A Poem by Dominic Leonard

Stalag VIII-A, 1940

after Messiaen

Deep in the world stable
& for cheap relief,
I find work
in the sound economy, lifting
the gestural
body sharp
with fretwork & light. I listen –
my cheeks are wide moons,
clammy – worry a starching wound,
burred & herringbone,

catching Tuesday— dogs— function—

schedule— cell— blue—

effort— iron— slump––––– Song!

birdsong

Never have I heard
nothing that was nothing,
not the opposite to time’s wreck. We are signs of animal
doubt. Signs of work. I would not be glad

birdsong

to die off before spring, so I attend
to the askew angle of cure
like none so matted with life;
when there is violence among goats & gods
& birds sound a cadence thereof

birdsong

—feathers in a scale; struck
numinous, my beam &
broken, my having erred in company—

birdsong

I am afraid, but I adapt it to your heart

Dominic Leonard's poems, reviews and essays can be found in The Poetry Review, Poetry London, the TLS, PN Review, Pain, and elsewhere, and in 2019 he received an Eric Gregory Award. His pamphlet, Dirt, is published by Broken Sleep Books.