poetry

Yellow cello

You face is music to my hears:

Your grave voice is my choice of right:

Your body thin is skin easily enough:

And the stuff of your brain is such clever tough

All I want of you is the lasting thrive

Of life around you.

 

 

Standard
poetry

This Belfast, finally met / And so the people on the streets … / Just see

And you listen to good music,

And the people on the streets walk on by,

And the lyric rhymes nicely with the side of supper

You might have chosen once – but had to let go, sly.

And the stealthy ones are them; or so you suspect.

But it’s OK, because 

If what you wrote is any good, in any way,

At least when you’re dead 

Your kids will be proud of you.

And it doesn’t matter if you hurt whilst it happens

Because if there is worth,

There is reward –

Even if the reward is only for them,

That time, I mean, when you’re dead.

And the people on the street walk on by,

And the younger folk clasp hands and love, 

And later probably sigh,

In the evening of basking Belfast:

The Belfast you finally met.

And so maybe you’re a fool,

And maybe you were a tad ill, after all –

Some time after the walls you built,

And they built,

And more particularly she built,

And – truly! – we all built;

But that time is no longer.

And the wrongs you survived

Have revived your truths,

And made you the man that becomes 

The futures you will be.

Just see.

Standard
reviews, trails of thought

And a lonely life is better than no life …

So.

It’s now 3.20am.

Crashed out after a grand – but lonesome – day in Belfast.  Pride Belfast was amazing: so many young people, some older generations too, wrapped in the rainbow flags of equality for all.

 

 

And it’s still real tough for me getting used to the idea that the people I see around me, having cool fun and joyously enjoying each other, never will be something I can share; except from afar.

Yeah.  And, in fact, I didn’t even end up with a lonesome pint of Guinness.  But I did have a fab meal in a fab place I will return to for sure: Tedfords Kitchen.

 

 

And though I must return by myself, if myself it must be, I shall return.

And though as I write these lines I shed a tear or two of serious loneliness, in some cases life offers nothing else; and so in my case, this is one; and whilst it’s a goddamn shame, a goddamn lonely life is better than no life at all.  Right?

 

Standard
trails of thought

A footnote to five months of creative writing …

After a conversation I had with a journalist yesterday – a person whose opinions I value highly – as well other private conversations I absolutely treasure, I have decided that I shall no longer continue to post public poetry or writings for the moment.

I need to sort out my private life before I do anything else.

This will require the greatest concentration and effort on my part.

Writing parallel to that process would not be in good faith any more.

Where change could not take place, and was frozen by an impassive – where not impressive – lack of collaboration on the part of others, I think an argument could be made in favour of my going public – quite out of desperation – re the difficult situation, specifically the lack of physical affection, in my life.

But if I am now to contemplate that such change can take place, and the reason it can is because I am feeling empowered and finally proactive enough in myself to do so, having come to a better understanding of myself and my wants over the writings that have come out of the past five months, then it is no longer easy to justify a free and easy (not easy, but you know what I mean …) public tongue.

I have considered password-protecting the two creative blogs I have written since December, or even deleting them; but I was shown yesterday the zero wisdom in carrying out the latter action of an impulsive nature any time in the near future.  Meanwhile, the former would be foolish: the Streisand effect would kick in, if indeed anything of value might actually be missed.

So the blogs as they stand shall remain online.

I, however, will no longer document what happens in my life until I can reasonably attest to its stable and sustainable way of seeing, doing and being.

I hope you all understand me in this, and appreciate the real love I have sensed out there whilst I have reached this point in my existence on this rock.

And if understanding is difficult to come by, please accept that my real love and affection for those I most treasure – and have done so for years – is far greater than any desire I have for continued misery to be documented continuously, even where (perhaps) an argument could be made that some kind of art was being developed.

So be gentle with me, when you judge my actions.

See you all on the other side, right?

🙂

 

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

[Echar un] {im[pulso] / In[tuition]} / (Underground)

I’m reaching the conc-

lose-

ion, slowly it must be said,

that I’m not much more than a churner of

juvenilia.  And yet all I have writ-

ten, the best I have do-

ne, I have

written

with an aye to the truth as I saw it,

and the circumstances as I truly remembered them.

 

And when life gets to the stage that it challenges

you to im-

puls-

I’ve action – when its very lessons are

that intuition gets you know-

where; that seaing the

underbelly is ugly bad show; that wanting to

no the truth of

stuff out there will never get you to places

you want to

be – you realise in the end that

all you have left, and it is not a small matter, no,

it’s one of the grandest yet,

is the love and affection that others express: the love

and affection that uses a dis-

course of racy thought language,

and thought.

 

To have lived a life of battle-weary struggle

means giving way is no longer giving up.

And so my battle against those who

would challenge me in such conflict is now

coming to its end: this time for sure.

And the intuition which led me here I would

much prefer now to share in the privacy

of email and

coffee shop and

human touch and

physical contact,

which the people who really know

how to make me well happy, know full well

what’ll make me weller than hell!

 

 

Time to move on.

Time to move on.

Time to stop writing life,

and go back to living it.

 

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

Riding, say, “Hi …!”

 

Running like water slipping through

hair; lining your face as it turns to mine,

and eyes remind us of

times’ remembering, as

moments burn holes of wonder

in holes of wondrous

sex.

 

 

Times’ mist and dew of landing, and ages of

forgetting the pain of undeciding,

and all I remember was the nature of your

beauty which mirrored like slivers of

silver backdrop the background of

birches standing up tall and

proud in their belief that this was

exactly

where they belonged.

 

 

And I hide my sadness so bloody often, and it

springs up treacherously at any sign of

redemption, and I so want my life to be re-

deemed in some way as worthy of your

love and affection and touch,

and so much is riding on just saying hello.

 

 

And the circles I failed so badly to square

have made it impossible for me to

square any more: and this is

exactly

why I have excised my life from the life

I was leading, because the life I was

leading had no right to be led.

 

 

Even so, even yet, I hope I may still see the day

when I’ll look into the eyes you look out of

so proudly,

and onto me, too: that grazing flitting laughter of

sombre truth and beautiful soul and the

whole of your stretching me, encompassing me

mindfulness: where the moment

is love

and all I want is to love you

back as much as I can, as much as you

do:

as if rabbit from top hat, by some art of

magick: the pain which destroyed me

only drives me once again to realise that

without you, everything’s

so damn plain: a train of miserable thoughts in

wagons of third class, and there is

only one class I really want now: the one you

impart,

with all your heart, soul and love: the one

you’ve always wanted to teach me so well …

 

… just be yourself!

(And let the rest … go to hell!)

Standard
poetry, trails of thought

Fudge [or nudged and budged (but not yet beloved)]

 

For people of my caste –

and cast I am

on lonely sees

where nothing is herd-

ed to any desti-

nation or state of mine-

d

I know of clearly enough –

the stuff of snuff-

ed existence overpowers my

sen-

sis to the extent that being

an object-

or of inconscience fa-

mi-

lying homily of grate-

r Gouda: the pungency of

food records its pass-

age through time.

 

And a fudged budged nudge

is not only dishonest on your

part: it is also that awful symptom

on my part: my failure to extend

myself honestly without artificial

tool: I can be no individual soul if

all I am is the ownership-

less sum of the support you provide

(neither ownership-

free ever and a day;

never and a day;

no freedom I know of;

no joyous existence I knew of …).

 

And this is why fudged nudge is such

a fiddle for me: for if I can only achieve

what I do by fraudulently, hiddenly,

unattributedly, unauditedly,

riding on your backs, on your wisdoms, on

your beautiful thoughts, on you ingenuities,

on your genius … then what am I

but a …

… cheat?

 

Standard