ANNUNCIATION
That cloud’s a girl, a naked girl -
She feels fresh life inside her grow,
She kneels, as breathing vapours curl,
Her praying hands begin to glow.
She feels fresh life inside her grow -
Such grace would make an angel stare,
Her praying hands begin to glow,
She whispers in her secret prayer.
Such grace would make an angel stare,
Her words are taken by the breeze -
She whispers in her secret prayer,
She’s hopeful, frightened, on her knees.
Her words are taken by the breeze -
The quiet words no man should know.
She’s hopeful, frightened, on her knees -
Her praying hands begin to glow.
NOT DARKNESS BUT DAY
Veiled in black muslin, she enters your room,
Crooning the rhymes of the Last Mother's sleep,
One candle to guide her, which drifts in the gloom,
A bag for your breath, whether shallow or deep.
Crooning the rhymes of the Last Mother's sleep,
For you - you alone, the clicking of beads,
A bag for your breath, whether shallow or deep -
The shadow that brings a cessation of needs.
For you - you alone, the clicking of beads,
While empires and ages are silent to pray -
The shadow that brings a cessation of needs;
In ruins, not murder, not darkness but day.
UPLANDS ORCHARD
To picnic in the orchard, sharing wine,
Half-hidden by the buttercups and grass,
We’ll live contented in this set of time,
Which will remain and all too quickly pass.
Half-hidden by the buttercups and grass -
A vibrant bee, which seems to near forever,
Will reach us soon and all too quickly pass,
Complete its rambling flight through pleasant weather.
A vibrant bee, which seems to near forever…
And we deny the shadows we both sense,
In this, our idle day in pleasant weather;
The grammar of contentment alters tense.
Denying, sip by sip, the change we sense:
Loving and talking, while drowsy in the heat,
The grammar of contentment alters tense,
But shadows pause, where timeless moments meet.
WEIGHING WINTER
Snowdrops weigh the winter at its close -
Such heavy whiteness bows the neck of spring,
A paradox of grace - which must impose
A turn in mood, for all this year may bring.
Such heavy whiteness bows the neck of spring,
The weight of frost and snow that will not leave…
Where is the turn, for all this year may bring?
These days so young, yet not too young to grieve
The weight of frost and snow that will not leave
Because the throb’s still faint in flower and tree.
The days so young - yet not too young to grieve
The burden of the seasons yet to be.
Because the throb’s still faint in flower and tree,
Snowdrops pause like children in a play;
The burden of the seasons yet to be
Unnerves them, as they charm us on our way.
SWIFTS AND SHADOWS
Their screams arrive, their shadows swirl,
Shrill-piping from the tarmac’s heat,
Black moons in flight – the crescents whirl,
Those moons of shade about our feet –
Shrill-piping from the tarmac’s heat,
Black scimitars are everywhere –
Those moons of shade about our feet,
Criss-crossing in their game of dare.
Black scimitars are everywhere!
The street is shuddering in the sun;
Criss-crossing in their game of dare,
The swifts are shrill with midday fun.
The street is shuddering in the sun,
Black moons in flight – the crescents whirl,
The swifts are shrill with midday fun;
Their screams arrive, their shadows swirl.
NIGHT MAGNOLIA
White magnolia - shavings of the moon-glance,
Riding the night waves, excessive and absurd
In winds that snatch white petals from the dance,
In gusts that rip white feathers from the bird.
Riding the night waves, excessive and absurd,
Absurd to flaunt such beauty in the park,
In gusts that rip white feathers from the bird -
Those birds of petals, shining in the dark.
Absurd to flaunt such beauty in the park!
Swept plumage-petals – birds of desperate grace -
Those birds of petals, shining in the dark,
Those frightened birds, which flinch in roaring space.
Swept plumage-petals – birds of desperate grace –
White magnolia - shavings of the moon-glance,
Those frightened birds, which flinch in roaring space,
In winds that snatch white petals from the dance.
EPIPHANY
Janus, lord of endings and beginnings –
You stand two-faced, unsmiling at the porch.
Behind you, all the rubble of your winnings,
Those ill-lit gains, beneath your dying torch.
You stand two-faced, unsmiling at the porch –
Holding forth a second, dazzling fire:
Those ill-lit gains, beneath your dying torch,
Another light, alluring as desire.
Holding forth a second, dazzling fire,
You show a brighter vision, yet to be -
Another light, alluring as desire,
Will turn me from a truth I must not see.
You show a brighter vision, yet to be:
My hopes for health and days relieved of care
Will turn me from a truth I must not see.
I take one step, but find no comfort there.
WINE GLASS
Now - right now - I’ve never felt so free.
The morning air is still, like settled wine
With colours shining through – the sky – the sea
Are turned to crystal, vibrant, out of time.
The morning air is still, like settled wine -
I’m finding my own notes to make my song,
They babble through the brightness, out of time,
I’m giggling – Lord! - I’ve never been this young.
I’m finding my own notes to make my song,
For what I’ve done - for what I’d like to do -
I’m giggling – Lord! - I’ve never been this young,
And sky and sea are wonderful and new -
Oh, give me more! - there’s so much I must do,
With colours shining through – the sky – the sea
And all the holy earth is strange and new,
And now - right now - I've never felt so free.
PUDDLE
Jump into the puddle - take my hand -
We’ll leave this street and fall through budding trees
And we must fall towards the shining land,
The mountains - which are raised and shaped by breeze.
We’ll leave this street and fall through budding trees;
No bird flies clear, no thrusting hands make air.
Imposing clouds - dissolving on the breeze
As silence sets a crown upon despair.
No bird flies clear, no thrusting hands make air;
Too late to turn to shadows overhead
Now silence sets a crown upon despair
And all we might have said remains unsaid.
Too late to turn to shadows overhead;
Jump into the puddle – take my hand
For all we might have said remains unsaid,
And we must fall towards the shining land.
FISHING SPELL
Let the whirling lure entrance
Although its blade is far from bright,
And take it sure – the glint - the glance
Will fleck this brook with Eden’s light.
Although the blade is far from bright,
All life is in the vibrancy,
The brook is flecked with Eden’s light,
(The pulse belies the trick you see.)
All life is in the vibrancy
Where rapids roar above the stone -
The pulse to feel, the gleam to see,
Awakens hunger, blood and bone
Where rapids roar above the stone,
Take it sure – the glint - the glance
Awakens hunger, blood and bone,
Let the whirling lure entrance.
Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is currently the fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake, and he has recently gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.
He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, Bredbeddle's Well, which was published in Lothlorien in 2022.
Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.
His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. These were illustrated by his wife, Heather E. Geddes. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022.
"Sleep Not..." is due out again shortly as an audio book, as possibly as a hardback.
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