Two Poems
Duncan Richardson looking the optometrist shows me a photo of my inner eye a strange gelatinous creature of the deep glowing red nerve reaching for clarity macular crimson diffuse like a pure light spot an Ur-eye or am I viewing for the first time a strange gas giant guarding the fringe of a solar system with a purple haze a pigment spot nothing to worry about yet unless it grows swallows like the great red spot a storm lasting longer than memory the lens is clear - all I know has passed through it rushing into the dark leaving no trace Negative space from the art class I stare at the cricket oval opposite where a soccer goal stands stranded on the boundary. a voice from the next room extols paintings at the Tate and “negative space” the mango I’m drawing wrinkles like Jupiter’s moons my hand feels like a claw refuses to draw straight lines makes shadows grow too big stabs the paper makes it bleed. on the cement below a magpie pecks at a moth drops it pecks again. swallows |
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About the Author: Duncan Richardson is a writer of fiction, poetry, radio drama, and educational texts. He teaches English as a Second Language part time in Brisbane, Australia.