poetry

“Cre[activity]” – The Movie

She was clever but mad,

too mad by half.

She wanted to make waves

in documentary-land.

So she dug out two people who no longer

could see each other; no longer even

go and bear to face down the other.

And these people just had to be

creative sorts who loved the idea of

doing playful stuff, as weird as could be

(or at least so some of us

might have said on perceiving the truly

mad sides to the case).

Not weird for you or me, you must

understand, because none of us out here

reading these lines is ever as straightforward

as any appearance gleaned from online profile

or schematic info, nor other quite limited

means at our disposal.

And so she managed to find these souls able

to create beautiful art; all as a result of their

once apparently chance reunion, years after

first meeting much younger it’s true, and the

question was clearly how to get them to

meet up one other fine day of these

(by chance yet again, of course!),

and renew a terrible breakdown in

some kindly way

that healed all involved in some burnished way.

And that would be asking so much of the

universe – even this crazy universe we

see on these pages – so instead of approaching

the both of them separately and arranging for

dumb meeting and getting them to open their

hearts and their souls in primitive interview

and other strange stuff of reality TV-land,

she realised, clever woman, that

something far grander, far greater, far wiser

was to encourage them both, in their quite

separate ways, to create their different

beings out of cul-de-sac land, and finally

get them some way – if not to meet

face-to-face –

at least to achieve a reconciliation of sorts

through the coming together of parallel

art: through the wonder – in

fact – of cre[activity].

 

Only the whole damnfool experiment,

at the very latest of stages, backfired*

so spectacularly when instead of

bringing together the two creative

souls, what actually happened was a

third party implicated uncovered

the fact equally weirdly, and the third party

thus mentioned then responded so well

that the modus vivendi forged of adult

debate eventually made heaven out of hell.

 


* Or did it really backfire?

 

Standard
poetry

And my best wasn’t good enough; and that I have to accept …

I tried my best, in the absence of a best

man: and in the absence of a best

man I sensed what was slipping away.

It was no reality that escaped my grasp

because

the reality I dreamt was only ever

a dream I dreamt, and never some

thing I might one day have really

touched.

So what I sensed was slipping away,

in the absence of better man I so wished

I might – maybe – have had,

maybe some day,

was the hopes (not reality) I had held

for a better kind

of life; a kinder sort of

better; a lifely wifely

class of just aiming to be myself, where

learning was daily, and love was

eternal until that tragic day of death

do us quite journal.

 

Standard
poetry

M[od][us] v[i]v[end]i (I)

He identified strongly with hearts for some

reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-

ortant, was the love they re-

presented every time he saw or touched one.

Second, his heart was white in-

stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by

any means: he never meant that harm that

black cruelly re-

presents in the tongues we kiss and

speak with.

Although black – in other re-

spects – he identified with strongly,

he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.

So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.

Third, he felt that maybe love

was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both

described itself naturally and de-

scribed itself using itself to de-

scribe its very entity.

Fourth, he now needed a mod-

us v-

i-

vend-

i

so much, he was prepared to sub-

sum-

e in electronic life, maintain

his being only in that false

world he realised had been

assigned him long ago, and reach plac-

id-

[under]

lying agreement to fake what was left

of life:

for what was life if not an act-

ing profession?

 

As that terrible man so long ago said:

“The art of communication

doesn’t lie in saying what you believe

but in believing what

you say.”  Hey-ho.  Ho-ho.

 

And he would now communicate this way,

and the modus vivendi would be lies

all the time, and reality

would never quite match the truth, and the

truth – like him, like the love he would

no longer wear as a badge of collect-

i-

ve c-

our-

age – would diss-

i-

pat-

e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego

not sex.

 

And love your memories dear people: for they’re all

we have

left.

 

Standard