Note: The "Blake" mentioned in the following poem is the English poet and painter, William Blake (1757-1827).
Blake Spoke to me Directly
Blake spoke to me directly
I listened circumspectly
Then speaking very loud
he hit me with a cloud
And when I asked him why
he re-assumed the sky
It made me rather proud
his whacking me with cloud
Glance
truck drivers look down into your car
they dispose of you
with a glance
they hate your constraint
you dislike their hurtling resources
--from Southwester, 35 Poems (Toronto: Lyricalmyrical Press, 2007).
He made one wing white
and the second wing red
which sharpened the eye
and streamlined the head
the angel spun round
in prismatic disgrace
while the painter grew rich
from the egg on his face
(from The Bronzino Poems, Toronto, Exile Editions, 2011)
Unsleep
every night
i awaken
at a quarter to three
but there is still sleep
in me
I can feel it thick
like toothpaste in a tube
I need to get back
to sleep
and coil up
squeezing myself
flat
by morning
