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.

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