GARDEN VARIETY

Tags

apocalyptic, art, Chaos, Dionysus, Ending, Garden, Nature, Order, philosophical, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry

GARDEN VARIETY

metaphor muddles
truth
mud slides

and so, what can we say about what
happened to the stories
that we tell

no hope there of them ever helping
the stars that govern us realign

speaking
from green comfort zone

cultivated with Nature tamed,
bent into strict beauty
by force of Art

I watch the world amass, follow the forces of chaos
out to do damage to
world air-conditioned, strongly
double-glazed

so much smoke (as in mirrors,
as in “not without fire)

there in the non-smoking section, do
not hope to find your Dionysus

and if
find him you do
how might you dissuade him
from this church militant
deranged drunk on
(just the hint of the thought)
of divine wine

those vines
criss-crossing the new
no-man’s lands of purging
military fire

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FRAME IT

Tags

poem, poetry, Universe

good evil
sweet sour

things thrown into the mix
with the creation of the Universe

what
balance is there?

what interplay that tells us
this is how we
understand our place

are of
it’s art, have
the will to frame it

OF COURSE YOU ARE

Tags

art, beginnings, endings, Life, meaning, poem, poetry, purpose

OF COURSE YOU ARE

of course you are
stuck in the second act

endings, beginnings
who said they must needs dovetail
fit together so seamlessly
you can’t see the stitches,
are destined to miss the rivets

no
in our sad scenario

ending phoned beginning needing
a new beginning

needing a prenuptial, postcoital
thing termed a divorce

yes, let the law handle the third act
wind it up, find some, proclaim some justice
that isn’t too crudely poetic

hate to send everyone hope
dreaming the usual cliche

RESPECT

Tags

aesthetic, art, big bad wolf, egg, Fairy tale, pigs, poem, poetry, three little pigs, wolf, world, writing

The little pig
feeling out (with careful trotter)
the smooth, nigh perfect shell of the egg
confirming the verdict of his
sharp, pink eyes

wonderful distraction from
the world of wolf and huff-and-puff

even though door, wall,
starting to yield, suffering huge battering
only a matter of time

more wolves expected (loyalty of pack)
and there the breath whirlwind
bound to exacerbate to industrial strength
(what was it
Nietzsche said about
the instinct of herd and
how that extends to pack?)

and so
the displacement disjunctured

thought of sanctity and safety
shifted from that egg
which he
was sadly certain

would not receive from the lupines
the pre-requisite and required
purely aesthetic respect.

ECHO

Tags

art, identity, love, poem, poetry

love
(eventually)
knocked at
my door

her hair surreal
her makeup
“done” by Jean Miro
and Salvador Dali

her dialogue
written by Bunuel

her clothes by Man Ray
and Magritte

her story, however, so
intricately postmodern,
written by Jorge Luis Borges
and Umberto Eco

all of the above
finding an echo

THE LOOK

Tags

art, Dali, Fashion, Jackson Pollock, love, Miro, Picasso, poem, poetry, Tattoos

THE LOOK

Mr Jackson Pollock
dripped paint
on my shoes

Joan Miro
did my tattoos

Dali
cut my hair

Picasso
tailored my suit

you got
to
spend
some

of your
life with me

who better
got the look?

LITTLE CORNER

Tags

arrogance, Ending, Fascism, macho, male, narcissism, Nazi, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, power, pride, Reader, satire

LITTLE CORNER

I cook
I sing

do everything
I can to
paint my little
corner

for here
it will my pleasure
my joy to
have my
last stand

for outside so
much fake
sunlight (industrial
neon) and
golden hypocrisy
delusion
of being

at a moment, not of
abject decline, but apotheosis

and more and more
not just surrendering, but
openly embracing
the gorgeous godhead of
the monstrous leader

who teaches them
to see afresh, as if
with new eyes

to
accept his word
and the
faith will follow

and money pouring in
a molten river

they
will wait and see
he said
wait and
see

whilst I scratch together
hopefully enough to
afford this
daily museum

monthly rent for
my place of beauty

though
no beauty really

as you
say

if he
does not
agree.

PALACE OF SLEEP

Tags

afterlife, Creation, Creativity, death, Dream, Keats, Poe, poem, Poet, poetry, Rebirth, writing

take me to the Palace of Sleep
where the air is hashish-heavy
as thick with dark autumnal cloud
as anything written
by Poe or Keats

sky dragging itself across
as if stuck somewhere
and out to test the winds

but let me
sink into that darkness
night so perfect, it is the null equation,

there
where words are absorbed, lines, phrases
disintegrate, are so carefully dismantled
scattered like leaves
on a river, like momentary
phosphorescence on the ocean

no dream here, at least
none that
is remembered,
only the blending of
currents, change,
reconfiguration

she said that I reminded her of Keats once
this before she got married
but after we
were lovers

perfect sleep in her arms then
no thought of
darkness, any kind of
renewal, rebirth, re-
definition of self

as figure who writes
not figure who loves

the gates to every Palace
secretly open
unbeknownst to me
at that
most lost of lost moments

WHAT THE THUNDER THEN ADDED

Tags

art, Fascism, fascist, poem, poem poetry political moral, T S Eliot, Ted Hughes, The Wasteland, Universe

WHAT THE THUNDER THEN ADDED

It may sound like it but
it was not a T.S. Eliot creative moment

reading Ted Hughes whilst
a fascist was playing Franz Liszt’s
Duo Sonato, solo on violin,
without piano, without
a friend

on the TV (or maybe it was one of
those old 1930s radios) a politician
from the English Home Counties
was assaulting Europe and
the very concept of
the good European

I was almost waiting for Nietzsche
to miraculously pitch up, grab
him, shake him,
throw him into the abyss
by the scruff of his neck
along with that fake Boudicca
who masquerades as his leader
(how she
could lead anything
so totally beyond me)

and then came the flashback to
my Matriculation Certificate English Examination
some serious nutjob choosing
a piece from “What the Thunder Said”
for our unseen poetry analysis

and here I am meeting
this ocean of reference
for the first time

scrambling through a hostile burning desert
in the company of unknown hope
unrecognized resurrection

whilst
the sea rises, swamps
drowns the coast

despite itself, despite all the auguries
maybe a line
can be drawn

maybe the poem can embrace
understand everything
in its own
limited, incomparable way.

SOME CONSOLATION

Tags

art, death, Life, poem, poetry, Reader

SOME CONSOLATION

poof!
we disappear

Houdini
could not
do
better

sometimes no “poof”!
just go
disappear,
arguably (no
proof)
forever
and ever

and me (clock
still running)
thinking the art
and life thing
(as per
normal)
at such
critical juncture

think (try to get
my Plato-Descartes brain
around)
stepping
off the page

leaving the
stage

hero’s journey but
with unfinished chapter
(some consolation
reader
that you

live
forever)