Iain Britton

Iain Britton’s first collection of poems – Hauled Head First into a Leviathan – Cinnamon Press (UK), was a Forward Prize nomination in 2008. His second collection Liquefaction was published by Interactive Press (Australia) in 2009. Recently Oystercatcher Press (UK) published his third collection.

Some poems can be accessed via such online magazines as Blackbox Manifold, Nthposition, Ouroboros Review, The Stride Magazine, Shadowtrain, Great Works (UK) Harvard Review, Drunken Boat, Free Verse, Scythe Literary Magazine, BlazeVOX (US) Jacket, Otoliths, Snorkel, foam:e, Cordite, Papertiger, The Retort Magazine (Aust) Poetry NZ and the International Exchange for Poetic Invention. A few forthcoming online publications in the UK & US: Markings, Cake Magazine, The International Literary Quarterly, phati’tude Literary Magazine, The Hamilton Stone Review.

 

 

Black Rose

 

 

A theme pouts

 

and a talismanic pendulum

 

                  ticks      to and fro.

 

Lips

 

       smear walls.

 

 

 

A black rose        springs up

 

           centre         stage.

 

                    Floorboards       shift

 

and thorns      

                   flake aphrodisiacs.

 

 

            ***

 

On stage                        

           

 

      she touches my arm

      speaks of doping herself up

      lays eggs in my skin

      curls up in the cup of my hand.

 

 

            ***

 

My role:          to collect

 

wings     abdomens     cocoons

maggots

            famous for their spirals

            their twists and turns

            sudden dead-ends.

 

They gulp at headlines.

 

 

***

 

 

A rare find            (darkened by dust)

 

she reveals a truth

a clutching of hand on heart      

 

a life form softened by sound.

 

Butterfly or Not

 

 

Vividly inked

 

on your arm

 

the shadow of a butterfly

 

stiffens up

 

and looks to take off.

 

 

 

Night’s touch

 

         moistens the house

 

                 the thinly transparent

 

                               veins

 

                           that go with your walk.

 

Old eyes          like red-hooded fuchsias

 

hang from damp parts of your body.

 

 

 

I make a mental note

of what I need from the shop.

 

You bring blankets     dolls      the preserved bedroom of a mother

 

an icon stripped of glamour.

 

 

 

If quiet enough

 

          I hear the unbuckling

 

                    of a costume

 

                             a fluttering

 

dry leaves taking your weight

 

the sound of a new programme

 

going to air.

 

 

I make a mental note of what you used to look like.