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Three Poems

Charlotte Geater


lark sings,


the hooting hooting &
wooing wail. she sings, she wails, she sings &
she wails & she sings, hersing with one
heart. she sips from the cup,
hersing & laughing with delight. the sky shines
with the moon in her eye
& she sips on the sweet milk in her tongue
while she is in the valley of her mouth

whence comes it? from the
flowering of wheat in the springtime
to the blistered hand of grapes
in her
fall? from the milk in her belly
to the honey of nose in her mouth?

a lark ascends, she sings, she wails, she sings & she wails &
she sings & sings, singing alone, singing on her tongue in
both her ears. where is the sun?
she has yet to see, only the stars.

the light shines in her belly, she sighs and quails
in her heart, & she is hidden in your breast. the stars were
bright & the night grew dark around the sun. it was in a
small room

that he had found a lamp. he made light with the help of a torch
& sat on an old stone, whereon they lit the room & he sat &
he sang on





a small reckoning in a big room


the kit-fox, a chit, a baby chaton
kitling jet fur, merlin held the
tigerkin milky
mottled babble
baby
crying its damp heart out
wet from the river / hot mouthed //
alive

out here, cold / the baby crying
in fear of the wolf's claws
buttercup, cuckoo, daffodils

cut throat, cutthroat, cutthroated

the sky is always green with rain
and the night feels dark / light never gets in
i used to read the bible by candlelight

i used to make our house an abode
i used to look at the sky and say, “goodnight from hell.”

i’m afraid to go out into the world,

but i don’t need a world.

i’m better off without them

dancing
all
night
long




videoheaven


heaven is a tape played backwards
of water hurling itself into the sky

a severed body stitched back together with dissolving
tape / once, long ago

systems you can see fail in output & process

heaven is a spool
all of this polyester caught in rewind
before it was burnt molten beaten thin
and buried again

a spineless body
a spinning-wedge / a spoon full of teeth

in the moment the plasticity of everything means
we can adjust / noise like ash flaked

let me sort out the aspect ratio there for you

like looking closer /

a voice chanting back in a lost /

heaven is a spoke turning in the back
and here we start from the end
but we don’t stay there /

and heaven isn’t going anywhere
spools of what wasn’t saved, flatworms

that never die / buried in shallow graves
with so so much to tell you


 


Charlotte Geater lives in Walthamstow and volunteers at a community library. She has previously had work published in The White Review and Queen Mob’s Tea House, and she has a pamphlet out with Bad Betty Press in March 2020 called poems for my FBI Agent.







2020




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Hotel is a magazine for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. The magazine is bi-annual, the online archive is updated periodically.

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2020
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