New Age


New look blog, new poetry style being road-tested. It’s been a strange old month, this January.


It started: a precipice of sorts.
A self-constructing
Backing out and down
To finish sediment, strata – like

Wedding cakes, and you will see;

                                    How to cut so

It’ll keep fresh until the naming


When water furrows

A small girl’s face,

Staining photographs of

Crumpled parents


Whose track-echo finally

                    Was absorbed


Walls. They do that thing with lines


Stretched beyond a dry spot

That might be Nevada,



May be a pit in Rajasthan

Where elephant bones stack


Grainy cities, edging on horizons,

Huge –

                    a timely sprawl

Still visited  yearly, then less


Late, the day is over, the

Flashes left their scent,

And dresses fold themselves


As the soaking girl sees

With her name and silver

Something like old age.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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