ahead
there lies
a dark and sleeping island.
******
Rainbow
Today, I saw a rainbow, bent
to my feet as if God said
after this flood there’ll be no argument.
The trees were golden fire, the sky
unfurled and clean of cloud — instead
of air I breathed a colored arc —
a gift, a benison, a day to remember by
when other days are merely white
shading through greys into the lonely dark.
Or perhaps it was just a trick of the light,
of rowan berry on leaf on sky
and a mist between —
a trick of red and blue and green
and the must between.
******
The Big Bang Theory
There was a time when all our strength was fused
into one quivering ball, so densely packed
with possibilities for mind and soul
that many patterns jostled for existence:
and all was known, what was to come for certain
and with what luck might come to pass
and what would never become —
future and past stretched out like fans
held bunched in the hand in that single knot.
And since that time the fragments moving away
seem to remember that once they were somehow whole,
and, while yet moving, turn for a moment back
as one who gives a message on the run.
Listen — the should beneath the bone
reminds the bone beneath the flesh,
there is no end, only a start.
Listen — the mind beneath the soul
reminds the soul beneath the bone.
We’re drawn together while we’re pulled apart.
******
The Sea
Shen is dancing like a young girl among the grey rocks
lifting her gown daintily
singing and moving with a white flounce of petticoat
turning
turning with a slow grace
to the swing and swish of her skirt on the stones
blur-green on grey:
the wind like a long weary saxophone
wails
ans catches the quickening rhythm
she etches the tune with her toe on the sand
wave chasing wave:
with her cool white arms in a circle about the land
she is always dancing.
And I
stand looking out
to where the breakers meet
the line of sea and sky:
suddenly I know
a shagreen laughter
dancing around my strange continents.
******
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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