Looking Down At The Cathedral

7C78004C-80C1-4782-89B6-C866FF4ED090

Walk out with me upon the hill and feel
Words which are like this place I could not find.
Let me root you in the roots of my youth,
Now you cannot go and leave me behind.
See the stalagmite spire as it rises
Majestic, monument to our worship.
There’s ancient magic here in this place
Prayers and spells that hover over our lips.
Looking down we feel like the Gods we forget,
Anything possible in this moment
Because we are alone in paradise
Where love lingers immortal, heaven sent.
Fields of green fan out like fate far below
You’re already mine, I already know.

Advertisements

Waterloo Station

BAE6CEFD-5338-4387-A5DC-6D404C13076C

I like looking at the people:
Grey, gaping mouthed, headphones in, aimless in their hurry,
Disembarking strangers; embarking lovers…

I imagine I see two years ago us
As I stare from the window of my train.
We are shiny and new against the pallor of everybody else’s everyday dullness.
We stroll side by side down the platform.

I am on the wrong side, of course,
To truly picture the scene
But then I am always on the wrong side,
Wanting to step out into that remembered picture,
Hold the hand that wasn’t held,
Kiss you on the mouth, on the platform,
In full view of the me
Staring out from behind the glass,
On that other train
That idles here. Waiting.

Language of Love

My language of love speaks
In the words I give you
That fall in the tearing tears
Of separation and dissolve
Into nothing

My language of love speaks
In the holding of hands,
The smooth and soft against the rough
Of a storm that’s hard to navigate
In the dark.

My language of love speaks
In the wind
Howling around us lustily
Of longing as it breaks boughs
Caves in roofs

My language of love speaks
In every touch and taste
Every temptation
Of red apples given
By a coiled snake.

My language of love speaks,
Asks much, needs little
Words. Words
Of simple difficult feelings,
Impulsively given.

My language of love speaks
Only to you. Honest,
Simple, clear articulation
Of what you already know
But I still want you to hear.

A Little Tragedy

F39EDEC7-A7F7-4ACC-A2E0-CCAEDA7DF003

The alarm went this morning, early, and the light was gently creeping under the curtains. You were warm beside me and I didn’t want to leave. It made me think of this scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and had I been able to remember the exact words, I would have spoken them to you…

JULIET
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

JULIET
Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.

ROMEO
Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is’t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.F39EDEC7-A7F7-4ACC-A2E0-CCAEDA7DF003.jpeg

La Rosa Separada

An Easter Island poem for Easter time by a poet whose timeless poems are fascinating for their beauty and their power.

La Rosa Separada – a translation of poem 1

Easter Island and Pablo Neruda

83AD38FC-9F15-4D4E-9A24-93C307774D5F

I

Today is that day, the day that carried
a desperate light that since has died.
Don’t let the squatters know:
let’s keep it all between us,
day, between your bell
and my secret.

Today is dead winter in the forgotten land
that comes to visit me, with a cross on the map
and a volcano in the snow, to return to me,
to return again the water
fallen on the roof of my childhood.
Today when the sun began with its shafts
to tell the story, so clear, so old,
the slanting rain fell like a sword,
the rain my hard heart welcomes.

You, my love, still asleep in August,
my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geography
kiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither,
you, vestment of my persistent song,
today you are reborn again and with the sky’s
black water confuse me and compel me:
I must renew my bones in your kingdom,
I must still uncloud my earthly duties.

The Next Last Time

The next last time
I spoke to you
Was the next last time
I looked into your eyes
And for the next last time
Got lost in them again.
That next last time
Should have been longer
So that for the next last time
When you kissed me,

When you kissed me…

It could have turned into the next last time
You felt my hands searching
For the next last time
To Touch you,
For a next last time to
Take you in my mouth and
Make that next last time
Even harder.

Irony

I went for a walk this evening, trying to clear my head but life seemed to have other ideas because I found these poems, or maybe ramblings, folded up and forgotten in the pocket of the old coat I was wearing. Who knows how long they have been there or even why they ended up there and I can’t even remember when I wrote them but I know who they are about. Whilst they are not particularly good, I like the rawness and the truthfulness of them written up like this. It suits my mood.
55E3A697-2123-4D15-BA99-2E058E9356D9

674C6ED9-1C83-46ED-AED1-40819950ED64

‘The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame’ by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Another little treasure…

B85CE9E9-29C2-45C6-9054-14754BCC239B

No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came,
There was her place. No matter what men said,
No matter what she was; living or dead,
Faithful or not, he loved her all the same.
The story was as old as human shame,
But ever since that lonely night she fled,
With books to blind him, he had only read
The story of the ashes and the flame.

There she was always coming pretty soon
To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes
That had in them the laughter of the moon
For baffled lovers, and to make him think —
Before she gave him time enough to wink —
Her kisses were the keys to Paradise.