Gary Carr - Poet
Poetry
I tend not to publish much poetry online, it makes the work ineligible for competitions and for submission to several magazines.
Published poems of all vintages will be added below.
There are more than sixty of them in total, so keep coming back and you may be surprised by new ones.
As I add sound experiments to soundcloud I will also add links here.
All poems copyright Gary Carr, please don't steal them, they've been published so at some point you will be caught.

When Alice came home the girl was watching tv,
the boy was on the x-box. Two plates contained remains
of tinned spaghetti and toast.

When Alice came home the girl watched tv,
the boy played x-box. Yesterday's plates on the floor.
Two more, with toast and bean smears, on the sofa.

When Alice arrived home the girl was watching tv,
the boy playing x-box. Spaghetti plates against walls
beneath beaned ones. Picked-off pizza bits on a plate.

As Alice entered, the girl was watching the boy
playing x-box on tv. Several cornered plates
climbed the walls on top of an uncertain mess.

When Alice came home the girl was watching tv,
the boy was on the x-box. Toppled plates near the corner
showing, most recently, macaroni cheese and candy kisses.

Leaves speak
languages of air
and water

The dance of leaves -
a freedom of trees
waiting for dormancy

When we build books
their leaves
whisper stories
of forests who died
for them

Canopy
is spring's song
woodland crèche
for summer's orchestra

Depth
and fertility
are gifts of leaves
to their parents

Leaf – typically home
to eleven
species of mite

Respiration of leaves
in sunlight
is life
a planet dies
resurrects
as oxygen breather

The god of leaves
superior
because she is real



She trails her long fronds, shallow,
at the river's edge. Fingertip aware
of loops and whorls of water's flow
playing cradle games across their ends;
not sure for now if she is fully tree,
fully spectral shadow, fully girl.

When she sleeps on river banks she dreams
of toes of roots curled in the clay, of leaves
in photosynthesis, of breeze and sun;
the gentle acid tang of rain on bark,
its sweetness filtered-in through clay and loam
surging, natural, through her phloem veins.

And when she wakes she weaves her life
from willow wands of world, plaits hoop and rib
of observation, complex in her mind.
Lives inside this artificial basketwork and hopes
the chaos of that other world conforms
enough that she is human in their thoughts.

Psalms 8:4
And what is man that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?