10.8.2012 • The Game

The Game

There is a game, no, more a sport, where the throwing of balls is of paramount importance. Yet it has nothing to do with all the sports and games that are commonly known, such as football, soccer, basketball and so forth; this game is unique. And rare, for very few know the rules. But it is more of a game, as I said, than a sport, and so competition runs like iron in the veins, thin yet vital, metallic, certain. In this game there are two teams, or in fact more like three, I don't quite remember the exact number, but the world never goes by numbers, the numbers go by the world. A player of the first team throws the ball, in a chaotic fashion, or not, but at any rate so that its course is not straight. Then another, of the second team, throws the other ball, always on the ground, so that it overcomes the first only by a little, passing above it, or slightly below as it were, and coming to a stop by it on the grass, for this game is always played on the grass, and if no grass is there then hardly is the game ever held, should the grass fail say, fail to appear, but everyone goes away or starts playing another game, a more sportslike game perhaps, which requires less of its players and of its grass. Then a third player, possibly from the third team if there is one, throws his own ball which must rest in between the other two balls, and if he succeeds he gets to start the next round. This process continues until everyone has failed or everyone has succeeded, or no-one has done either, which is just as well since failure or success are very vaguely defined in this game, so that competition and a noble spirit are paramount in being motivated to play it. Let alone learn it, for it is not a game apprehensible by logic or by experience, but only by self-transcendence, in that way it is not quite dissimilar to God. Then after everything is completely in place, or out of place, or at any rate when everyone has had enough, or rather more often more than enough, when everyone has as they say quite had it, then does the game begin.

8.8.2012 • terra cotta

terra cotta

sweat is so cunning
he thought
so able
as he watched it deftly pick its way
through the landscape of his rough skin
a hue of terracotta burned into it by the tireless sun

but he too had been tireless
he too had been able and cunning
and the mountain also was scorched earth
and their distant monarch
their impotent god
all-powerful in his monotonous course
was the same for them all

and unlike the sweat, he had always reached his destination
at the top of the mountain
always striving against the odds
and never succumbing
never defeated
never evaporated into nothingness
mid-way

and so he took a slow lungful of the still hot air
and pushed on
cart bricks and all
up the barren summery slope

uphill (the island wasn't of the size
that might accomodate any real mountains)
the house awaited half-built
a disharmonic protrusion in the dull brownish scene

his steps (it was always like that)
started off slowly
then sped up rather abruptly
then slowed gradually
as the road winded tirelessly upwards
and the man still and still resumed his course

in the sky (as often happened) a bird appeared
rather close
too close for comfort
a big black bird
and every time the bird appeared
he shivered and hid his face in his palms
and let the cart slide jerkily onto his torso
the support of his hands suddenly and unreasonably gone
and the bird come
come bird
come black bird
come closer come claw at my eyes
the little voice seemed to whisper
and the bird cawed terribly
terribly louder
and louder

on the ground (as sometimes) an ant was tracing the cart's
tracks in the rocky dirt
the ant was disproportionately large and friendly
its head alone was like a golf ball
its length exceeded his large palm's
and it licked the wheel now and then
with a long black tongue
as if to say
that the action of the wheel dug up a pleasant mineral
perhaps some sort of stimulant
and that the ant was very happy
almost intoxicated with the substance
its tongue looked harsh
but seemed to be soft

6.8.2012 • έλα

έλα

είπε το κορίτσι
έλα εδώ
είπε το αγόρι
έλα έλα είπε το κορίτσι
και πήγαν μαζί
το βράδυ κοιμήθηκαν μαζί
και το πρωί ήταν χειμώνας
ήπιαν ζεστό μαύρο τσάι
μαύρο σαν τη νύχτα
κι ο ήλιος σκαρφάλωνε τον ουρανό
σαν το φεγγάρι μες στο τσάι
και τα φυλλαράκια σα δέντρα
φυλλοβόλα το φθινόπωρο
τα ρεύματα του αέρα τα πηγαινόφερναν
δεξιά-αριστερά
το απόγευμα έτρεξαν μες στην πόλη
μέσα στα χωράφια
μες στο χιόνι
που απ’ τον ήλιο ιρίδιζε λίγο

το βράδυ
έκαναν μπάνιο
μαζί
άγγιξέ με
είπε το κορίτσι
έδειχνε σαν
κάτι ανείπωτο
το αγόρι κοίταξε
άγγιξε κατά λάθος τη σωλήνα του ζεστού
είπε ά! στο διάολο
συγγνώμη είπε
εγώ φταίω
που σε άγγιξα
ενώ ήξερα
ότι έκαιγες τόσο

6.8.2012 • woman crossing the street

It seems we are entering into an era of narrative poems. It may very well be as brief as the narratives of same, but it definitely does, with two poems to its tally after two days passed, have the air of an era.

Woman crossing the street

A woman crossed the street
but it was as if the street crossed her
as she walked on the warm damp asphalt
her footsteps formed gradual tracks on its malleable freshness
her feet left harshly their gradual tracks on its black infantile softness
like a baby’s skull
which pressed against firmly
changes shape and morphs into
another mammal
a bird
or a reptile
with oblique eyes
the woman walked on and the street passed her disinterestedly
trudging heavily below her feet
she heaved each leg before the next
with unequal toil
and sweat trickled through the trenches heavy across her face
false witnesses to inexistent years
—the girl appeared obviously older than she was
I could see it in her eyes, her inexorable eyes—
the pavement reached her with a crash

5.8.2012 • Mr. M.S.E.’s Moustache

Of Mr. M.S.E.’s Moustache

Sir, your moustache, it is not a contemptible moustache at all. Indeed, if ever I were to say anything whatever of your moustache, it would have to be something rather in the way of praise, if at the very least of a relative praise, taking into account the tendencies that pervade our current world and your rather young age, which both would and do normally obstruct the evolution of such a moustache as yours, or comparative, as to your peers in age and profession who seldom if ever cultivate such a dignified and respectable moustache, a moustache as it were which is worth of mention, at least when the discussion inevitably (as it does, does it not?) strays into the rather shady if not murky grounds of facial hair. And indeed within the subject of well-worn facial hair it must be said that a moustache well worn (if I may once again use this expression) is the rarest of all cases, and especially so in this day and age. And thus one so concerned at times, and so neglecting at others, yet so conscious and so various in his situation (a state of affairs which, though prompted by the interchange between carelessness and care, brings unparalleled experience and a much refined taste) as to the matter of the grooming of the beard, one so seasoned (I say) as I in the matter of beards would have no choice but to offer you a word if not two of congratulation, and so honouring my honest and most firm opinion on the matter at hand, allow me to do so now in this brief yet meaningful discourse on the same matter, that is facial hair in general and moustaches in particular, or to be even more specific almost to the point of candour, your own moustache, which as I did allude to before is rather remarkable in its condition and a clear indication of an especially refined taste on your behalf.

5.8.2012 • Man in the Rain

Man in the Rain

There  was a man stooping in the rain
He had lost his keys in the rainwater
And while he thought he was looking for them
It accumulated in his coat
A darkly yellow raincoat
Obscured perhaps
and its colour deformed
by the rain
which fell gray against the black sky
The moon
a pale reminder of some impending ill
shone almost round through the granite clouds

The man's hat was black
Perhaps the kind of black that originates in a brown by day
or perhaps just that, black
And his eyes were nowhere to be seen
The rain fell like elongated spheres through a sea of emptiness
It seemed to replace every once clearly defined grain of the asphalt
with its own fluid inconstant shapes
The shape of droplets distilled backwards through time
to their perfect, immobile and imaginary state

The man stood there
looking faceless at the falling water
quiet
still
calm
only his lips spasming a little with a silent cry
CALL ME CALL ME BY MY NAME
call me by name and I'll respond
call and I may reply
the lips cried in a calm inexistent twitch
and the man slowly sank into the pitch-black earth
his eyes ever staring
blank, relentless
at him from every inch
of the shallow ground

6.7.2012 • A letter

A Letter
to a most deserving recipient,
in the form of
an Analogy.

I do quite like to think of these capricious downpours of mid-July rather not as a deliberate mischief of the heavens but as an inadvertent or even accidental choice—an act of weather as it were sent mistakenly at the wrong hemisphere or at the wrong time of the year—and not without cause :
There was much wisdom I believe in the ancient and Mediæval notion that each man in striving for perfection ought to seek the analogy of the cosmos and its universal forces and heavenly bodies on one hand to his own personal body and soul on the other, achieving thus the brave and noble aspiration to the true heavenly Harmony of the World’s Design. And in the same attempt, though crippled by the spirit of our times and my own deficient nature, I too am well invested; and my investments have paid off no higher interest than would their ragged constitution entitle them to.
And yet that is a great degree, for I have in my lame and earnest industry managed to resemble the perfect wisdom of such chancy errors of the earthly heavens as I above describe. And, even as these heavens in their established perfection as part of the Universal Design do sometimes err concealing from their rightfully entitled lands and seasons the constant and irrevocable calm and glory of th’unblemished skies, so do I by stumbling tongue or by deficient attentiveness or memory (which both do afflict me) o’ershadow the true gratitude and frank, naive affection due to such kind and generous people as one has only just met.

to D— and I—

28.4.2012 • [antie]

[antie]

today the ants
were swarming
down his tie–
that comical
crotch-pointing device
that ironically
underscores
our dignity

{not mine

I don’t have a tie
and I don’t have ants
nor cockroaches
nor rats nor mice
I’ve a machine
that makes those chirping noises
that drive them away}

–like rotted screws
rolling down
the crowded
alley of his mind
with sloth-like
agility

bending
denting
their thread
beyond
any hope
of future use

wrinkling
rumpling
their antennae
(isn’t it funny
that ants should have
antennae)
trampling the smaller ones
into the cobbles
all rust-brown
like dried blood
their juices
transparently edging
on the insane

there’s nowhere for them to go
of course
only
they fold
around the tie
like a tender hand caressing another
and when they clash
they cross in fury
or cannibalise indifferently

10.4.2012 • 18:18

In all probability starting a series on my obsession with symmetry in digital clock displays.

18:18

It’s 18:18
and the proud sun
but vaguely veiled above the clouds
(the fluffy ministers of Autumn
who now in Spring maintain a thriftful presence
in the sky’s abundant court)
approaches his daily
little-death

18:18
a time that cries adolescence twice
that shouts for joy
that moans for pain
exclaims for ecstasy
and drinks the dreams of passion
for his daily drink

18:18
and the clouds are grey, and
everything obeys their dim hue
grey and muffled
in the pre-dusk gloom

18:18
and I paint and paint
colours in my words
all in a little rough envelope
of imaginary brown paper
to send to you
and perhaps make you crack a smile

if all my art can muster that,
I will forget the misty firmament of clouds which hides the sun
and mourn only for the few tonnes of mass and distance and stories and life
that daily hide
your smiling face
from me.

29-31.3.2012 • Good mornings

I’ve been working on my rhythming and rhyming skills. Getting better versed in poetry, you could say–that is, hopefully.

•

Good morning I

Good morning, sweet my darling, sweeter still
With ev’ry hour the clock doth tick away;
Would I could ev’ry worldly hue distill
Through thee, and with thee sweeten ev’ry day.

(29.3.2012)

•

Good morning II

Good morning, sweetest sweetheart of my heart
Whose thought takes daily still my world away;
Would it would take me too, and swift impart
Me whole to you, thus ending my dismay.

(31.3.2012)

•

26.3.2012 • insidious spring

This year spring has hit most insidiously
Or was it you?
I was walking across my neighbourhood’s park
when the Sun tore through the winter’s rags
as if with a thousand swords of light

And then there was silence
because his searing flames engulfed all
and I couldn’t see
I couldn’t hear
I couldn’t smell
I couldn’t taste
anything but
you

And it burned through me
it soared through my body
and my being was created into light
light burning with your absence

You'd think it was summer
the way all my tears evaporate before they form
the way my tongue burns with ecstatic song
all ready to envelop you
all in vain

So close and yet a world away
you smile and sigh,
but in your absence I am blind
and cannot see you

26.3.2012 • hey there you

hey there you
little girl in those
perfectly fitting
baggy adult clothes
you don’t fool me
I could see through them from ten leagues away

hey there you
transparent little girl
who swallowed the sun
and pretends to be a stone-hard opaque
you won’t fool me ever
the sunlight pierced straight through everything it shouldn’t
and now I carry it always inside

14.3.2012 • Shall I compare thee to a summer’s night?

My first sonnet; very much an exercise (and I must admit it shows), but a useful and pleasant one.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s night?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s night?
Thou art much fresher and much less subdued.
Shall I compose for thee a sonnet bright?
My skill with verse and rhyme’s but harsh and crude.

Shall I attempt to jest without respite
Or make pronouncements of great magnitude?
Few ever did such alien acts requite;
But fools and madmen ever thusly wooed.

Though yet if I the senses to delight
Were so much blest, that with both arts imbued
I could a single verse recite,
And to both compliment and jest allude:
 These lines were witty then, and full of praise,
 And not a feeble attempt to turn a phrase.

8.3.2012 • mens

Κάθε μυαλό περιτριγυρίζεται

από έναν ανεπαίσθητο, σπογγώδη εγκέφαλο

που περιπλανιέται μες στη νύχτα

ενός ιδιαίτερου, προσωπικού κρανίου

πορώδους και κούφιου, γεμάτου σύννεφα και

κάλπικ’ άστρα.

Ο ήλιος τραβάει στη σίγουρη πορεία του

το δρόμο συρτά στο στερέωμα·

τα πλατυά οστά βγάζουν μια συριστική κραυγή, έναν ήχο

που θυμίζει αυγού τσόφλι κλούβιου σαν

το γραντζουνάει ένα σκουριασμένο πιρούνι

κι οι πόροι αστρίζουν σαν τις πευκοβελόνες

σ’ ένα υποκατάστατο χριστουγεννιάτικο δέντρο.

Κι έτσι μέσα είναι πάντα νύχτα, πάντα

νύχτα μέσα στο κύτταρο της μοναδικότητας,

της ενικότητας, της μοναξιάς του είναι

μέσα στο κύτταρο. Αλλά με τον καιρό

οι πόροι μεγαλώνουν και η νύχτα φωτίζει,

κι άλλο, κι άλλο ολοένα μέχρι που

πιάνεται μια ηλιαχτίδα στο μεγαλύτερο

ή τον θρασύτερο πόρο, λυσομανάνε τα γρανάζια

κι οι βραγχίονες και σπάει ένας κρίκος

κι ένα κομμάτι ήλιος πυρωμένο γκρεμίζεται

μες στα βάθη του λυκόφωτος της γερασμένης νύχτας.

Ο εγκέφαλος λυγίζει αμέσως και το μυαλό ξεμυαλισμένο

απ’ το πίπτον άστρο δε σκέφτεται καν να φυλαχτεί.

4.3.2012 • φορές φορές

φορές φορές

μια φορά
περπατάω στο πεζοδρόμιο
σαν ένα μεγάλο πεζούλι
οι άστεγοι ρουφάνε απ' τα κόκκαλα
τις τελευταίες σταγόνες
ένα μικρό παιδάκι
κυνηγάει τα περιστέρια
σαν ένας γίγαντας
ένα πολιτικοοικονομικό τέρας
σίγουρα στην αφήγησή τους
καμμιά φορά
σε ένα ποίημα χωρίς ρυθμό
χωρίς κόμματα
χωρίς ρήμα
σταγόνες βρωμόνερο
όξινη βροχή
στο πορώδες στεγανό εσωτερικό του κρανίου μου
μια αδιάκοπη ρανίδα γυαλόχαρτου
κοινός τόπος
ρημαγμένος
σαν
απέραντη
έρημος

3.3.2012 • χορός από σας για σας

χορός από σας για σας

Ένα καλοκαίρι σαν όλα τα άλλα όλα φαίνονταν να σταμάτησαν–όλα· και τότε άρχισε να χορεύει. Η σιωπή σαν να άρπαξε με την καλοκαιριάτικη βία της χέρια, πόδια, μάτια και στόμα και να τα έσυρε στο χορό μέσα από αμμουδιές, χαλίκια και μαύρη ρευστή άσφαλτο.
Μπορεί να ήταν και το αντίθετο, μπορεί ο χορός να άρπαξε όλα τα μέλη και τις αισθήσεις και να επέβαλλε την απόλυτη σιωπή σ’ όλον τον υπόλοιπο κόσμο εκτός απ’ το χορό. Κανείς δεν θα μπορούσε να πει το ένα πιο πιθανό απ’ τ’ άλλο χωρίς ίχνος αμφιβολίας.
Όπως και νά ’χει, ο χορός κυρίευσε το πεδίο, κυρίευσε τον ορίζοντα, κυρίευσε τον ουρανό, τα σύννεφα, τον ήλιο και το φεγγάρι (το φεγγάρι ιδίως), ξερίζωσε τα αγριόχορτα και τα έκανε κόκκινο ζωμό που μόνο στη θύμηση δεν έμοιαζε αίμα, το λογικό, το θυμικό, το μυαλό και το κορμί και τα έριξε όλα στο απέραντό του πεδίο, όπου όλα μπλέκονται και όλα συντίθενται και τίποτα δεν ξαναβγαίνει ίδιο.
Και την επομένη, μ’ ένα ξύλο στο χέρι, περπάτησε το μονοπάτι μέχρι την κορφή του βουνού κι αγνάντεψε την καταστροφή, το ρημαγμό που είχε αφήσει πίσω της η ξέφρενη μανία της διονυσιακής νύχτας.

responding to:

29.2.2012 • ne me quitte pas (3)

ne me quitte pas (3)

“ne me quitte pas” is just
the poor excuse of an apology
is just what we hide behind
in order to not have to say
“je ne te quitterai pas”

29.2.2012 • ne me quitte pas (2)

ne me quitte pas (2)

don’t believe these fake papers
you dreamer you
I’m back to square one
only this time it’s round
smooth, almost
intangible

this song is so short
just short enough to fill a night

29.2.2012 • L.

L.

my flatmate once told me
“but you can get her back
if you really want to
can’t you?”
I should have told him
that anything can be done
what is lacked for is true will
and all the sorrow in the wide world
won’t do instead

29.2.2012 • tonight

tonight (1)

tonight
I spent the night
sobbing quietly on the floor
hoping someone you'd hear

(2)

I can write a hundred poems tonight
and it still won’t bring you back

(3)

because I’ll never ask
I’ll never ever ask

29.2.2012 • ne me quitte pas (1)

ne me quitte pas (1)

don’t leave me
please
don’t leave me
I left you already
the ill is done
we’re a world apart
a world apart
there’s no going back
in this harsh and unforgiving stage
in this game where everything goes
and nothing ever comes back
don’t leave me
you’re my only hope
and I’ve no hope
I’ll never say I love you
I love you I love you
don’t listen to me
don’t pay me any heed
just turn around
and run
into the light
my only light
is where I cannot go
so run run
and don’t look back
you’re my only hope
and I’ve no hope
no hope at all
don’t leave me

29.2.2012 • lie down

lie down

lie down on your back
let all the tears flow out
fill the apple of your cheeks
the apple of your sweetest tenderest thoughts
lie down in your lap
your heavily-laden mem’ry-bed
that creaks and groans with every stir of the mind
lie down in that little smooth lake of hair
let all the tears roll out
little bubbles of
old morning light
kept safe for some
happy occasion
but spent in solitude
like the wine of unexpected widowers
lie down on the perfumed sheets
that washed and torn and hid and cast away and burnt
still cling to that little conscious part
that wants to tell the story again
to say the words
never never never
always always
I love you
I loved you
I love you...

29.2.2012 • Sampson

Sampson

amidst the humming of my pc
the clattering of my keyboard
my erratic sighing
this regina spektor song
keeps looping softer and softer

as if when I can’t hear it any more
the pain will be gone
I’m no fool to believe that of course
but fool enough to test it
old tricks are dirty tricks

but the smaller the gap
the softer the hair and scissors and
columns and stars and
all that
jazz
the louder the silence of course
literally, as it were
each time I go through the ritual
of gently, like an old lover
touching the volume knob
each time a tram passes
and covers up this or that
part of the refrain
or that old light of the couplet
literally the silence lashes louder
and louder
at my side
its vicious claws searching
for the gold sovereigns
sewn under my last floating rib
each time a little more frustrated
and I relish it
because the void there
needs to be sung through these little tears
these little deaths
needs me to caress the confirmation of my fears
like an old lover with
such a weary
wavering deft hand
rough of skin
soft of touch
a smile sown with sorrow
and reaped in humble simplicity
as only the foolish wise can muster–
that at least we may yet attain
my poor, poor yorick

29.2.2012 • Brel

Brel

no no more your sweet prince
every heavy drop of rain resonates with my hid tears
my groans fill subliminal caverns where
each stalactite drips into a bottomless quagmire
quenching no substantial thirst
undeclared unrelenting and unrequited
irrevocably the matter of facts
the matter of fact
the stuff of dreams lost in the mists of time
endless threads fighting amidst garbled type
preacherless our little temple
a little dome forlorn and ruinous
soon to be forgotten

27.2.2012 • today is cancelled / go back to bed

today is cancelled
go back to bed

for a moment I believed it
it was as if
I was a child again
as if being ill was half a blessing again
keeping the monster of school at bay
and the chicken soup and orange juice flowing
the abundance of motherly love
and of childlike blamelessness
listlessness
kids don't need lists
they have their alter mundi
millions of other worlds vast as the stars
and it's not even escapism
when they travel there

the walls are shutting me out
into the void
blueberry red
and carrot purple
cast away forever
legos by the fireplace
cotton snow under the christmas tree
lagged behind
toy castles toy ships toy wars
crosses promises hopes
faded

I have no life apart
no life apart from these
from these trifles

so what what
am I doing roving this world
that should by rights
be purple and be red
or not at all?

13.2.2012 • the world

I imagine the world
like that little dog
pushed each time a little further
with each gentle little nudge
of the raging traffic
(the cars make such an uplifting
special effects kind of sound
as they pass by)
I have difficulties
trying to think of the earth as round
(maybe because it isn't but)
I see it all crumbled
into a shapeless
mass of dirty carton
I picture its constituent polygons
labouredly and asymmetrically cut
more grotesque than baroque
and all roughed up
you couldn't tell it was
meant to approximate
a sphere
if you hadn't had a tv
as a kid
I feel it weighing
on every little man's
shoulders
like a little
canvas bag
filled with little
little roughed
up lead
balls
disjunct

disjunct
defunct

like a deathless
valley stinking
of rotten flesh
filled with
the carcasses of
the expectant dead
the gaping
the smirking
the hopeless dead
bound to this eternal loop–
s eternal loop–
s eternal loop–
s eternal loop–
s eter–

(breathe)

only the worms there have any real fun

2.2.2012 • words

words

and all the words lay bare
like alien bishops
preaching in an alien land
non-sense their profoundest meaning
their sentiments unexpressed
their feelings left unfelt
abandoned at the port
of their old delight

2.2.2012 • λόγια

The result of various urgings, from various friends and foes, to write in Greek.

λόγια

τα λόγια
οι λέξεις
σαν μικρά κουτάκια
περισσότερο τοιχώματα παρά χώρος
και πάντα κλειστά
υπερπλήρη έννοιας και βάθους
δεν έχουν ίχνος κενού
για να χωρέσουν αυτήν την ιστορία
η αληθινή θλίψη δεν έχει θέση σ' αυτά
ίσως γι' αυτό να λέγεται στεναχώρια


words
[a hasty translation of the Greek above; italicized are passages which were significantly changed.]

words,
words,
words...
like little boxes
more walls than space
and always shut
full to bursting with meaning and depth
they have no void
to fit this story in
true sorrow has no place in them
perhaps the void that sorrow brings
to mind and body both
needs another void to fit into

29.1.2012 • truth and you

truth and you

it doesn't matter what you felt
little miseries
small regrets
minute desires
insignificant griefs
and harmless melancholy
the big picture looms menacing above
a zeppelin of untold rules
a symbol of the rule of
some truth
which though you may admire
you honestly can't grasp
such intimidating craft
it substitutes for you
a distant but
transparent
you

29.1.2012 • the fraction of a nod

As a counter-reply to the rather gracious comment, whereof the malfunctioning javascript, disallowing my nod, enabled this somewhat longer and more creative reply. (Thank you.)

the fraction of a nod
dedicated most wholeheartedly to that sympathetic fellow

sometimes I can only manage the fraction of a nod
it’s not much, but hard as it may be try to fathom
my forehead’s forming wrinkles through that almost
spastically minute movement
are digging through the arachnid acres of folded time
into my hidden truths and lies
and stop so short of the expressive gesture of the head only
because the shovel has with muffled glintching
hit something soft
like when an eerily discreet scalpel touches with its frosty bite
a nerve
and all the world convulses with the pang of concentrated agony
such focused anguish is the decideful stopper of my affirm
so when I can only manage the mere beginning of a nod
you will excuse me (or perhaps
if you are such a sympathetic fellow
feel but a candlelight’s weight for me)

29.1.2012 • when I turn on the light

Out of nothing, in the dim electric light, came the words, as out of nothing, but do words (does anything) ever come out of nothing?

when I turn on the light

today when I turned on the light
everything seemed an ugly uncharacteristic desaturated hue
all colour remindfull of a dreary utopian past gone wrong
and the shapes and forms of every little piece of garbage
every untended niche
all too evidently brought out
today when I turned on the light
my dreams were a washed-out tone of grey
the colours latently forgotten
(no, not forgotten;
memory and hope are different functions
but both may equally
falter for a moment
during the course of so productive a Sunday)

28.1.2012 • bitter blind ecstasy (or, just your pretty face)

And the third poem inspired by Un coeur en hiver.

bitter blind ecstasy
or just your pretty face

no, no,
it's not just your pretty face

it's just those eyes
who tell a tale of woe
and such sweet restoration
as a thousand deaths' relief
would fain acquire had she the might
of those, it's just those perfect lips
the bud of lusty seasons which words cannot name
and which to spring are as she to the winter of the haunted moon,
and just the neck through which such fire flows as fuels the burning curse that is your tongue
to those who tasted it and will no more, devoured by the twisting passion of their memory,
it's just that back which like a sea of troubles and of strength can calm and rouse and give sweet rest and such violent spasms of frenzied pleasure
and just the soft and tender breast which mildly balms the fear and rage and passion and through calming turns them all in ecstasy to you,
that waist which in proportion and in shape and firm support founds and sustains your power and wrecks all resolve
or any resistant hopes, and that her selfsame other part the thighs that break rebellious strength
to sweet submission and contain the unutterable fire of sweet begetting, the limbs
which in perfection mix their grace and power and softness and induce
such substances as mixed themselves in blood will turn the mind
from any other thought
than you

not just your pretty face

28.1.2012 • tears these days

The second poem inspired, partly, by Un coeur en hiver.

tears these days

it's always tears these days
tears
hiding
waiting
for the opportune moment
for the dam to crack
the brittle and the damp
to meet in a discreet
sad ecstasy of soft decay
break down
and let them flow
and oh! good lad
what fancies have you clad
in weeds of madness weeds of sad
departure and arrival at a stranger port
than ever your imaginings could this distort
into, and oh!
oh how fragile
and horrible are
those lies where no abundance
but only pity lies
in weight
a ragged feather of plenty
and rough black gold of heaviness
dragging the bloody culprit
to the bottom
through countless mouthfuls
of mud

28.1.2012 • là-bas

The first of three poems inspired in some part by the movie Un coeur en hiver.

là-bas

so strange a pinch
like a shrill
metal string
plucked with a hardened fingertip
a muffled sob
run down the alley of the sea of torn desire
when you say you're fine
là-
bas

28.1.2012 • Walk to the Lake

Walk to the Lake

Today I took my old brown coat
and walked all the way to the lake,
faking prose into poetry all the while.

It was a good day, charming
weather though greystained and soaking wet:
it felt as though the rain was making its way through a familiar crowd,
big droplets among miniscule ones, all water
and no air to breathe, not really.
(I breathed in the water in lusty lungfuls.)
As the ground softened and sank into the crevices of my boots’ soles
I made my way over Little Hill (the name kids have
for the mound-before-the-lake, or at least which they had when
I was one of them) and into the pearly lakeshore.
All the pebbles there are round, completely spherical, as if
by some enchantment, and shine like huge ocean ornaments each of which could buy
the whole wide world (oh well).

I wrote no foot-notes nor end-notes to-day, but when I reached the lake
I felt I knew why, the droplets falling through the drops dropping
into the calm waters and disturbing the peace with quiet:
no footnote, no endnote especially
can ever explain why a drop makes its way
through the water and into the lake,
through the lake’s infinitely complex
minutely distorted mirror
and into its vast belly of a world,
or chooses to stay in the dryness of the moisty clouds
in such unsure security as those platonic heights can offer.
(The foot is basely rooted to the ground;
the end of ends can speak and of beginnings murmur,
but of these endless risings of the tide, and fallings,
it can never make excuse, nor explanation give.)

I thought of crying there, and then my fancy flew
to a tear’s shape in stasis–tear-shaped is meaningful only if tears are
seen as constant-flowing, always moving along the softness of the face or
through the harshness of the air, dry and moist ever at play; but if a tear were
still, made of gelid calm and hazy ice, only dimly translucent and obscured by Time,
then it would be the same shape as these pebbles here...

I didn’t cry. As I walked on, the river made a shushing sound as if to beckon
from afar and say:

“Though the Lake be there and I here far away,
yet I flow through it to your feet and feel them,
intimately, and when you lift them feel
the wayward canals winding under your boots,”

and I knew it could feel my toes also, the warmth of my socks slowly overtaken by by the vast, mild, welcoming cold. The water scaled my trousers with eager thirst, paralyzing for a moment every muscle in my knees and thighs and waist, climbing my vest and corduroy shirt all greed and anticipation, hungering for my tears–
then as if a far-off wolf’s-cry sent a chilly start through the lake’s spine,
the water slowed
and its white foam caressed my beard
softly,
with sweet merciless affection
and soaked it wet all in its meek surrender.
One would think the labyrinth of each ear and the tunnels of the nose would be
the biggest challenge,
navigating in the dark
such closed
and dry places, but
the cunning element invaded all in quick succession
and conquered them with stunning ease,
but my eyes!
As they faced the dull and misty vastness of the sky
whereon the lake’s countenance was in perfect mirror depicted
and her cruelty plain to see,
Again the foamy hands stopped
cold
froze
still
as if to wait
for a tear-shaped tear
breath held
in motu contrario
and scratchingly
screetchingly
crunching like
breaking glass
devoured the blushing of my cheeks
and broke the eyelids and eyelashes
into submission.

the white orbs
clear and veinless
in that terrible moment
offered good game
the shattering fluid searched them
sought their source
they gushed bright hot blood in response
burning the icy water off
but as a band of heroes fighting off a host
it cooled in weariness and froze to dissolution in fatigue
and gave way to the waters

the iris
scorched green and radiant
by the acts of bloodshot fear
played her due part
admirably
her magic powers all unleashed
her shield a maze of infinite space
woodland and plains
rolling grass and gnarling trees
a world’s width
of creatures secret and horrible
and the forces of unnature in their swift command
but the waters saw the trick
and gave painful birth to their imaginable infiniteness as well
filled all the greenworld to the skies and beyond
and overflowed the emerald spectral crown

yet
the pupil
the most tiny innumerable part
like the centre of a vicious vortex stood aloof
of conquering,
its microscopic rim
voracious
gulping down gallon after gallon after gallon
a dent in the space of time
the earth’s surface bent as if the plates
had made way
and the icy lake was sinking to its boiling doom
the horrid whirlpool gorging on water, fish, and twig alike–

and then the pebbles,
when their turn came,
came gently crushing on the frigid limbs,
gently crushing muscles, arteries, and bones in sweet concord, (like hot sensual tears begot of a hyperrealist’s temperatureless reasoning,) and all the organs, stomach, spleen, kidneys and liver, lungs, brain; but not my heart:

Therein they made friends and entered freely,
able (all senses lost to the fight)
to take the guise and pretense of real tears.

26.1.2012 • darkness

darkness

O how beautiful
how beautiful are the feet
of him who dwelleth in darkness
for he and he alone
is given knowledge of the multitude of the faces of the lord
behold he is made unto a virgin hart
and rushes among the waves of the bountiful rivers
and fresh plains

thus saith the lord

darkness has his canny way
to make things beautiful
while light displays
all the world’s ugliness
in hateful detail

I sink in hesitant freefall
freefalling through this tasteless odourless backthick honey
running through the void the silence echoing everywhere
my humours mingled like sour pumpkin soup
rotten pure
pure rot

darkness in her cold numb embrace
keeps me safe from good and ill
safe from you until you’re gone
and both our lives plod sadly on

(no, no
not sadly
sadly’s just
poetic license
better at any rate
than poetic
silence)

26.1.2012 • a friend said, said a friend

a friend said, said a friend

a friend said
O that I could lie me down
and die
a painless, choiceless death
and all the burdains of my life
would fly into eternity
and leave me all behind
how I would cherish that wide calm
(that vast eternity of silence
that concave convex lens
which light bends around
and avoids)
and be still
if I weren't so afraid
of pain or surrender
I might give it a second thought
(oh the savage width and breadth of
ceaseless senseless pointless
oh the whole wide world
at our feet and our heads
misquoting nameless friends to taste
their wandering scares
mildly disgusted
slightly angry
thoroughly disappointed
pathetically inclined
to do no thing
but stare at the advent
of the next sorrow)
said a friend

26.1.2012 • slothfull, allone

slothfull, allone

sloth
full
fingers
that will
shy away
from blemishing
these black-white keys
with meaning
what stays you?
slothfull
hands
that guard your affections
from time’s corrosive
from time’s smooth disease
who warns you
against truth?
slothfull arms
whose firm embrace
is barred against
the stormy winds
of Eden's paradise
whose sturdy cage
is locked empty
of containment
which element of fear
and lothing
holds you back
from sweet sin?

if it isn’t circumstance
my favourite mistress
who robs me of all opportunity
for one is the other
the other is the one
all one
I'm all but one
by choice of circumstance
by blunt razor-stroke
that shaves the skin with the beard
by blind
I am allone
tricked all my self in
to thinking
“circumstance”
and going
back
to
bed