Category Archives: Poem – Not Written By Me Though
The Doors of Midsummer
A breath of cloud moves east across Y Garn’s face.
Words are as scarce as swallows in a cold summer.
Anyway, anyway, they only grow from dream to tangled lie,
flowering like the bindweed covering all beneath,
Weighing down, weighing down until nothing else remains.
The doors have opened in every hill,
An invitation to join the dance and summer’s feast.
But we are taught to doubt generosity,
To look for the trap in openness and goodness
(nothing is true that comes so free and easy).
River and clouds are the rulers of this world
and they move on in their own time, unbidden.
Tune to a key that sings of endlessness, even though
no one here knows anything of that song.
For emotion is born from time and loss:
In timeless halls is no such thing.
No such thing but endless dance and bliss.
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And now for something completely different …
(Well slap me with a fish!)
He can hardly move.
One of his greatest fears materialised . . .
The transpired terror.
A foot pushes against a cheek;
Eyelid to bunion,
Left shoulder crushed like a crashed Cortina into a tight corner,
Spine into another.
Right knee in the most improbable of positions.
I have no intention of divulging where a big toe ends up.
He sometimes said, (though would admit to no other),
‘I fear being pigeonholed.
It scratches at me from reverberant recesses,
towering turrets in my head’.
As he tapped his tapering tonsure
An ancient panic etched into his forehead sketchily,
Like a child’s stick horse.
No, look closer, not a horse,
The terrifying spectre of a pony with just the one trick,
Who may, or may not, be a mirage.
When fretting, conviction takes shape,
Whispering into his ear that he’ll be spotted and slotted,
Judged and then nudged,
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Way to go, Monica.
Way to go, Esme.
Way to go, Ben.
Way to go, reader.
Way to go.
You can feel the teeth of this one. Enjoy.
Rime Riche – Monica Ferrell
You need me like ice needs the mountain
On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.
You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,
Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,
Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire
Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws
Of a pigeon taste that window-ledge on which it sits,
The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through
Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry.
Before you, the table of elements
Was lacking, and I as a noble gas floated
Free of attachment. Before you,
The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates
Some machinist at his desk merely clicked into place.
Simple and lovely Simply lovely.
What do I long for?
Love? Friendship? Company of people? Peace?
Sometimes I feel very lonely
And the more lonely I feel
the more lonely I want to be
I don’t want to talk to anyone
Don’t want to mix with people
I just want to dwell in my gloominess,
Submerge in my sorrows
No materialistic pleasure can calm me
Can give me peace
So what is it I want?
Who can understand?
How I’m feeling
What I’m feeling
What I’m longing for
for that great comfort, calmness, peace, delight
I felt when I was in my mother’s lap
I peeped into the past this afternoon,
left the sun’s bright smile for the grey drizzle
of a Winter, gabardine garbed and smoke
soaked. I stood on the station ramp under
the yellow light and watched the misery.
from here, the dreary scene of passive shame
takes a smaller place in the drama now –
the respectable doctor has become
a predator, a manipulative
abuser of power and dreams. The housewife
is angry and trapped, the husband stupid
and complacent. The story is deceit;
a halo is held around the struggle
for virtue, that in the clear crystal light
of our sophistication earns a wry
patronising smile. Now we hug dark lies
that are nurtured in the human struggle
and hover between scorn and sentiment.
DOVER BEACH – Matthew Arnold (Published 1867)
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
DOVER BEACH – The Fugs (Released 1967)
Reposted from https://goj913.wordpress.com/2017/11/17/cryptic-search/
For some background go to http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-wales-mid-wales-41809852
There now, lay it all down,
The soft memory and the memory of hard bone.
After the year’s first true frost
A dead sheep lies in the field becoming a dance of hawks and ravens.
And on a lonely hillside unremarked
A blaze has born the babies away.
A smudge of smoke and the light of morning
Is no prayer of peace to ones who wait
Empty-hearted for better news.
The village, warm now in sun, silent.
Thoughts unthought of before – friends vanished,
Those known, now unplaced, a hollowness
Around memory clung to.
It is an uncertain anchor to hold on to –
This world that blinks apart from day to day.
Should we rise and flow like the oak leaves
On the cold dark currents of the Irfon?
Or wrap around like ivy, cling like lichen bloom
To this weathered stone.
We are a thin soil…
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In memoriam Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria.
(Fly With The Wind KIM)
Yesterday, I found out about the passing of my friend, a prolific writer, and a wonderful poet, Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria https://silentlyheardonce.wordpress.com/ and my heart broke into a million pieces. Kim fought a brave battle but has decided to rest. However, she has left us with several words of wisdom. While reading her poignant poem below, I felt a searing pain in my chest thinking of all the times I’ve wasted fighting needless battles, blocking the sun and escaping the breeze.
Three weeks ago I was wheeled out of the operating theatre after an emergency surgery, for a fleeting moment, the thought passed through my mind, ‘what if this is the end?’
All that’s going to change now. To celebrate her life, we need to ponder on now, this moment, we should imprint every memories so that when our time comes, we would have lived!
I think what Kim was trying to say is…
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“How will I say where I end
Or where you begin” – Robin Williamson.
I’m calling in my marker
You have the wrong stiff, I replied
I’ve been scared stiff too long
Turned into crystal
Split apart under armadillo sun
Melted and became a resin lingua, beneath surface, hearing murmur
Of half forgotten plea
Smoke me if you must
You’ve got the flame
Though displeased not to gain my soul, ponder this …
What you cannot snap in two
Will one day be called beautiful
And all that pain it took
Just to keep walking
When the sun burned you to clay and turned you finally to river mud
When the last ounce of yes I can
Si su puede
Became Holy Lord I cannot endure
When you felt yourself
Wilt like wax candle of the saints, in midday sun
From alive, to oil, to fire and back again to blood
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