Gone Lawn
a journal of poetry and progressive fiction
About This
How to Submit
CURRENT ISSUE
Archive
News

Gone Lawn 27
Winter, 2018

New Works

Haley Wooning


Untitled

coming up from the underworld

I recovered a lost language,

animal-tongue,
the endless dance of water
sailing through the notes
of a lyre,
   illusion

too much I had wanted,
too much I gave up

solace of night sky,
the hardly moving face of time

I am alone

the night is errant,
a wounded place

the stars
like the torches of horsemen
riding in
to every distance

the yellow-eyed light
of a darker fear

why should I be
forced to remember?

creature, dressed,
       undressed

earth tells her: return
here is your sorrow

the red curve of a seamless sea,
open with the thousand eyes
summer’s streams

the deep privacy of woods
where the spirit horses drink

how sweet the night now seems,
how silent
      stirring the lilies
with a lingering     white dream
the infinite within me



Untitled

veiled world, great darkness

silver ships darn under a moon
swelling in ivory

sickle-sweet,
the withdrawal of colour

the unmapped terrain of the
inconsolable, unknown life

a raven-dark flutter
in the gut of the woods

earth-smell, silence, the
memory

   of a loss

timeless doors of earth,

       where will you take me?


I am changed
by blue distance

red, uncertain waters

the unholdable heart

that is

wed to

a death

the treatise of swans,

that move like dark summers
against the lily-waters

old love,
our lost worlds flow
through unspeakable others
and are gone

in the sea, the diaphanous ring
of sirens, the aubade of

empty-eyed birds

the rush of shadow-hooves,
and mares wearing the forests of
  the mother's body

the otherness of conviction,
the nobility of solitude,

you say now
you do not know me

but still, the stars bloom pale
and soft
    in a night of ashes

a tunnel I pass through,
I do not pass

but keep you,
otherwhere,
    a twilight of cellos

a caw caught in the belly

of a starved sky
before the vulnerability of
the precious, quiet things
that wait, and linger

spilling silver

in a language which
forsakes me

come now,

I am sung towards
birdless ruins, thestral shores,
the magisterial wisdom
of a nightshade
garden

the name
of your waters
which you have
forgotten

we are what lovers die



Haley Wooning writes: I am co-founder and editor of Figroot Press, and have had poems published in Bird's Thumb, Hypertrophic, Lit Cat, ArLiJo, Mangrove, Rose Red, Seen & Heard Journal and Cosmographia.