Saturday, May 12th 2012
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Poetry: Claire Cox

All poems reproduced with courtesy of Claire Cox

Sleeping Pigeon

(c) Sabine Chaouche - Oxford 2006
(c) Sabine Chaouche - Oxford 2006
She’s a clenched fist
gloved in feathers,

thumb/head lost in
the wrap of fingers –

tucked and clasped,
slicked and coated

in a soft purple sheen
of scattering light.

How will she feel,
in the cave of my palms –

her bird-frail bones,
the plush of her wing,

her jailed and whispering heart?

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012

Tango in Washington Square

(c) Sabine Chaouche - New York 2009
(c) Sabine Chaouche - New York 2009
She embraces him like a saviour,
her palm pressing the warm
articulation of his shoulder blade,
spreading her fingers against the slide
of his waistcoat. Her intimate
cheekbone rests on his shoulder.

He gazes across the plaza, forehead
shining, glazed with perspiration.
He sees nothing but the fiery corona
of their next steps patterned and resonating.
His cotton-stripe arm encircles her like destiny.
They lunge. Cameras click. Her skirt-slit thigh
touches his. Sunlight kisses her ankle.

They have become beauty. They dance
far away from the city trees and paviours.

The girl with the waterfall hair stares –
she has already traded her skin for theirs.

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012

Washington Square Atlantid

(c) Sabine Chaouche - New York 2009
(c) Sabine Chaouche - New York 2009
He sits, dreadlocked and monumental –
his youth draped like a banner
around his waist – a silhouette,
solid as polished marble
against the sun-bleached cobbles.
Bare backed in New York shade,
his head is bowed in wordless regret.
Tattooed on his arm, a comet
trails into nothingness.

There’s an architecture to his grief,
he bends, like Atlas, under its weight.
It presses the twin mounds
of his enduring shoulders –
crushes the valley of his spine.
A fountain sprays from his shoulder
in white wings of despair as he slumps
forward in defeat, forearms splayed
and braced against his thighs

or maybe he’s just texting.

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012

Tree Fisher

(c) Sabine Chaouche - Oxford 2012
(c) Sabine Chaouche - Oxford 2012
I catch a day when ash trees grow sideways,
their spill of twigs hauled in by a rope
like a fisherman’s sorry trawling.

Behind them, silver birches –
blink-white and upright –
sift the tides of a different sun.

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012

The King of the Sun

(c) Sabine Chaouche
(c) Sabine Chaouche
He had them make him a sun-crown
to top his radiant head – a fanfare
of gold, more blazing than dawn –
with dazzling jewels to outshine
the stars and scorch out his enemies’ eyes.
His craftsmen swathed it in golden flowers
and made golden bees to sip from them.

And when the crown was on his head
and the Earth fell silent before him,
he lifted up his fiery brow and saw
the sky had paled above him.
He ordered his craftsmen to crush lapis,
bluer than the Virgin’s robe, and fasten
up a rich new sky to hide God’s shabby heaven.

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012


(c) Sabine Chaouche - Los Angeles 2009
(c) Sabine Chaouche - Los Angeles 2009
The space of sky,
wide as a windshield,
California-blue at dusk.

On a black arc,
slender as a shoelace,
a traffic signal turns red.

The setting sun halts and waits –
a golden egg nesting
in the sweetgum trees.

(c) Claire Cox
May 2012

Nota Bene:
The images or poems relating to this exhibition must not be reproduced without the authors' permission.
Les images ou poèmes relatifs à l'exposition virtuelle ne doivent pas être reproduits sans l'autorisation de leur auteur.

Sabine Chaouche


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