ALEXANDER WYE - POEMS

Alexander Wye is a British-born writer and teacher who has lived in the beautiful Austrian capital of Vienna for the past 20 years. When he's not teaching or writing poems he may be found hiking in the beautiful Vienna Woods, listening to Bob Dylan or reading a novel by a contemporary author. He hopes you enjoy these poems. 

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Spirit

​You ask me what spirit is
And I say this:
My mother washing window panes
Lightly while I lay;
A clock that sings like a bird
Every hour on the hour;
The smiling moon face of
My father
Handing me a red wheelbarrow
Which I play with in the rain.
Your face, so pretty as we lie.
Spirit is when I fall asleep
Pining for a home
Spirit, my love, is you,
Standing straight against
A statue of Christ
Your voice soaring to heaven.
Spirit is when I wake and
Think these things,
Before I start the business
Of my working day.
 

Rooster

​Rooster crackles with anger
When you watch his chicks
He jumps up on the fence and barks
“Get out of here you sons of bitches”
There’s females to protect.
 
Good rooster, red haired punk,
Valiant father and husband
Taking nature’s course –
No doubts, no divorce
No alimony
 
Just rooster
 

Buddha Tree

​Buddha tree
I see you and
Gaze
Buddha tree
 
Stretching
To the heavens
Wrapped warm
And calm
Buddha tree
 
Watered
From below
Run through
With life
Buddha tree
 
You are mine
And me.
Your limbs
And fingers
Thin
But strong
 
Your trunk
Hefty
Your skin
Rough
In places
 
Smooth
In others.
 
Buddha tree
 
Speak to me
Show me
Buddha tree
 
My within
My without
All revealed
At once
 
Self-settled
Desires quietened
Dissatisfactions conquered
 
And a path
In a prayer
Leading me
To stillness
 
And home.
 

Armour

​Encased in helmet and leathers
A motorcyclist on his way to work
Spins by. I, however, need no such
Armour, sitting as I am, watching
Through my window, still dreaming
In pyjamas. Additionally, the tree
Outside that borders my sweet home
From the busy morning beyond
Provides me comfort, its thin
Blooming branches stretching to meet
My eyes, glazed over as they are, lost my mind in
Thought.
Soon I too shall don my working clothes – a little shabby
And thin but no less protective than the leathers, and speed my
Way to the busy world of men, and women, and talk and laugh and check
And direct, all the while longing to throw off my armour,
And write.
 

Shadows

​Shadow creeps down the mountain
We lie in bed and watch
Still, thoughtful
 
Birds flit onto nearby branches
Silent through the window screen
As we plan our day
 
The forest brightens, larch, fir
Reveal their colours and we
Kiss, our love our greeting
 
To the day. We rise, move around
Now warmed, though shadows remain within,
Light, dark, warm, cool
 
The day starts its cycle
Till night falls over us again.