Sonnet: The Death Knell of Love

the-murderess-1906

Dreams when you sleep – nightmares when you rise –

A solar shadow casting out a shadow of sun;

Clouds are in the earth – not in the skies –

And pain is wrapped up in a ribbon of fun

That unravels, unrolls, purls and flows out,

Like a river of ruin, chirping with disaster,

Peeling the lips off of every smiling mouth,

And hacking at the legs that would try to run faster,

To escape, to reach – to embrace happiness,

Before that unhappy candle is snuffed into dark,

And the melody you believed assured you tenderness,

Reaches your ears as a coarse, ugly bark;

The scream of the banshee – the duellist’s lost glove –

Hollowness without comfort – the death knell of love

 

 

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Poem: Tender Oblivion

delville_treasures_satan1

I.

O, how can I take interest in art,

When all is within a frame encaged?

When beauty is kept from me apart,

And the words cannot escape the page?

II.

I have felt art travel through me in a body’s form,

Wrestled with finer hair than any filigree,

Keenly caressed by soft hands – by beauty torn

O, when will life beat again for me?

III.

All the genius of the world becomes as spiritless lead,

When your life-renewing bliss inspirits me not,

I lie pallid – anesthetized – in Apathy’s own bed;

A patient, unmedicated – by love’s nurses forgot

IV.

Infuse me with your blood – hatch phoenixes in my cells –

Lend me your lungs through the donation of a kiss;

Replace torpid silence with the clamour of your bells,

And if I needs must miss you – give me something to miss!

V.

Give me time – give me touch – give me a new pair of wings!

So I can take flight into realms unknown,

Show me the resistless curvature of Infinity’s rings,

And let me learn how happiness can find its home,

VI.

In the nestlings and nuzzlings of enraptured lovers, conjoined,

In The Milk Way Woman – and the star-blackened Man,

From the imperilled pageantry of illusion were we protestlessly purloined,

But how Reality teases – it will – and it can!

VII.

To satisfy your dreams in the shriek of a moment,

Inviting you into the halls of its opulent repast,

And then to be thwarted by endless postponement,

Dull cloying heaviness bereaves – leaves you aghast,

VIII.

Now tyrannized by ghosts – malignant memories –

Until that triumphal hour when your happiness returns,

Directionless, adrift, on sea-monstered seas,

By the profits of pain is your currency earned

IX.

While passion, in the meantime, is stoked in the waiting,

A fire needs contact to be quenched and subdued,

With emotion-filled waters – it yearns for the mating –

It gives up the pursuit on being pursued

X.

What then? What then? Only you can decide

If from this gallery I am ghostlessly removed,

Over-fathom me with your waters –pulse in your tide –

May this pale, languorous statute with frail flesh be renewed

XI.

For, if flesh must be frail – I want you to kill mine –

To make it wear away by being over-touched,

Rend me with your thorns – choke me with your vines –

Don’t give me just enough – but too much, too much!

XII.

I want to be consumed by the onslaught of your closeness,

To be carved apart, dismembered, by a body too soft,

Reduce to ruins my temporal fastness,

In your blood-drawing clutches lift me aloft!

XIII.

In that tender oblivion of interweaving pulsation –

You can be the stars – I will be the night –

Fill me up with a supernova’s bedazzalation!

Show me how softness can murder all might

XIV.

All might, all night, talk and breathe hard till morning,

An asthma attack – or Euphoria’s Curse?

Shock me – terrify me – give me no warning –

No time to notify coroner or hearse

XV.

I am wealthy with new passion – lustful for spending –

The merging of opposites – the serpent and the bow –

Coiling or uncoiling – ended and never-ending –

Loving the unknown in what we wish to be known

XVI.

And so I wait patiently, with impatient yearning,

Exhausted by desire – enlivened – inflamed –

And in-between two sheets, with fertility burning,

I long to hear your softly whimper my biblical name

 

Poem: Sonnet On Despair

munch

Caught in the pall of joy’s costly shadow,

Words reversed and erased, blot for blot,

Famine reigns over a once fertile meadow,

And the poet, delight-lorn, is densely distraught,

He feels hands where hands no longer linger;

Dreams are the places where the future rehearses,

Prophecies choke the larynx of the prophetic singer,

The nightmare of the present stored in history’s verses,

You start a fire – but you cannot start a fire –

Pain’s perfume pulses in smoking ashes

To be desired – and to feel desire –

All the caresses turn into rashes

When hope’s illuminated manuscript, seductively faded,

Leaves the child’s innocent heart, corrupted and jaded

 

Poem: Loving In A Small Way

love

Building upon the light of the past –

And the wealth of cows is the greenness

Of grass – and, though my joints sizzle,

And my muscles are sloughing, I can still

Feel the stirring tremors of heaven, in

Every beautiful warning

*

I am learning to love in a small way.

I am learning to miniaturize my passion,

So it is no more unwelcome or overwhelming,

Than a single raindrop in spring

*

For love endures longest in acts of

Smallness – the folding of grass –

In the sparkle of an eyelash –

And the wealth of the heart is

Only sustained by the gathering

In of the small

*

II.

And, though I can pole-vault to Heaven,

Cutting straight through time with my

Celestial gymnastics, I have become far

Stronger through learning to creep there;

To ascend in steady shuffles

 *

III.

So, I love in a small way –

And, if you can hear the beauty

In what is never quite said, then

You will know exactly what I

Mean

*

 

Poem: Woman in the Mackerel Shawl

Talmage, Algernon, 1871-1939; The Mackerel Shawl

You are the prism through which

Shines the light of my every

Experience; whatever I am,

Whatever I do, I think how

Much sweeter it would be

If I could share it with you;

Whether the art of painting,

Or ancestral architecture –

I want to hear your impressions –

To let you lecture – to pour forth

The gleanings of a most beautiful

Mind – the chains of which this

Locksmith hopes to unbind

II.

We could go to the art gallery together,

To escape the assaults of the drear autumn weather;

Make up stories about the characters in the paintings

We see:

Like The Woman in the Mackerel Shawl,

Her pain reflected in the mirror –

What is the cause – the origin of

Her fear? Is she hoping to look

Beautiful for an unfaithful love,

She knows even Venus hasn’t

The power to move? But the pain

Palpitates – she may not even

Lift the chain from its grate – better

To be imprisoned, than look in the

Eyes, of a paramour whose indifference

Cannot be disguised.

III.

But I have no one to make up

These stories with – no lover to

Fortify what my heart misgives –

A girl passes, clinging tightly, to

Her partner’s arm – the jealous

Beauty of that moment – my nerves

Are disarmed – even that seems a

Wish – a glass unfulfilled – (and it’s

No wonder I’m bereft after the last heart

I spilled!) – But still I look through this

Prism, colorizing the light, casting

Rays on my lonely train journey

Tonight

Poem: Visions of the Sea

thumb_11835

By the sea with you

You are wearing an electric

Blue dress – the same color

As the storm, which, even now

Is conducting the sea outside our

Villa into a crazed anti-petrifaction

Of chaotic ferment

*

The curtains rail against the

Inside and outside of the villa,

Like opaque sheets of strung-up

Skin, searching for a skeleton to

Starve to death with the famine

Of perfect definition

*

But we are both too

Tired to pay tribute to

The storm – instead, we

Pay drunken courtship to

Morpheus, the god of Dreams,

Lying foetal, intersect, with one

Another, on the darkened couch,

Swaddled in lighting, tenebrous,

And escorted by the presence of

Invisible oneiric courtiers, whose

Nature can only be alluded to in

The snuffing out of candles, and

The jettisoning of empty

Treasure chests, which will

Sink to the bottom of the

Ocean, never to be found

*

I know I am happy

Because I am asleep

There can be no sadness

In sleep, until the horrorful

Bliss of dreams is washed away

By the screaming tides of sentience –

The crisis of an indestructible consciousness

That longs to be forgotten

*

We have both drunk too much –

My tuxedo is damp from laughter

And dancing – whilst your dress still

Covets the jealous outlines of your body,

Which your dreams will tear off, and your

Death put back on

*

If the champagne’s gone anywhere,

It’s taken us both with it – as I dream,

Lodged in the haven of your sleeping

Heart, I feel that I am out in the wrestling

Arms of that stormy sea, and you are the frail

Raft – my angel in three boards,

That keeps me from going under

*

II.

You stir for a moment –

Your happy, drunken lids

Obliterate me with their

Favour; your gaze, lopsided,

Trying to emerge from

A liquor-soaked nervous

System, still a million

Miles from synchrony

*

In the phantasmagoria

Of that half-waked moment –

Can these loveless lips borrow

That semi-conscious kiss from

The future, if I promise to

Dutifully return it once time

Crystallizes it into reality?

*

I can feel it all so fully,

So sensuously, so lucidly,

So urgently

*

But I am not in that

Storm-girt room with you –

Only in the stifling room of

My sadness-girt, lonesome

Cosmos of consciousness,

Watching The Proms after

A show, trying to find some

Auspicious truth, in the fragile

Clutter of my dreams

*

What will I find there

To hold onto? A few kind

Words? A mint edition collection

Of now stale embraces? A scattering

Of this seasons prophecies, all by

Wishes misconstrued?

*

I will find what I will

Find. And once the parties

Are all over, and the glasses

Have been drained, I will

Abscond to that storm-girt

Villa, and wait for you to

Find me

Poem: The Heart Unmasked (Seven Hells/Heavens in Seven Parts)

 

blake

PART ONE – INFERNO

How can I do it?

How can I be the poet, who

Epitomizes the pain of this age, to

Everyone’s satisfaction? I feel the

Constant sheddings of impermanence –

Those fleeting moments of joy, all

Too quickly overwhelmed by that tide

Of despair; by that pain and despair, so real,

And so intense, that you thirst for it, and howl

For it, sigh for it, and scream for it – beseeching

All the embers to burn you up, in that

Loving madness of pain. I tried to

Take off my mask; to show you

My naked face – but my Plutonian Overlords

Only cram it on more tightly, affixing and

Oppressing me with identities, I

Wish I didn’t have to invent – Oh!

Great Phantom Gods of Pain! Please

Help me in my aim, to bespeak the pain

Of a generation – not for fame – but so

That in the pools of these wildish words,

Their myriad sufferings might be diffused;

Perfused with the kinship of suffering, that

Transcends any skeletons or bones.

This is why I want to take off my mask –

To show you the agonies of my mind – my skull

Scarified – the crumbling condominium

Of my heart, that both harrower and

Harrowing have pried: for my heart,

Like Heaven, is a mansion with many

Rooms: some vile, some atrocious,

Some bloody, and melodious – some

Filled with the purest of nightly whites,

That few have the courage to ingress.

Let me take you on a tour through

My heart – in the basement I

 Keep my childhood, where emotional

Impressions were chaotic, and, like Jude The Obscure,

I felt consigned to a reality I was doomed to abhor; where misunderstanding

Was to be the lady-in-waiting, beleaguering my future

Hours. From thence, we arrive at the kitchen,

Where my teenage years were prepared; amidst

A melee of experimentation, I re-designed and

Destroyed myself daily, hoping to hit upon

The secret formula, that would most assuage my

Pain – years in which every stranger was a potential

Assailant, saviour, or oppressor; and girls were

Mythical creatures, by which only other men were

Allowed to be loved – so, up above, I clung

To my guitar, as a six-stringed refuge, in

A storm misbegotten, drowning myself

In music, and overindulging on breath mints,

That I hoped that would clear the air of repulsion,

That drove people so far away

From me. As we descend

Through the lower tiers of the hells

I quarried for myself out of the rocks

Of my misguided youth, we find my years

Of Cynicism, stung by seclusion,

Scientific endeavour, and literary speculation;

Of wandering down the dual carriageway at

3AM, blood all over my arms and thighs – (I

Didn’t realize the wounds were so serious, and

That we would later have to amputate her entire

Left side) – stuck statuesque in infernal

Discotheques, whilst the morons of my

Generation, danced in ignorance around me,

Clutching their tridents and chains – Like I said –

These were misguided days, in which I sincerely

Believed, if I learned enough, and accumulated

Sufficient knowledge, perhaps I would eventually

Be loved – Finally, somebody did love me,

Loved me so much, that they had to overdose

Themselves on painkillers, just to render themselves

Sensible to me – these were the years spent

In higher towers, in which the gilded furnishings

Barely concealed, the blood on the wainscoting, swifter

Demolition revealed – in these apartments

I sought after macabre joys – of secret parades

Wrought, in uterine blood – of victimization

Circling the carousals of my mind; end of the

World arguments, that left my nerves in a wreck,

And the stains of suicide, like an albatross

Round my neck – how much hope I invested in this pain!

In this dark trial of love, that oversexed me to a state

Of begrudging climax, taut with the torn ligaments of woe;

Of rare aphrodisiacs – trips to the doctors –

Of life-time imprisonment, in a life-long bed

With a girl whose compassion knew not

How to grow – when it was all done and

Finished, and my ill-gotten liberty perplexed me

To higher states – we turn now into the adjoining room –

The gallery in which are hung, all the hearts

I’ve broken since – constructive demolitions, housing

A stony memorial of guilt, for the death of an

Ill-hatched parrot, who never should have been

Caged next to me; besides a filing cabinet, cataloguing

My subsequent disappointments, filed

Alphanumerically.

  1. PARADISO

But, let’s not deceived by this –

I don’t want to be some lopsided

Reporter, a dualistic biographer of

Slaughter, who only highlights the trials

Of life – and not the incorruptible joys

They helped to fertilize. So we’ll ascend

From Hell for a moment, to pay homage to

My favourite chamber – the one thus yclept:

‘HOPE OF THINGS TO COME –

HOPE OF LOVERS NEXT’ –

In this chamber, you are the sole

Occupant, an ageless muse, resplendent in

The raiment of the moon;

In bridal veil, white gown, and sail, I beseech

The scions of Heaven to stitch you into my

Future – I know we have little temporal

Acquaintance – but around you, already, I dance:

You are the choreographer of my days –

The executioner of my nights –

The denuder of my face –

The purveyor of my delights – Already,

My heart has become your principal

Exhibition – The Archive of your every

Expression – in which I display all the

Trophies that celebrate, any time I spend

With you. If Hell is the past,

And a loveless present – then this is why

I rail against Time, longing for

It to stop in its tracks, to speed into

The future, or to sometimes double-back:

Those frozen moments, which I wish, immortalized,

I could paint myself into – when you cross over

The threshold, into the sacred suzerainty of my

Arms – Oh! How I wish I could preserve such moments

Forever – pickle them in a jar – mummify them

In my memories, that know no near,

No far: that, like some waxing candle,

I did not have to see your proximity, snuffed

Out before me. And so I dream,

Of some secret chamber, some tax-free

Haven, some forbidden penthouse of

Heaven, where I keep you in my arms,

World without end, in a loving embrace

We never suspend: an embrace that overcomes

All boundaries; liberates all beings from

Discontent; every wound is healed; every

Wrong is righted; every corruption is

Purified, all guilt elided, all love

Heightened, and elevated to a state

Of boundless magnitude, enwreathed with

A corona of eroticism’s angels, triumphing

The music, that can’t help but resonate

Betwixt our lonesome souls – don’t you see

The crux of my anglicized delusion? That

Separate, we are but tiers of Hell; but

Together we become the fabric of Heaven?

So, I will rail against Time – Time, the

Ender and initiator of all pleasures and

Pains – Time – The closer and can-opener

Of all embraces – Time, which

Brought you to me, and which I despair, may,

Too soon, carry you away – Oh! Don’t

Delay! What are you waiting for?

BRING ME MY HEAVEN! Do what you

Must to me first, but just BRING ME

MY HEAVEN! Shoot me with arrows like

St. Edmund – nail me to a cross – make

Me read dross – toast me like Joan of

Arc – torture me like a Buddhist captive in

The hands of a Communist oppressor – only:

BRING ME MY HEAVEN! Bring me days

Of unuttered release, where you untutored

Kisses, will be the only language I will ever

Speak – a Lover’s Binary Code: parted lips

For ‘YES’ – Closed lips for ‘NO’ – supple

Lips for ‘ONE’ – parched lips for ‘ZERO’ –

How can I ever entertain such hopes? How

Do I have the audacity, to compose such

Luscious heavens? I am but a tramp, half-crazed,

Caught up in the malaise of unhappy existences,

I struggle to daily transmutate. How can I be your

Role model? How can I provide you with hope; except

For within, the sacred environs, of two tender arms,

That speak with greater eloquence, than my tongue

Ever can? For all my experience and disillusionment,

I still feel an affrighted virgin – a mountain monk

Celibate; killing myself with nettle soup, and

Chanting scriptures, that will have to suffice, in

Place of an absent touch. Bug am I not always being

Touched? Does not the sky embrace me?

Do not the mountains readily enthrone me? And,

Is it not the autumn mist, with which my soul

Is seasonally kissed? I am a fool – I could

Never be the hero – I must be Mercutio or

King Lear – Dear, dear, dear! I am too

Much of a prankster, a fixer, a trickster – but

Does not the Trickster, too, cry out for love? Does not

The Fixer demand a bride, to lay the follies of his benighted

Cunning aside? Someone to exculpate him

From his virginal taint – to be loved as a

Man – not an unhappy saint?

III. INTERMEZZO

So, you have seen some of it now –

I have allowed myself to be unmasked –

(Though with too much stage make-up

For this revelation to last) –

I have taken you as a tourist, through my heart –

Through my private Heavens and Hells –

Do you feel you know me better? Can you

Feel me within yourself? Do you hate me

More, or love me less? Or do you admire

Me for finally attempting to express, what,

For too long, my dignity, has assayed to suppress?

Ah, fuck dignity! Dignity be gone! I will crumple

Myself at your feet, like a failing conflagration, and

Demand that you touch me – that just once

You burn your fingers, on these icy pinnacles of flame:

My body is a fire,

Only you can put out,

But still – it is not enough –

There is too much left – I want to

Give you more, to explore every drawer,

Every last compartment, snow-strewn escarpment,

Every sun-scarred ridge; every last follicle

Of skin stung by mosquito or midge; I feel

Responsible – I want to give you some little

Hope – some stainless technique of solace

You can use as a rope. If I must

Give you more, then let it be this:

Be a musician to the moment;

A singer to the stars, a poetizer

Of experience, a raving drunkard

In every bar – be an intimate lover, to each

And every last thing: to every insect, bird, rock, man,

Woman, fish, or tree – to everything that sings:

Whatever you experience – celebrate it –

You every peril, your every pain, your

Every amnesty, your every chain; your joy,

Your grief, your wakefulness, your sleep, your

Ecstasy, your agony, your clarity, your confusion, your

Disparity, between what you love, and what

You would like to be – your love, your romance –

Your mad shaman’s dance – with this royal perfusion,

You can transport us all to gold – this is your sacred

Tool-kit – The Paint-box of your

Soul.

IV.

But, if you return into the raging

Prison, that I call my heart, you will

Find your name, writ upon every cell,

Emblazoned on every myocardial fibre – every

Throbbing wall of this blood-pumping dell. I chant your name to

Pass the time, and, doing thus, I have never felt

More alive, you are very easy to love – to you?

I fancy I am not – but perhaps amongst these

Wildish words, some understanding will be got.

V.

But, I cannot leave it there – I

Promised not to end on a pessimistic

Note; to give you some mote of hope – but

How can I urge others to self-believe, when to

The potential of being loved myself, I so struggle

To toast?

So, maybe it could happen –

Maybe you could love me –

Maybe I don’t have to be typecast as Koko,

And find my courtesans eloping with

Less headless men? Maybe? Maybe!

A thousand Maybes! A torrent of Maybes! A

Pigswill of Hope, groping for something on which

This hollow heart can float; consumed by grotesque

Diners, and the squalid old man who lives in my

Moat. Oh, Hope do not desert me! Pray,

Courage, lend me your oar, so I can help

Myself and others, get to The Other

Shore, and make it in time for my

Wedding Day – Oh look! – They’ve

Just thrown the bouquet! And on each

Painful convolvulus is written,

A charitable omen of Hope.

VI.

So, for now, time is still stood still –

Your tenancy in my arms, brooks no

Eviction, we need no conviction, to know

That the united front, of every heart beat’s exeunt,

Is the only pulse we need for our days – Let’s leave

It there, in that shallowest of Heavens. I will

Take off my mask, one last time, and

Crested aloft on un-urgent rhyme, I will

Leave you the space,

To kiss unclothed face –

Finally seeing inside,

With Hope open wide,

I climb up on the rocks

And am killed by my bride.

And, on what wisdom, has our bread been leavened?

That separate, we are but tiers of Hell – but Together

The Fabric

Of Heaven.

VII.

If I must

Give you more, then let it be this:

Be a musician to the moment;

A singer to the stars, a poetizer

Of experience, a raving drunkard

In every bar – be an intimate lover, to each

And every last thing: to every insect, bird, rock, man,

Woman, fish, or tree – to everything that sings:

Whatever you experience – celebrate it –

You every peril, your every pain, your

Every amnesty, your every chain; your joy,

Your grief, your wakefulness, your sleep, your

Ecstasy, your agony, your clarity, your confusion, your

Disparity, between what you love, and what

You would like to be – your love, your romance –

Your mad shaman’s dance – with this royal perfusion,

You can transport us all to gold – this is your sacred

Tool-kit – The Paint-box of your

Soul.

 

Secret Sonnet: A Love Poem in Five Parts

a-declaration-1883

Any time spent with you

Is never enough

I am greedy for you;

I always thirst for more

When you leave the room

It is as though someone has turned out the light,

Or blown out all the candles

My perception loses all reference to joy

And I am left, unanchored and adrift,

Dreaming of the time

When your sphinxian face

Will awake from its slumberous absence,

To beautify my palest dawnings

Candle wax drips down street lamps

And the cramped paintings on the walls

Intrude on the space

Where I might love you

Forever and ever

I know I am the crass, maniacal sort,

With my exquisite refinement of fanatical idiocy

But I really do care for you

And I only wish upon the stars

I see encoded in your face

That amidst your clustered galaxies

I might finally find my place

 

II.

Time has lost its lilt now

I no longer measure time in hours or days

But only in the temporal distances

Between the touches you give me

Like sands in an ebbing hour glass

That keep electrocuting one another

Shorter periods are construed

Through the panted breathes and swoons

Of the recited poetry, that reminds me of you;

That takes chisel and hammer to my sternum

To set my heart horrifically free

Against some tantalizing triptych

I’ll run the gauntlet of your affections

Until somebody takes me to pasture

To turn my hooves to glue

Ah! Will there ever be a ‘Me and You?’

Some fragile concatenation

Through the interpersonal fractals

Of our ever-morphing selves?

You are the Goddess of Poetry

The Detonator of Hearts

I need to catch a ride to your love

But my neighbour’s car won’t start

 

III.

My imagination runneth over

From the libation of your imagined tenderness

All the words I write

Will never be enough to fittingly extol you

Until I can unearth the hidden epic

Twinkling in your eyes

And crack the code

To the secret sonnet

That encrypts

The obscurity of your soul

This couldn’t even be called ‘yearning’ –

It’s just flat-out appreciation;

Appreciation for your attendance upon my reality

Which ignites it with impossible charm

Your smile is a fertile swamp of poetry

And your dreamy, glazed eyes

A tragic drama

In which I must be the sacred victim

 

IV.

 

So, maybe we could take a holiday somewhere,

And, as jay-walking caterpillars,

We could creep within one another’s cocoons,

And emerge from a matrimonial chrysalis –

A butterfly with infinite wings –

Our nervous systems linked

With insectile aviation

We’ll flutter about

Time’s roasted caverns

Until biological recidivism take us back

To cocoon together again

 

V.

 

But, I am still greedy for you

And I don’t intend to take a diet,

But glut and glut and glut

So I will wish upon the stars

I see encoded on your face

That amidst your clustered galaxies

I might finally take my

Place

 

 

Poem: Face With a View

diana-4

I would sooner look on your face

Than on any view in the world

You point out a sublime landscape to me

But all I can see is the sun

Dripping from your face

Illuminating the brilliantine marvels of your mind

How do you compass this strange vagabond?

Who, with his too-quick affections,

Can make declarations of love to complete strangers

And vows of eternity to a passing cloud?

But you are not stranger to me

I have seen that face before

Though you may not recognize mine

Your honking swan laugh ignites memories

Of other planets no star-gazer has ever spied

Oh, what must I do to prick your heart?

To make it awaken to my presence

As much as your presence

Has awoken my own?

But it’s all for the best:

I am a flighty bastard

And my affection is always for

The Abominably absent

While I flinch at those

Who are too accessible and close

Ocean winds batter the gothic mansion

Of my fragile heart

And my spirit scarcely stays

Long enough in my body

For me these words to speak

Oh, it has been a Frankenstein of a week!

But if you will just let me drink up

The view of that face

Then this old man

Will need no stairlift

To ascend to the second floor

Of love

 

Poem: The Poet’s Danger

bacchus

I have always been of the character

That expects too much, too soon

This mercurial wit

Can change himself in an hour

So why shouldn’t you?

Aye, I know nothing of constancy

I was built on falling leaves

And ocean-clashing rocks –

Not on established things

I sit brooding by the river

To reflect on my biographer’s migraines;

How a man can chisel himself

Out of nothing

And be both a gift and a curse

To all he that meets

Just to sit beside you is electric

To see how poetry tortures your face

And how the rainbow desuetude of autumn

Can move you to fragile tears

Still, I expect too much, too soon,

Hoping that a few words of mine

Will carry you aloft

Into the swirling cataclysm

Of lover’s fears, and lover’s woes,

Ah, there she goes!

I find it almost impossible to wish for anything

Without equally wishing against it

My prayers seldom get posted

Before I seize them at the garden gate

But I have no garden gate;

Only a maelstrom of identities

That thrash, and writhe, and flail about,

Like particles in an atomic collider:

One says ‘stay’ –

The other says ‘go’ –

One says ‘to’ –

The other says ‘fro’ –

So, forgive me if I try and leap

In all directions at once

But I can only get so close to you

Before something else calls me away

And this is forever the poet’s danger:

Fearing he may have revealed too much

Too soon, when events foresaid,

Are still resounding in your head,

But there is no use fearing such things;

I’d tear open my very skeleton

If I thought it would do you any good

But please – just indulge me a little

Allow me to sing for you, one last time,

So that the guilty cries of my swan song

Will drown out the soundtrack

Of incriminating evidence

That is certain to appear

My only apology is for:

Loving too easily, too infrequently,

Too quietly, and too haphazardly –

Yet it is also for this

That I apologize the least

Ah, a man can wean himself from all things

After writing poetry such as this

But still I stare into your stained-glass eyes

And long for another kiss