Sunday, 27 April 2014

A poem by David Clarke


The Messengers

Hark!, the angels are crying. We do not hear.
Even while they pace the lime-washed halls
brandishing bold lilies, as if to direct
our spiritual traffic – we are nonplussed.

We turn the pages of magazines, inspect
the sorry heel of our own dangled shoe.
Hark! and Hark! again. The rain is dashing
redbrick walls, cars illuminate

the prosey night, while ministers of all
religions bob home to a book or spouse – 
and every one just out of earshot
for seraphim, Hark!-ing themselves hoarse.

Not even poets attend to that hailing,
haloed in their screen-bright fug.
Such barren shores they choose to call to,
those heralds. Such blasted shores.



David Clarke was born in Lincolnshire and now lives in Gloucestershire. His pamphlet, Gaud, was joint winner of the Flarestack Poets Pamphlet prize in 2012 and also won the Michael Marks Award in 2013.

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