from Mouth
17.
Slow, dumb, wordless music of the mouth,
that pursing, twisting, indrawing of the lips
I know so well from a life
watching your face before I speak.
What can I say, white rose,
knowing that you’ve guessed already
what I’m about to ask or claim
or even observe on matters
important or trivial?
We smile at our smiles
so well do we respond to tiny muscles’
twitch, flicker and relax
that speech seems unrequired,
a ghostly exercise of breath
long after meaning taken.
20.
Mouth becomes month
shrinks to moth
flaps across the moon
monstrous the shadow cast
mounts higher descends
towards man-made light
over my cabin’s deck
where a month ago
your mouth closed on my mouth
quite without warning
our mouths, lips, tongues
becoming unbecoming
in their anarchy
your face in my hands
your lips severe with desire
*James Sutherland-Smith: Poet, born 1948, lives in Slovakia. Used to earn his living as an English language learning projects consultant. Now annoys his wife and does a bit of this and that to contribute to the household expenses. Writes feuilletons for PN Review, the Bow-wow Shop and other poetry magazines. Would like Hugo Williams's spot on the TLS. His website www.jamessutherland-smith.co.uk contains examples of his poetry and the very grumpy weblog of somebody who feels undervalued.