Three Poems by Phil Wood

 

A Boy Named John Ronald Reuel

 

Be not a homunculus, a clay

anchored in cumulus, with lungs

gasping for that spoor fledged and flown,

a smithy of hammers in your head;

be a warrior writer laurelled with rumour,

the meander bling of molten matter

that flames the winters' humble fires;

inhale the saga universe,

be no longer numb, breathe the vastness

inside, splash a host of heroes,

plunder that runic hoard; the gold belongs

to you, a smörgåsbord of myth.

 

 

Alraune

 

She heard his scream

beneath her pillow.

A quarrelsome night

had torn her ribbon

of faith, foxed her head

with hoofed dancers.

He exists. Earth

beneath his nails

oozed as dark as ink.

She had dug up

a mandrake root.

 

She buries the leftovers,

some bones,

daubed over stains

on wattle walls,

that alphabet

of mandrake rage.

She feeds the root

with what is needed,

sleeps him

in her husband's

grave. She will be

with child.

 

 

Silver Bullet

 

His face had wintered hard, his eyes were shut,

his life a fable in woods. I clenched a claw

and felt him flinch at human touch. No chat

from me could comfort him. We knew his lore.

 

He did not whine. He could not howl. My rite

to give this warmth, my right was humankind.

The law's to kill a killing beast. I told our fate,

he was no longer tribe, no longer kin.

 

 

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and chess. His writing can be found in various places, including recently : London Grip, Noon Journal of the Short Poem, and a featured collaboration with photographer John Winder at Abergavenny Small Press.