Poems by Grant Tarbard

Observing the Sabbath

 

Sabbath on yellow

Wolf’s mountain, no false

Idols are present.

Ladybird incense

Languishes, floating.

 

Gifts from my Son

 

1.

 

 

under the gallows

 

of a Belgian battlefield

 

he picks a relic

 

 

a dagger of wood

 

lying in its grave so long

 

resurrection was

 

 

a certainty, all

 

he had to do was prize it

 

from the bank of soil

 

 

wrestle the husk from

 

the uncertain gale of time’s

 

russet paroxysm

 

 

 

2.

 

 

under the rock crown

 

of a Tintagel grotto

 

lies the magics source

 

 

weeping turquoise tears

 

of departing smoke vapours

 

sorcery in an

 

 

unmarked grave. The cave

 

was flooded when he went there

 

he had his knights quest

 

 

to bring me back a

 

piece of Arthur, of Merlin

 

of Britain itself

 

 

 

 

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Maureen Weldon
    Aug 04, 2014 @ 00:18:18

    I like both of Grant Tarbard’s poems.

    Maureen Weldon

    Reply

  2. Paul Beech
    Aug 10, 2014 @ 07:00:29

    Grant,

    Arresting wordplay and imagery, but much more than this – both your poems set me thinking. I like ‘Gifts from my Son’ especially.

    Paul

    Reply

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