Looking for My Name

I'm looking for my name.
Have you seen it?

It cannot be
a sound invented
by someone else
before I could speak
because your name is invented 

only by you.

Nor can it be
a sound copied
from man to child
across so many centuries
nobody really knows
where it came from
because I know
where my name comes from.

It comes from
the deepest part of me,
deep and dark and wet,
where muscles pound
and light is myth.

It comes from
the tenderest part of me,
which I'm afraid to touch
in case I feel
the flickering of eyelashes
magnified by a million.

It comes from
the youngest part of me,
as young as the unborn future,
so young
it is coming into being
forever.

So I know where my name comes from,
but that doesn't help me know
where it is.

It's in an unnamed place
as layered as road
as hidden as hurt
as alive as magma.

And when I find it,
I will carry it to the Sun
in the East,
hold it up
in my two hands
and blow.

Flower Rocket

You can listen to me reading this poem here.

A rocket went up
Into the sky today,
And from its thrusters
There came
A great unbroken stream
Of potpourri,
And inside the rocket,
Every room
And every bay
And every locker
Was full of flowers:
Red ones,
Blue ones,
Flowers whose petals
Were shaped like bottles,
Flowers whose odours
Evoked memories
Of grandmothers.
Flying the rocket
Were flower-people in uniforms
With big flower-shaped heads,
And the two lieutenant flowers
Saluted to the captain flower
And smiled,
And the captain flower
Saluted back
And smiled,
And the rocket went up and up
And around and around.
And when it reached
Its apogee,
One of the lieutenant flowers
Wrote down
Their exact distance
From the directrix:
An imaginary line
Above their heads
That went out into space
And touched the edges
Of the universe.
And the lieutenant flowers
And the captain flower
All looked at each other,
And they smiled.
And then the rocket
began to fall,
And the potpourri
That came streaming
From its thrusters
Now sprayed upwards
Like the water sprinkler
In Piccadilly Gardens.
And it continued
To fall;
It plunged,
It plummeted,
It dropped like
A plump peach.
And at twelve minutes
Past four
On Tuesday, the 23rd
Of May,
One hour
And thirty-seven minutes
After it was launched,
It entered the waters
Of the Pacific Ocean
At Point Nemo.
But now,
Instead of falling,
It was passed from palm
To palm
By the great watery hands
That lie in the ocean,
And wait
For the signal
To applaud.
The ship tumbled
And spun,
And bubbles went up
To the surface
As it sank.
Finally,
Its nose hit
The bottom
Of the Ocean
And slowly,
As though bruised,
It lowered itself
And lay down
On the Ocean bed.
All the flowers
Were dead.
The flower-people had taken
Revolvers
Out of their holsters
And blown their heads off
Ten minutes previously.
And when the metal
Of the rocket
was no longer
Too hot,
Fish would come up
And look through the windows
And mouth words
That are not
In any dictionary
And will never be
Spoken.

Unsupervised One Saturday

At ten o'clock, one Saturday, 
I sellotaped razor blades all over my body 
and wondered why I did not become 
sharp. 

At twenty past ten, I wrote myself in 
as the recipient on all my cheques 
and wondered why I did not become 
rich. 

At quarter past eleven, I cracked all the eggs, 
hundreds of them, into one vast bowl 
and mixed them all together 
in an effort to understand 
the questions of life and motherhood, but 
the vast gluey mixture 
just sat there and shone in the morning sunlight, froth like 

spit. 

It was neither water nor air. 
It was bodyful and knowing. 
I thought I could hear it laughing. 
I tossed in all the egg shells, 
but it did not make it better. 
In fact, it made it 

worse. 

At five to twelve, I broke a living room window 
and wondered why my home did not fill with 

air.

At half past one, I threw all the books on the floor 
and wondered why the words did not mingle and mate and make more 

books.

At five to two, I looked in the mirror 
and saw that I bled from the razor blades and the broken glass 

and had bits of dried egg yolk on my glasses. 
I took my glasses off, rubbed my eyes 
and wished that I hadn't done 

any of it. 

Then I went and I filled every container with water 
and put each one on the floor. 
I made a museum of water. 

I made a regiment of a water army. 
I kept doing it. 
I couldn't remember if I'd done it before. 
The water vessels looked noble and various. 
It looked like a forest. 

I felt like 

a giant. 

Soon, the water rose up like a tide and carried me 
and my sellotape and razors and my books and my eggs, 
and we all flowed through the hole in the window 
and down the hill and into the river and 

away.