Gary Carr - Poet
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

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

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
as oxygen breather

The god of leaves
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?

Even at the start,
with that lipstick ink on his arse,
the furrowed crosshatch
patterning of Marylin's lips was copied,
with infinite precision;
a flesh facsimile of flesh.

Later, still before
he knew his precious satellites -
though not before
orbits of uncounted, untrackable women,
around his oh-so-celestial body -

the forearm bulldog
was a morphed abomination
of dog, Churchill,
t-shirt. The cigar brand correct,
grip, anatomical
with photorealistic smoke, that… flexed.

And each of a dozen more
created for reasons he could list
back in those days
before the forces eased their grip
and he slipped
into satellites and a civilian life.

Now each launch
has a new celebration,
distance scaled
to an Earth centred somewhere
around his groin,
skin stained with an equation's knot,

imaginary numbers
describing a real circumnavigation.
When he is buried
they will leach back into Earth,
with the reality they try to describe.

I am the same sharp spade
he has always used
to divide his earth
and turn it. Though
this is my fourth handle
second blade.

And his body –
organs and bone,
spleen out to skin –
have renewed twenty-five,
forty, sixty times.

But our partnership
is not piecemeal.
He still recognises
his spade and I
the press of his palms.

re-drew me
my new form fit
their human specification and needs
the living soul of my spread vine wall stripped
back to plaster,
rows of