Plays out Don Juan trope
Imagining them all his
Spends his life dreaming
The slippery slope
Into desire’s abyss
And ends up screaming
MADLY IN LOVE
Her life redrawn as a comic strip … sans comedy.
No longer that dynamic duo. Batteries flat.
Bats in the belfry, robbin’ bewildered senses blind.
And … adrift might best describe it. Hooked, blind and snookered.
…..(He is the one?)
Even lying beside her, not truly here, he lies
oceans away, behind cold fronts, lines of icy bars,
biting winds, squalls of temper, hurricanes of contempt.
Comforts herself with poetry and sweet memories
…..(He is the one!)
that turn to nightmares where he’s drowning, calling her name.
Then she is there, reviving him (mouth to mouth, of course).
Waking to find him gone she recaulks her leaky fancies,
sets her sails for yet another day tacking upwind.
…..(He is the one!)
Eschewing havens, but never her hope, she soldiers on,
soiled sails reduced to tatters, she rows from pole to pole,
trawls the seven seas. Her treasure? Nowhere to be seen.
He has unfurled his true colours: the skull and crossbones.
…..(He is the gone.)
VINCENT’S BROTHER’S BROTHER
Are you also one
I wonder who are unknown
Until they are gone?
Two children were each given an acorn to plant.
The first was interested, pleased, impressed, deeply moved as it gradually grew into an oak tree, a transformation she could never have anticipated, scarcely have believed possible.
The other was bitterly disappointed.
She had wanted a beech tree.
The rest is superfluous
Responsible for them all
Whenever I find myself
Lost in my losing of you
It is not of course you
That I am losing, oh no
But truth to tell myself
……………………………………………………………………………………………Pour Alain Fournier
Leaning close to a tape recorder speaker
To search old pop songs for her memories – are they hollow men?
(You can detect the echo between record player and microphone
Across the big room near Birmingham where they were recorded)
As a saint you have tried to detach yourself
You have told every little secret to many people
To destroy the purity you have repeated your stupid story
Till it runs like a gutter with nameless old remains of words
Broken in half the fragile beauty of spring
And sucked at the bones – walked a hundred times by the same river
Leaning over sad parapets to search again for the flecks of dreams
Which unlike your memories, failed saint, you could never destroy
As you still feel the need to defend yourself
Against the chink of coins made by other people’s memories
Tired of generosity and jealous somehow of their secret sighs
You swear that you were wrong and will be a miser now with them
Are you ready then to find the hidden path
Which leads to a domain ringed by trees that in your youth you sought?
Failing by yourself (nothing is left when all has been destroyed) can you
Ask another, bohemian herself, to complete the map?
You stare at her as she stares at someone else
You have nothing to say, but if she ever slept beside you
Next day, as militants searched for solidarity and saints for God
Perhaps you could search through your blankets for long strands of her hair