Posts tagged poem

The Child

This process in which we are transfixed
By the lacy mirage of happiness,
Finds us constantly befuddled by a pressing,
Yet distant engagement.

Like wine poured from a clay jug
We are falling crimson sweetness,
One day to wash away the grieving, sticky
Shroud and see things clearly, as they are.

I was not born a wanderer in these
Industrial fields, a marginalised rage
In the gutters of mechanised truths,
We alone are here to tell our story,
We alone will rise or fall.

We may lay back and view the synaptic
Firework show, the arabesque commotion
Of the dreamers eye, freed now a child
In creations infinite arms.

The echoes of imagination are the conduit for joy,
For love, for finer twists of life,
To bring our souls down here and
Tuck it in at night, then study the many
Faces we hide.

There are new ways of living, new ways
Of loving, and as time wears us down,
Whittles us away, we are born anew
In the darkness we gave away.

The child, returns to nature
In the timeless language of laughter.

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Mother’s Fire

She risks her life to give us life
She cannot know the depths we cry,

We tear our flesh to prove ourselves
When all she wants is a lighter spell,

When killing is a memory
Where we may sit in symmetry

And smoke ourselves into a dream
Of natures patterns and singing streams,

We cast shadows on her light
For the sake of broken love,

Painting ourselves into her womb,
To bury our hopes in a fearful tomb.

She gave her heart to him for life,
With faith she fell into the fire.

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Lightly Creeps My Father’s Wagon

We all wake up a little creased
Sometimes,
We’re all broken by the rules,
We cannot be pure in
Coca cola,
Our dreams are whiskey and ice.

Lightly creeps my Father’s wagon,
And blood moon
The undertow.

The palm leaves torn like pages,
We are loving like foreign animals,
Live between the lines of storms
And poetry,
To find our hearts, what a thing,
Alone in the wet dust
And ink.

There is a crippled road where
No trucks pass,
A forgotten drum that leads man
To the heart of the forest
And stone ceremonies.
An eagle feather freely given
Cannot touch the ground.

A distant fear like pollution
Or murder, cuts when the
Path is clearest.

Sometimes in the morning time
I like to write my first thoughts,
They’re like babies
In a pond,
Looking back to their mother.

A sweeter page with light strokes
Of poison. Dawn chorus;
Stirring chaos, the hum
Between the anvil and the hammer,
A swallow in flight
And frozen dreams of Venus,
Where the lightning fingers
The tattered flags
And his eyes are clearest,
His touch is static and faceless.

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Out through the night

I

You took us out through the night
And the sweep of indifference,
Toured the bright lights in pretty puddles
And sleeping city streets.

There was always a storm to tell.

Reaching out of ourselves we
Unlocked moments,
That ecstatic ride far from controls
And erratic neon shrouds,
Where no thing rises and falls far
From the pen.

How the rose brings many thorns
Like a careless invitation.

 

II
Leaning aimless, a blur of focus,
In dive bars and bazars we drunk some
Time to kill reason.
The relics and ashes of civilization
Belittle this poor excuse for debauchery.

That man is no Jesus.
Our procession has lost it’s sparkle
And in rebellion,
Too clumsy for magic or sage.
With one loving hand on despair,
Carrying cracked faces and books
Like an ambling prayer,

Filling each desolate steppe with romance
And foreign gestures.
Some are haunted by the word,
Most are cowards at the coal face of freedom.

 

III
Knelt on pews and crystal ashtrays
And slunk in dripping, nowhere alleys,
We rode on song and scraps,
Eating lunch off origami,
Taking shelter in the wind.

Poisoning fear was whiskey and piano,
Waking in a sweat of dew close to dawn;
So sick and shivering
In the scales of mediocrity.

When love and hate stare back
From the drained bottles,
When you analyse too close the tears in the labels,
Then heart descends, in fever and lazy to care
For the love plague and tiring colours.

Weak without umbilical urges the
Greatest tales of all-time
Fill the doubting waste paper basket.

The aching significance of our hidden language.
How discreetly we suffer the subtleties.

 

IV
The battered guitar and cheap candles
Guard the dusk,
Words falling between the gaps,
The mannequin troubadour escaping
The Grecian palate
For a splash of Ganges with familiar friends.

In those worn and polished gutters
I saw what this could mean.
I broke myself because there was no
Poetry in completion.

When I was torn at the loom you offered
A single golden stitch,
That kept me together, that made me itch.
You whistled like the weaver making patterns
With knots and coarse thread and all around a
Heavenly strain taut with purpose.

The ageing stains of wonder have circled us in,
Some call it life, some call it sin.
The inevitable ring of ignorance,
For what we have lost will never end.

No amount of tears will make it pure again,
No more wishing for easy forgiveness
Or homeward whispers,

Our human poem has the eyes of a child
Running away from resurrection.

 

V
You held my hand in the dead of night and
Knew those salty travellers tears,
The roots of my disbelief were not lost
In casual abstraction.

And now. Can you guess?
I don’t buy this depressive holiness.
Won’t carve out bile on a smoking crutch,
Won’t break down in flaming surrender.
I choose a raging isolation,

Irrelevant in this dystopia
I seek a reckoning with emptiness
To fill me heart with clarity,
The rider on those waves is lifted
Closer to reality,

You picked our wars
Without flaming crosses,
Your triumphs were the
Greatest mystery.

How will we find a way?
Without the harp and compass
To keep us from the rocks.

 

VI
So bring again the apple blossom to the
Shivering chills of Manhattan,
Bring the pilgrims papers and warm bread
Wrapped in memories,
Bring the mornings haze of forgiveness and
The scent of parks and hotel lobbies.
For I am sleepy and dawn is when I like.

Throw the curtains back and let me see the
Lines by your eyes that grow each time we laugh,
Your scratched compositions by candle light,
The subtitles of your foreign dreams
And silhouettes of perfect bodies.

No failures in longing for loves
Secret souvenirs.
Your gift was a sympathetic repose,
The way you made each tired glance unique.

 

VII
Now you’re raised
In some effortless simplicity,
What is, just is.
Was that you lingering in a sigh?

Out through the night,
Never weakened.
I hope the stars are kinder now
And your dancing away from all those
Yesterdays,

Wearing your heart in a knowing grin
Freed from the sadness in others beauty
And its faithful chains.

You took what you could,
You kept it close,
Maybe that is enough.

In a low voice, speak of glory.

 

For Leonard

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Dancing Moment

This moment dances
In time,
The only one;
Unique
And dazzling.

A nobody consumed
And vast,
Alone and all in
Nothingness.

One chance hanging,
To realise
Truth,
Before death
Takes our lies.

One nobody
In nothingness,
Afraid to dance,
To speak,
To cry.

This moment dances
In time,
The only one;
Unique
And dazzling.

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Gitanjali – Rabindranath Tagore

I had the pleasure of visiting Hay on Wye in Mid Wales last weekend. A charming place full of second hand book shops. Whilst taking in the poetry section of one of the characterful little book caves, I came across a copy of Gitanjali by Rabindarth Tagore, originally printed in 1921 by Macmillan and Co, St Martins Street, London. How could I resist?

67

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest
as well.
O thou beautiful, there in the nest it
is thy love that encloses the soul with
colours and sounds and odours.
There comes the morning with the
golden basket in her right hand bearing
the wreath of beauty, silently to crown
the earth.
And there comes the evening over
the lonely meadows deserted by herds,
through trackless paths, carrying cool
draughts of peace in her golden pitcher
from the western ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the infinite
sky for the soul to take her flight in,
reigns the stainless white radiance.
There is no day nor night, nor form nor
colour, and never, never a word.

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Perfectly Normal

We are connected

In a web of living colour

All shades of a gentle love;

Empty of meaning, far beyond belief,

Finding purpose in the

Harmony within,

Ever changing, we are…..

We are connected, we are related,

All energies interact

In the space in which we share;

The thoughts that rise,

The place where we hide,

A dusty mirror, the essence of all things.

We are linked and cannot deny

Our shared emotions,

The empathy that resides within us all,

No matter how muffled,

There is a voice that speaks truth

Deeply, from one heart,

A shared compassion,

The joy experienced in peace,

Our potential which cares

And forgives our numbness,

Our blindness within the light.

Divinity is perfectly normal.

In the energies we embody,

May we realise our innate power,

Realise our boundless nature,

Better to serve

By helping others and giving

Without recourse.

Always doing a little, for all;

A little more good, because we can

Be ever humble and simple.

Love reveals that darkness

Is filled with light.

May no one suffer in silence

And ever feel alone,

Separated from the freedom and instincts

Of an innocent child.

May we feel balance, here,

Conscious of our limitations,

Boundless between thought,

Aware of the dreamless states that come,

Awakened to the eternal.

Inside, outside,

Ever present.

Outside, inside,

All one.

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