by David Hockney

Swimming Pool

By Commuter Poet 

I swim up and down 

The pool of my life

Longing for the weekend

And when I surface for air

I realise that I'm in the same pool

As I was before

I duck back under the water

And swim backwards and forwards

Wondering...

Is it possible to be kinder

Than ever before?

Is there a limit to the compassion

Of a single human being?

The Swimming Pool

By Lorna Crozier, 1948 -

I used to be such 
a swimmer, surface diving
to the loud blue hum around the grates,
following the lines and cracks
that led to a cave I could
never find the entrace to,
ears aching. All summer

without shoes, my feet
brown otters pulled me
from the earth. There was a
birth-gleam all over me, 
a loss of language, my mouth
an anemone that opened, closed,
my sex unfurling in the broken
light that stroked me underwater.

Now the ticket window's boarded up
and barbed wire bites
the wooden fence I used to climb
at night to be alone
in the blue-green shimmer
stretched taut by moonlight.

Sometimes a boy dropped 
from the darkness 
above the diving board
and swam beside me, a strange boy
I'd never seen at school.
We moved together, a pair of wings
unfolding, my new breasts
in his mouth or the mouth of the water.

By late August, beetles fell
from somewhere in the sky,
the click of their bodies
on cement like seconds ticking.
My fingers drummed down his belly
as we counted them.

I splashed and tumbled 
through every morning lesson
and told no one 
I was there 
where I shouldn't have been
at night, beetles falling
like walnuts from a tall black tree.

Imaginary Waterfall

By C. D. Wright, 1949 - 2016

You could ask any one of them up by the lake                                               

        It had presence

Fold of coldness folded over cold

The rumors of what was beyond                                         

        mostly worthless

You had to take into account who was telling                                               

        the story and      

for whose ends

Against the dark of her intuition                                 

        an unrelenting stream

of light starting  to set like cement

some mildew tingeing  the dream since

its uniform had not been                                               

        properly kept

Where her love stood

until he stepped behind the overhang                          

       the synesthesia of his name                   

a silver helmet ringing                                                  

        when struck

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