By Jim Bellamy
BROADCASTING Giant whispering and coughing machines, But the Quietus shaped by thieves Broadcasts from a churchyard sleeved With coats that serve as muscle: The wavebands glowing overpower The rabid storms of chording where Your child hands clap against the air. Beautifully devout before a spent Cascade of money pours from out A vast resettling of drums. Thence Begins the mental struggles of arcane Girls, who may not dance upon a floor Nor faces inside faces prick music. Vast Sundays and organ-frowned spaces Leave dark emptied trees behind Seas, where sotto voce tames the race Of gaoled men; and the sureness of Faith will dive into the bays and quays Which seem too straight or still-born. The light of rock attunes to sound But this noise contests the altar-lit Grounds of life’s lurch, groomed with Minds which govern sadness from ground Teas, but still the coffees of the earth Grind to dust the magmas of bent birth.
Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied at Oxford University. He has written thousands of poems and won three awards for his poetry. He tends to write in a bit of a fine frenzy. He adores prosody.