This tender night, Rose, you and I
We lie upon this grass.
Soft and lush, it echoes green,
And star-shadows pass,
Their light they silver, write in runes,
On the pages of your face,
Like notes of music in the dark,
Our destinies they trace.
Your hair falls tumbling all around,
Your lips on mine are warm,
We shape a place in starlight still,
And sheltered from the storm.
Our arms, twining, pining weave,
Around us, grasping feel,
Your skin glows upon me soft,
Your child-like laughter peals.
Some goddess of my dreams you seem,
You taste of honey-combs,
You smell like raindrops on dry leaves,
On shingle-beach sea foam.
I love you
Like sunlight loves the blossoms white,
Upon whose face it shines.
Like the flowers I love my sun,
Your light in skies of mine.
I love you
Like parched earth loves the rain,
Whose warm tears slowly seep,
Down to the earth's thirsting soul,
That love-lorn dryly weeps.
Then with star-strung symphonies,
Raining cloudy tears that pine,
As your breath's vapours rise and fall,
And mingle into mine,
Crazed images and visions all,
Are running through my head,
And swirling dance like blankets whirl,
Around you on your bed.
The rain-song of my summer love,
Is sprouting from your kiss,
The mystic harmonies we string,
Are fading into bliss.
A maydance. Drunken dizzy bees,
The sleep of a thousand years,
Salty-sweet the pangs of love,
Trickle down my cheeks as tears.
The mad fiddler, noise and cricket song,
In soggy monsson trees,
We danced, we laughed and on the winds,
Sang unsung melodies.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
A Love Song: Part Two
"Can we dance?", I took your hand,
And endlessly we whirled,
Whilst soft the leaves of summer fell,
And broken brown, they twirled.
You left me, you left me here,
Two summers gone, and spring,
Shall ne'er again such soft delight,
In it's warm kisses bring.
A blasted heath stands where you stood,
A desert where you lay,
An empty grave where dusty swirl,
My colours turn to grey.
A leaf in time, you withered, fell,
A leaf, you came and went.
Oh evergreen is my darkness now,
Your feeble candle spent.
But there within that sheltered place,
Where seasons soft we stayed,
Within the fields of timeless love,
Where our feet had strayed,
A single blessed flower, bright,
Upon that field it grows,
You've secret kissed that sacred spot,
Love sprouts anew, my Rose.
And endlessly we whirled,
Whilst soft the leaves of summer fell,
And broken brown, they twirled.
You left me, you left me here,
Two summers gone, and spring,
Shall ne'er again such soft delight,
In it's warm kisses bring.
A blasted heath stands where you stood,
A desert where you lay,
An empty grave where dusty swirl,
My colours turn to grey.
A leaf in time, you withered, fell,
A leaf, you came and went.
Oh evergreen is my darkness now,
Your feeble candle spent.
But there within that sheltered place,
Where seasons soft we stayed,
Within the fields of timeless love,
Where our feet had strayed,
A single blessed flower, bright,
Upon that field it grows,
You've secret kissed that sacred spot,
Love sprouts anew, my Rose.
Dry
DRY
' And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume? ' - T.S Eliot - 'The Love Song of J.Alfred
Prufrock'
Why do I cry today?
Why are my eyes so red
And yet my pen so dry?
Ostentatious clouds of pain
Run tears now down my sky.
Is it because-
The dead child rots on the street,
The sacrificial lamb in panic bleats,
That i pontificate like Keats?
Or because-
The cancer-ridden lady,
Is screaming at all the Gods,
To end her tortured soul?
Why are these words so hard,
To find, to grind and to spit out?
Is not the disease-plagued child,
Crying out aloud?
Is that not muse enough for me?
Ain't it sad enough for poetry?
Aren't the lovers all star-crossed,
Aren't the graves still grey?
Isn't darkness still colder,
Than the feeble light of day?
It is because-
I AM DRY.
Why do I try,
To weep the tears of others,
For whom I care a damn?
Whose existence matters not,
To who or what I am.
But still, I try, I try,
To speak the pain of all,
To take the lonely fall,
To bite the cyanide of those,
Whose pain finds no verse or prose,
But runs silent down their cheeks,
In crystal tears of pain.
(Aha! Was that not poetic of me!,
Is not my genius clear to see!)
My hands are shaking.
It is not because-
I swoon in vicarious dreams,
Lit not by candle-light,
But by Darkness' black beams.
I know why my hands are shaking.
My hands are shaking beacuse they know.
The truth.
They know that I am hollow.
They know that I am false.
Know that I write these here words,
Only to pin them up on walls.
I speak stolen words,
Whispered in those halls,
Where dead poets crawl,
Over broken graves of poets dead.
Listen, can you hear them?
Poets repeating poets,
Repeating poems of old.
Same words, same tales,
In 'New Verse' told.
These words, these letters I spit out,
I regurgitate their lies.
The blessed God of Poetry,
In a hidden corner cries.
And you, reader, cut my words.
Soak them, wash them,
Hang them out to dry.
'Rythmn', 'Metre', 'Ryhme' and 'Style'
Are all polluting my clear skies.
You hear, you read, and then you say,
"Hey man! Your not too bad!",
Or,
"Your not so great,
You should have used those ryhming couplets,
Without any rebate..."
Shut up.
And listen. Listen to me now.
Shut your stupid, dumb, repeating mouth.
Repeating words, repeated since,
Repeating time began.
Listen. Just hear what I say, hear what I say.
But what do I say?
What do I say?
What do I say?
What could I say,
That's never been spat on this dust before,
Or like a donkey brayed?
' And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume? ' - T.S Eliot - 'The Love Song of J.Alfred
Prufrock'
Why do I cry today?
Why are my eyes so red
And yet my pen so dry?
Ostentatious clouds of pain
Run tears now down my sky.
Is it because-
The dead child rots on the street,
The sacrificial lamb in panic bleats,
That i pontificate like Keats?
Or because-
The cancer-ridden lady,
Is screaming at all the Gods,
To end her tortured soul?
Why are these words so hard,
To find, to grind and to spit out?
Is not the disease-plagued child,
Crying out aloud?
Is that not muse enough for me?
Ain't it sad enough for poetry?
Aren't the lovers all star-crossed,
Aren't the graves still grey?
Isn't darkness still colder,
Than the feeble light of day?
It is because-
I AM DRY.
Why do I try,
To weep the tears of others,
For whom I care a damn?
Whose existence matters not,
To who or what I am.
But still, I try, I try,
To speak the pain of all,
To take the lonely fall,
To bite the cyanide of those,
Whose pain finds no verse or prose,
But runs silent down their cheeks,
In crystal tears of pain.
(Aha! Was that not poetic of me!,
Is not my genius clear to see!)
My hands are shaking.
It is not because-
I swoon in vicarious dreams,
Lit not by candle-light,
But by Darkness' black beams.
I know why my hands are shaking.
My hands are shaking beacuse they know.
The truth.
They know that I am hollow.
They know that I am false.
Know that I write these here words,
Only to pin them up on walls.
I speak stolen words,
Whispered in those halls,
Where dead poets crawl,
Over broken graves of poets dead.
Listen, can you hear them?
Poets repeating poets,
Repeating poems of old.
Same words, same tales,
In 'New Verse' told.
These words, these letters I spit out,
I regurgitate their lies.
The blessed God of Poetry,
In a hidden corner cries.
And you, reader, cut my words.
Soak them, wash them,
Hang them out to dry.
'Rythmn', 'Metre', 'Ryhme' and 'Style'
Are all polluting my clear skies.
You hear, you read, and then you say,
"Hey man! Your not too bad!",
Or,
"Your not so great,
You should have used those ryhming couplets,
Without any rebate..."
Shut up.
And listen. Listen to me now.
Shut your stupid, dumb, repeating mouth.
Repeating words, repeated since,
Repeating time began.
Listen. Just hear what I say, hear what I say.
But what do I say?
What do I say?
What do I say?
What could I say,
That's never been spat on this dust before,
Or like a donkey brayed?
The Hospital Waiting Room
A waiting room, a hospital,
2am, with blurry eyes,
I drowsy, peer, as soft sleep curls,
And like a blanket lies.
A print machine hums lonely,
Tunes in an half-lit room,
Sings soft sestinas in the dark,
To shadows in the gloom.
Outside the hospital I see,
A flashing neon sign,
The girl in the Advert stares at me,
Says, "Buy this fancy wine"..
Upstairs, my Grandma's life's road wends,
80 years, a kidney stone,
For Death is chewing on the ends,
Of her life and of her bones.
Ma's eyes seem dark, seem dark and gaunt,
Her childhood memories die,
And tears of age have stained the joy,
In Grandma's lullabies.
My ostentatious Aunt now weeps,
And howling has a fit,
I wonder if she hurts down deep,
Or stops to think a bit.
My Uncle, cold, says not a word,
Estranged from her he was,
And now he thinks it quite absurd
At death for life to pause.
But there in that cold darkened hall,
Where tears of pain streamed down,
No whispered words did I let fall,
Nor howled, the pain to drown.
Yet here I am with pen in hand,
Regurgitating tears,
But down inside i'm dry as sand,
Forgive me Grandma dear.
Oh Grandma please do forgive me,
I love you still, it's true,
But now i've become a poet, you see,
And this is what I do.
The print machine, so quiet it is,
But when you press on it,
It's inner poetry shall whiz,
And noisy squeaks shall spit.
Those Ads upon the car-blocked roads,
Those Ads that flash up high,
Showing pretty things in tiny clothes,
Selling coloured lies.
Like the machine and like those Ads,
I flash, I stir, I squeak.
Though Grandma taught me how it's bad,
Such filthy lies to speak.
Upstairs, my Grandma's writhing, curled,
As if on fire burned,
The printers and the Ads of the world,
Serenely unconcerned.
We live in little bubble worlds,
ME, I, MY, it's true,
Grandma look at this poem unfurled
Ostensibly for you
2am, with blurry eyes,
I drowsy, peer, as soft sleep curls,
And like a blanket lies.
A print machine hums lonely,
Tunes in an half-lit room,
Sings soft sestinas in the dark,
To shadows in the gloom.
Outside the hospital I see,
A flashing neon sign,
The girl in the Advert stares at me,
Says, "Buy this fancy wine"..
Upstairs, my Grandma's life's road wends,
80 years, a kidney stone,
For Death is chewing on the ends,
Of her life and of her bones.
Ma's eyes seem dark, seem dark and gaunt,
Her childhood memories die,
And tears of age have stained the joy,
In Grandma's lullabies.
My ostentatious Aunt now weeps,
And howling has a fit,
I wonder if she hurts down deep,
Or stops to think a bit.
My Uncle, cold, says not a word,
Estranged from her he was,
And now he thinks it quite absurd
At death for life to pause.
But there in that cold darkened hall,
Where tears of pain streamed down,
No whispered words did I let fall,
Nor howled, the pain to drown.
Yet here I am with pen in hand,
Regurgitating tears,
But down inside i'm dry as sand,
Forgive me Grandma dear.
Oh Grandma please do forgive me,
I love you still, it's true,
But now i've become a poet, you see,
And this is what I do.
The print machine, so quiet it is,
But when you press on it,
It's inner poetry shall whiz,
And noisy squeaks shall spit.
Those Ads upon the car-blocked roads,
Those Ads that flash up high,
Showing pretty things in tiny clothes,
Selling coloured lies.
Like the machine and like those Ads,
I flash, I stir, I squeak.
Though Grandma taught me how it's bad,
Such filthy lies to speak.
Upstairs, my Grandma's writhing, curled,
As if on fire burned,
The printers and the Ads of the world,
Serenely unconcerned.
We live in little bubble worlds,
ME, I, MY, it's true,
Grandma look at this poem unfurled
Ostensibly for you
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