Three Poems By: David Walker | The Quietus

Three Poems By: David Walker

New writing this week comes to you via Montreal in the form of a veritable cornucopia of (three) poems by writer and editor David Walker

look-see (After Mark Rothko)


but what about the quiet things, the little dull things hidden between the big shiny things,

are these also formative, do these also count, is there virtue in their silence, is your lack of

recall somehow key, do the things you forget make you who you are and anyway who are

you, what about the things you could have been are they there too, in the picture i mean, i

mean when you paint it will it include what doesn’t make it in, will what you don’t paint

also be somehow painted, is there something crucial about that exclusion, anyway do you

dream of painting, do you have that in you, that kind of stillness;


people don’t focus in a continuous narrative stream except for that you know exactly at

which point in the story you learned this, sitting around which table, drinking which

colour, breaking which bread, asking which questions, fixating on which women, aware

of which failures, hoping for which clarity;


but what about the things you can’t see clearly are they there too, the things you can’t see

at all, and is this blindness a failure or is this blindness a symptom and is this blindness

blindness at all or something else, can blindness be deliberate, yes, can blindness be

painful, yes, if the blindness is chosen are you really truly blind, the same question about

fear, the same question about love, these things they say wash over you but for something

to wash over you don’t you have to just stand there, how long can you just stand there,

can you paint on your back, can you paint in your sleep, can you remember how this

started, is that memory really a memory, the thing about your painting is that it’s one hell

of a painting, the thing about your painting is it’ll always just be paint.




The Building of the Pyramids


Look down, ants on an ant-march to what,

look up, three giants kicking out at what,

and this film on your tongue, what to do about,

peace like a wailing, is this what you’ve been,

and collapsing outward, is that, and brand new ways

to say, to say what, is this that thing you,

I know I felt, is that enough of a


March with them, with the ants I mean the

ant-march just join in or otherwise, kicking

out at you kicking out at us, or otherwise

offer up your tongue, tongue like a highway,

peace like a wailing, one day making contact,

their boots I mean, with us I mean, ants up

and across and down and into, just knuckle the

hell up, the giants I mean, to grasp I

mean what, where did this, how could anyone,

it should have


Been, between I mean, between us, peace like

a wailing, breath like a wall I mean collapsing,

outward I mean, grasping like music, or is it the

other,


And in the silence,


And the looks on their faces, their kicking

their movement, and now they’re in your stomach

now they’re eating you from the inside,

the giants I mean, the ants I mean,

peace like a wailing,


And collapsing outward, and making contact,

with us I mean, their boots I mean,

your stomach I mean,


Or is it between, and in the silence,

like a wailing, between us I mean,

if not collapsing,


And in the silence,


But could it have, for us,

could it have,


For us, I mean grasping,

like music, I mean


Like a wailing,


I mean


Peace



the randomness of pain occurring to two friends in the vastness of space


we’re weightless

breathing nothing

drifting at a perfectly

constant velocity

not looking back at the earth

because what’s the earth

but then someone

probably you

looks back

just for a second

and you laugh

and i say what

and you say oh

just thinking

and i ask what about

and you say tragedy

and i say what

and you say tragedy

how tragedy isn’t tragedy

how the inevitable things

are never what really hurt

and i say hmm

and you say yeah

and we smile

our shy little smiles

and float in space

some more




David Walker lives in Montreal. He runs a company called DuckRabbit Theatre and is the writer of the plays Beware Beware and You Can Change Anything Whenever You Want. He edits poetry for The Void.

The Quietus Digest

Sign up for our free Friday email newsletter.

Support The Quietus

Our journalism is funded by our readers. Become a subscriber today to help champion our writing, plus enjoy bonus essays, podcasts, playlists and music downloads.

Support & Subscribe Today