Christopher Meredith: New Poems

The Message no secrets which appeared to require concealment were revealed. Anthony Storr, Solitude She hid her notebooks underneath a board. All her secret years were what she'd written And the message � oh the message was in code. The Lonely Child, Creative, Bright, Ignored Kept diaries according to the pattern And hid her notebooks underneath a board. Years later, experts come upon the hoard - Keys to the great writer's motivation But the message, ah, the message is in code. They clap their hands. So much to be explored Deciphering the secret heart of a woman Who hid her notebooks underneath a board. And that unlocking lets light on what's stored - Eventless commonplaces. An empty room. The burden Is no message is the message in the code. She knows the cipher's greater than the word. What's on display's the fact that all is hidden So she hides her notebooks underneath a board And the message is the message is in code.

Aubade in middle age The inchlong vapour trail dissolves fast as the blind invisible head of jet scores sky - a dead slow meteor or a speeded comet gives in its vanishing tail a sliver of the sun that hasn't risen yet on your icestiff patch of earth. Anaemic rim of fading moon lets go at last and vanishes. Steel venus rising falls back to the colour of the sky. That colour that you couldn't name resolves to taut thrush egg. Rags of cloud come hard as gunmetal. And you resume yourself with the ache of gravity and the strangeness of a leaving dream. Whatever it was has dropped you here and gone. Day after day sense and daylight crowd the window to haul you back and then resculpt the world with muscular volume, shade and weight, to whisper again the old advice: Come on. Wake up. Time to try again. Time to seal the meat, to set the day's pot cooking.

These poems appear in Chris's latest collection The Meaning of Flight, 2005, published by Seren, 57 Nolton Street, Bridgend CF31 3BN, Wales, tel 01656 663018, or email.

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