under the cowl
Without design or purpose Batman haunted the fibre and breath of my emergent childhood. He was the thrill of possible action and the immobility of grim tragedy, both rolled up in the same moment. I saw the shows on a neighbour’s tv, I read the b&w reprint books in trance, I placed the hues of blue in the jigsaw puzzles, I wore the costume to explore the possibility. Then I found the comics – imported, second hand, scattered numbers. A whole literature, a whole syntax, a whole lineage. A whole history deepened like a pocket – everything could be ‘read’ through history. I grew new emotion through Infantino’s skies and lines, I spoke discernment through Adam’s hands and brow, I smelt the docks of O’Neill’s scenes, I tipped the opportunities of Sprang’s angles. In so many ways I am Batman, but … shssh
^-~^o^~-^
1968
in the cities
the walls of shadows
receded from the page
inward
the bay was foggy
the bridge lights
hung – from overhead to
the other shore –
there were solitary
hills with a small tree that
reached over the
boroughs and districts
the ceiling was bottle green
the light was a triangle
and Batman paused
under his cowl
^-~^o^~-^
the Bat-parent
during the entire fourth flight
Robin was silent, ‘but then
what if …’ bracing his knees against
the wall under the sill Batman, ‘still
you haven’t …’ hung out locked
by Robin’s arms and, ‘if that were …’
caught the toddler falling, ‘even’ –
whump! – ‘then it …’ from the eighth
floor transfixed by the, ‘so it isn’t …’
red roof of the church looking,
‘yes …’ like a floor
^-~^o^~-^
the silent night
of the Batman
even while they carried
their gift-wrapped parcels
and looked to each other
with smiles of belief
the shop signs hummed
against the dark-marbled fronts
while above them the quiet floors
of stone-framed windows
looked east looked south
the same in an ink-black sky
enough to write a novel
in a single sitting
enough to hold a fleet of stars
above the skyline taxiing slowly
then the sky turns ink-green
the rooftop gathers ink-blue attention
and leaps without step
or swing through the glass
and cornice of city vistas and breeze
to shadow the guilt
to alley the share
to streetlight the fear
and river the rose
cast high and wide to the stars until
marzipan fingers reach
across the ink-purple sky
and marshmallow lights
go out
^-~^o^~-^
the Batman had kept
a roof-top vigil
for so long
staring into
the top-floor window
at the over-coated men
that the night sky had turned
red-vermillion red
and the Batman himself
was now eighty feet tall
face to face with the window
moonlight edged
his shoulder and forehead
and his cape flowed upwards
behind his unmoving cowl
^-~^o^~-^
Batworld
in 1966 Batman was costumed
in a pink and sky-blue world
by 1968 he stood on buildings
under bottle-green skies
by 1971 he was also hooded
in the black and yellow 40s
by 1973 his brow cape and hands
did the talking
in 1986 he retired
and the world filled with beige and traffic
^-~^o^~-^
Batman
stands on a
rooftop
his cape
standing out
surprised;
there are no people
in the buildings
or on the streets
just the moon
^-~^o^~-^
yes
I stood upon the rooftop
the great stage of dissent
the great stage of disclosure
but all my enemies
stood silent like buildings
but I stood upon the rooftops
^-~^o^~-^
as Batman
he could
climb
the
tower
on the OUTSIDE –
the tower is
a landscape
made vertical –
at the top –
on the pointed roof –
were thugs
who beat him
down with …
sleeping gas! –
he lifted
into space –
nothing to hold onto
but his identity –
as he caught hold
of the hour hand
at one o’clock
cape lifted
legs reaching he
hung above
the cars stretched
riddled and alive
^-~^o^~-^
Saturday
morning
TV
Batman
running stiffly
awkward angle
with the buildings as
the previous night’s
ash is swept out
^-~^o^~-^
Midnight Conference
the Batman leaned –
both hands –
on the desk
the paper was passed
to him
his cape billowed out
behind him
as he took it
he cast a red
Batshadow
on the yellow wall
^-~^o^~-^
in clear
oil air
the sky is always
mauve
the buildings
purple
the Boy Wonder
with glass eyes
points away
to the Batsignal
the Batman
holds the steering wheel
staring ahead
the light gleams
over his oily skin
and fleshface
anyway
^-~^o^~-^
on the crowded street
“excuse
me,” – and a guitar strummed
from a natural to a
seventh –
her brown shoes
stood on the angled street and
in jangled
clanging piano runs
Batman swooped down from the dark
rooftops and
stood with his cloak flapped ‘round him
^-~^o^~-^
a small group of people stepped out of the registry office. Clouds passed over the sun for a minute. The party split up. Some got into a car and said goodbye. Others walked over to the bus stop. The street was quiet. The bride glanced up and noticed the Batman perched on a ledge on the old office buildings. There was a cloud overhead. He had yellow eyes.
^-~^o^~-^
at midday the Batman walked across the square
his blue cloak billowed once
some of the people ate fruit
some of them stopped their children from falling in the fountain
some said he had white eyes
^-~^o^~-^
even though it was late
Saturday afternoon
and the sky was
dirty yellow and
even though there were only
telegraph poles to swing from still
Batman swooped down
to scoop Linda Paige –
who had fallen into a dream
like a mannequin –
from the path of the
tall tall truck
^-~^o^~-^
the batarang hit
the knuckle split
the fingers flew
the gun of the
thug who
in the orange air
brown suit and tie
was rather thinking
of the futility of life’s
activities
^-~^o^~-^
we play a game
while covered in oil costumes
I the solver
you the foiler
squeaking and clinging
as we move the pieces
the Batman
and the Riddler
^-~^o^~-^
fir trees
Batman jumped WHOOSH
from the car falling
from the cliff and falling apart
but really
there was a raspberry
ice lolly sky and vanilla
on the horizon
^-~^o^~-^
1965
yellow
whoosh marks from Batman’s cape
in the red red sky
^-~^o^~-^
through
the bright
yellow world
ran Batman
rising out of
BATMAN his head
locked in the great
cape held out
behind him
^-~^o^~-^
Let’s Go
left arms swung outwards
as they ran
under the orange moon
capes unfurled
their heads reached
through the oily night
with white eyes
^-~^o^~-^
strands as thick as rope
tangle the limbs and
cape of the Batman
which pull and crease as
the eight legs
no escape can’t move
and six eyes
chin in neck grimace
of the monster advances
but one hand is still free
a batarang still thrown
^-~^o^~-^
Statue of Liberty
not that the assailant stood
on the rim of her crown
and shot at the Batman secured
‘round her upstretched arm
not that the bullet grazed the arm and –
was that flesh
under the shards of stone? –
but that her right brow was
ever so slightly
creased
^-~^o^~-^
lost cape
on the yellow boards of the jetty
under the pink sky
Batman had snagged
his assailant reaching
far ahead with a fishing rod
aghh but the prey
in a green suit and question marks
who had effortlessly reached back
and guided the rod’s cast
was actually the Batman
himself
^-~^o^~-^
even though the light
behind the smashed glass
as the Batman crashed in
was lemon
fear was painted white
and blue across their
elbows and shoulders their
hair and hats and creases
it was all over
the Joker’s face
^-~^o^~-^
The Batline
Life-line
even while the Batman
pulled – his whole weight
folded back from the edge
of the water –
and Robin wholly relied on
the foot of rope between them
as though he were deep
out in the lake
the autumn trees and grass
on the far shore remained
orange
^-~^o^~-^
Christmas
short eyes: orange
street lamps
iron puddles
soon eyes:
winking
car lights 5:30
smart eyes:
papers
brush the ankles
crown eyes:
golden paper and
green eyes
arching eyes:
reindeer’s eyes
Batman’s eyes
coat of snow
crate of sharp eyes
cradle
^-~^o^~-^
©2012 This work is the property of the author.
Misfits' Miscellany 
I thought this series by Mark was too good and unique to pass on but it wouldn’t work as part of the one-poem-a-day schedule, so I decided to give it its own page. With a lot of help from Mark, who supplied the HTML, MM presents “under the cowl”, a series of poems about a man, his cape and his struggles with duality.
They are really cool and well presented , I am fast becoming a fan of his writing
Me too, Mark’s an interesting poet. He’s got his own thing going on. Nought wrong with that.
I think it is a very good thing
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