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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

SURFERS
By Byron Beynon

 

 

 

 

BOB DYLAN: BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

The strong cardboard sleeve came
with Till's photograph
as the back cover turned
to an illustration by Oppenheim;
I'd heard Dylan sing live
only once in an English field,
occupying the stage like an actor
with a sense of timeless
fashion wearing a hat and guitar,
his poetry, gospel and folk
decades away from the Nobel prize,
those unpredictable words he'd forged
to the acoustic and electric music.

 

 

 

SURFERS

A glint of wetsuits
scythes the Langland surf
on a roller day,
waxed boards
fizz the siren
of lathery spray,
a witness of blue sky
above the winter-music
on a morning balanced
for a marine rodeo;
the sea-dog
emperor of the bay
with thumb erect,
nature’s surveyor
moving like a maelstrom
towards the fluctuating shore,
a reflex of surfers,
the energetic insects
on the skin of Neptune’s
melted rink.

                                                                                                                                   

 

 

REMBRANDT’S HOUSE

The odour of canals
at war with temperature
in a northern city.
The exposed beams of oak
inside a house
sold for thirteen thousand guilders,
number 4 Breestraat
its character developed
with brick, glass, wood,
stone, paint and tar.

Saskia stands by the artist;
in a street they observe
the strained façade.
He lives in  an area
known for publishers and painters,
works inside a tall building,
gathers curiosities,
the pictures stacked
against and hanging
from the walls.

Children that die in infancy,
the stress of a late wife
who bequeaths the condition
of a small income.
After twenty years
he steps out of the front door
for the last time,
misused by hardships
he turns with a new inwardness,
still confident of his art.

                                                                                                                                   


 

MY MOTHER IRONING

My mother would navigate
her way through shirts,
bedding and towels,
the hot metal like a miniature
liner handled with aplomb.
Her working voice
would occasionally
softly hum
a current tune,
as I breathed the iron's heat,
filled hangers for her
with fresh shoulders,
a lifetime of worn and used
memories disturbing
the light of years.
A love for the revitalised
aroma of sheets
recalled anew,
a residing energy of change
between then and now.

 

 

 

About the Author:

Byron Beynon

Byron Beynon lives in Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including San Pedro River Review, Agenda, Quadrant, Poetry Pacific, London Magazine and the human rights anthology In Protest (University of London and Keats House Poets). Collections include Cuffs (Rack Press), Human Shores (Lapwing Publications) and The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions).

 




 




 

 

 

     
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