Mark Tarren is a poet and writer who lives on remote Norfolk Island in the South Pacific.
His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various literary journals including The New Verse News, The Blue Nib, Poets Reading The News, Street Light Press, Spillwords Press, Tuck Magazine and Impspired Magazine. He is currently working on a collection of poetry and a novel.
The Tower of The Winds
She came to him at night, on horseback. The tower was half buried so she would descend away from the moonlight, her neck moving into shadow to the doorway via a stairwell from the street. Her body submerging into their intimate underworld. She was, to him, an angel that appeared the same time every night, only at night. Half buried, in the permissible darkness. He was her unforgiven saint and this, their shared confessional. He showed her by naked torchlight the gold flicker of their life revealed against the ceiling of Egyptian blue. He dusted the red earth from her feet, gently placed his thumb on the pulse of her wrist, as they lay together in their shared baptism. Then came the winds. Boreas — Who could bend a tear from the surface of her cheek. Zephyrus — Would gently lift her hair from her shoulder and breathe to her the domain of flowers. Notus — Who always carried the rain for the fire between them. Eurus — Would wipe away a bead of moisture from her trembling lips. Kaikias — Provided a shield against the knowing death of love. Apeliotes — Would drape her in the cloth of the rising sun to conceal her nature. Skiron — For the onset of winter when the mist would rise from her mouth instead of words. Lips — When she needed safe passage away from her discontent. On the night she did not return he spent his evenings searching the red earth for a glimpse of the cradle of her hair rising from her shoulder. Feel the ghost pain of her pulse at the tip of his thumb. Watch the gold flicker of their life gently retreat from his hand.
The Three Kings
Across the threshing floor they come, bleeding towards Bethlehem, marching across the trampled offerings of frankincense and myrrh. They have swallowed the searching star in the valley of The Shadow. They have emptied Pilate’s wash bowl and robbed the grain house of our shared grief. They have come for Jerusalem they have come, to steal away even our last subterranean joy. They have come for the straw and dust in your lover’s goodbye. They have come for the scent of your new born baby’s head. They have come for the wild burning hidden horses in your heart, for every tender thing fallen from your only tree. They have come. They have come for the base of your spine, for every dream that you ever possessed. They have come for the Christ child in you and I for the Christ child for you and I they have come. They have come for nothing less than everything, for in the pasture of the Lord fools have no faces, and Herod’s hands are full.
Let Not the Art of Love
Let not the art of love be removed from the bow that touches the body down the neck and swoon, away with the tremble and ache of the tides, the sound of water retreating from the moon. Let not the art of love be removed from the hand that crafts a fabric to cover the midnight of the small of your back or the arc, sway and shiver of the heart, that cuts towards the place of that little murder. Let not the art of love be removed from the eye of grief across the cartography of shoulder, to the curve of your abdomen and thigh, to the burning tablelands of our tender self possession. Let not the art of love be removed away for if it were removed, all the small gods could not forgive — the glory of our quietness.