Poetry-1991, aged 19
Freedom is the licence to forget
To turn from the dense clamour
That collects in the mind
To wipe the jewel clean and begin thought again
To lift the eyes, overtly, in quest
To listen, to presume nothing but that which is evident.
To that time and to that kingdom
To turn from the dense clamour
That collects in the mind
To wipe the jewel clean and begin thought again
To lift the eyes, overtly, in quest
To listen, to presume nothing but that which is evident.
To that time and to that kingdom
When vacancy is no more
When the light dazzles and blasts.
When the light dazzles and blasts.
That was a poem I wrote in 1991, which my sister Rachel likes. Or maybe it's a 'prose poem'. I am not entirely clear on the precise difference between a poem and prose. Actually I dont care that much if it's a poem or prose. I like the above piece, even if others don't. Is one allowed to like ones own writing? Curious how one is supposed to feign indifference or lowly disregard towards one's own output, even if such is dishonest. I guess this ties in with the whole grovelling "I am not worthy" impetus behind so much of our culture, traditionally speaking; that same impetus which now tediously generates in our age a knee jerk reaction towards narcissistic self-adulation. Each feeds off the other, while balance and sanity holiday beyond the moon.
She also likes this one (also from 1991):
Before the sacred face
Discarded, misunderstood,
Cleaned and redeemed
In dreams of you I shall encourage
Lavish rich impulse
On the breasts of promise.
I am not sure how I should use line length and punctuation in such writings. Im not sure if it matters much, or if so, how or why. Actually the line arrangements here are influenced by the absurdly narow template on this blog, which I'd like to change
I don't tend to give my 'poems' titles. Things are what they are, not what they are called. Still, one poem I wrote in Durham in March 1991 I called 'Gentle lady', which refers to the young, charming English woman, in whose room I sat when I wrote the following lines. I forget if she asked me to show her what I wrote, but I didn't. Though I'd like her to read it somehow. Her name is Nicky. She was kind and lovely, and also had the most immaculate handwriting. I haven't seen her in over ten years. The poem perhaps, especially the beginning, has little directly to do with gentle ladies.
Gentle Lady
From the bowels of a bloated skull seep the waters of truth
Oozing through and about the parched and famished heads
Of blind and featherless peacockes.
Mankind, puffed up and terrified.
We, the bulbous, insubstantial, stilted proud rapists of the earth.
All this rubbish, awkward and strange
About fear and death, pollution and suffering
Means nothing
And is nothing
To the eternal poised repose of the silences.
Still, since we dwell deep inside the hell of our blindness
And do not see and cannot know the space between words
Onward and hateful we labour and toil and cry and strive
Waiting, waiting
For the mother silence to conceive her son
Oozing through and about the parched and famished heads
Of blind and featherless peacockes.
Mankind, puffed up and terrified.
We, the bulbous, insubstantial, stilted proud rapists of the earth.
All this rubbish, awkward and strange
About fear and death, pollution and suffering
Means nothing
And is nothing
To the eternal poised repose of the silences.
Still, since we dwell deep inside the hell of our blindness
And do not see and cannot know the space between words
Onward and hateful we labour and toil and cry and strive
Waiting, waiting
For the mother silence to conceive her son
And the effulgence of his dawn
To surpass us.
2 comments:
"stilted proud rapists of the earth"... I love the alliteration and rhythm in your poems, Jon. But for me, one of my favourites (of yours) has to be: "Did we see the white cross shining | Will the angels of Yahweh | Erect bridges over the frenzied river | Did we sleep on the silken sheets of | Daughters of the green valley | Did we drink the waters of hidden waterfalls | Did we rise naked and dance | Did we revolt against the dream | Or had the day invaded the shell of black sanity" ... I think you should do this poem (and many more of yours) justice and post it on your blog. I don't think you should fear self promotion. I know, it can seem base and supercilious to place yourself upon a pedestal and exclaim: "Look, people! It is I! I am your rightful leader!" but, then again, if you have something to say - which you evidently do (in reams) - why keep it to yourself - cloaked in darkness, entombed within the inviolable recesses of your mind? This, in the long run, can cause more harm than good. When you have so much to say, you should be bold, stand assured and speak with singular magniloquence to the void. I know... it can seem at times as though this is a futile exercise - as your voice seems to be drowned out by the vast tempestuous ocean of voices, as only one of millions each striving to "have their own say" (especially now that we have world wide blogs, myspace etc. - in which we are encouraged to worship at the altar of self) but I think this is how it has always been - the voices, the opinions, the conflicts of interest and desperate struggles for accolade have only been brought into starker contrast through the vehicle of the internet - but they have always been there, festering in the minds of men/women since the dawn of creation. And, of course, it is perfectly conceivable that our voices may not be heard in this lifetime - or indeed, in any lifetime. But this should not be a cause for sorrow, for who is to say that meaning stems only from the judgement of our contemporaries? Is there no righteousness, for instance, in the solitary pursuit of self-improvement, aside from the pursuit of seeking to improve and enlighten others?
Why thank you Lee for your appreciation...I am accustomed to not sharing with anybody the greater portion of what goes on in my mind, for the simple reason that it may be, and often is, for example by elberry, considered mad..and I grow tired of being laughed at and mocked. I am also averse to criticism of a negative kind, which I grant is a failing (but then why are people so often so savage?) But of course you are right. I'm glad you like the 'Alone with James' poem. No doubt my allusion to the tetragrammaton may irk Godly bretheren of a more traditional cast of mind, but there one has it.
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