All entries for December 2008

December 11, 2008

work in progress


Silly love songs

Rows and rows

          of laughing girls

sing silly love songs

           to unsung beats.

But you who stand

so tall and so still

laid in my heart

in the searing heat

I will love you for a life

and do for you what music

once did.


For you

I had my eyes in my pockets for too long                                                                                                                     

upon the murky even' day;

Too long lost in forest of dark oceans

suffocated black in storm.

And then I saw you

             Sat in your jewelled tower that sang like a violin.

A waterfall of midnight and stars

cascading down you fragile rippling body, snowy white shoulders

to breasts, to smooth and round stomach.

Gypsey ringlets and bracelets purple

coloured your lips.  You smiled me awake.

And when there was no smile, your eyes

set alight the waters of my heart.

At the break of day, I was moved and sacred

with the morning birds, danced in masque with the garden statues

                          and with you.

Let us dance then you and I,

with hands and hearts on our songs

through the laughing skies

and join them with a love

To blind a thousand fires, to blind the sun.


Love in Old Suburbia

When I see a girl I want to know what she wants

When I see a man I want to know what he needs;

Their hearts place on a windowsill

and the magpies feather trembling with the echoes

of their space in time.

Love.  and whats not there to love

in the golden carpets of the suburbian gardens

Old Suburbia. Old Eden, when the lass and I

take old ramblings through the hedgerows,

crisp as the apple, moist and juiced

with morning dew.

This is what she wants,

this is what I need.


December 09, 2008

Home for Christmas

‘I think we’re going to lose him’

‘Well I think its time he got lost’

And I am lost; a whirlpool of knickers stare me out

As do the four eyes of constant contemplation

Through the conservatory window

Silence echoes through the cold night,

chimney smoke blows across the moon,

love lingers ill somewhere,

in front of the couch,

sat on the television.

The dales looked like a fiery sea this evening,

Bathed in the tragedy of the sun

A sinking ship.

The rocking boat of the moon swam

Through half of the sky, the deeper half

The deep of night.

I once thought that I’d be interested in building and plumbing

But I don’t think I am

I like stars, and who built them?

Where does their sewage go?

Tomorrow I will collect the dead autumn’s apples

Move the logs for the fire

And sit on them like a throne;

smoke my cigarettes.

Depending on the temperature

I might be happy,

If it is too cold then I will stop.

If I stop I know I will be happy.

A still smile, on an empty face -

A winter nothingness.


December 02, 2008

work in progress

Once upon a time, for all stories must start as such, there lived an old stone cutter.  He was the happiest man in the world.  He was very poor but everyday he would go to work cutting stone.  Go to work cutting away at the stout mountains, the giants that he lived under.  They were his friends, his work partners.  He was happy and content.  Everyday he would sing:

'O Lordy, pick a bit a cotton' O Lordy pick a bit a hay, O Lordy I am a mountain, O lordy I pick a bit a day'

Then after forty years of such happy days, he was asked to do some work for a rich man. A very very rich man.  He was astounded by the wealth and comfort that the man lived in.  The fire which the servants built, the silver cutlery placed upon the table, the plumbing so that the rich man might have a hot bath.  All of this the stone cutter percieved and wanted.  He became jealous and disgusted at the poverty in which he was living, he wanted to be like the rich man.

That night when he was saying his prayers, he confronted God. 'O Lord' he said, 'all my life I have prayed to you, thanked you, sacrificed for you, glorified you.  Every sunday I have attended the mass. Why then am I poor, and the man I have been working for rich, who has not an icon of you in his house.  Will you not make me rich?'  God heard his prayer and because he was indeed a devout man, he appeared as a voice to the stonecutter. 'Because you are indeed a devout man I will give you five wishes. Do with them as you will and may you learn much by it'

That very night the stonecutter wished into the wind that he could be indeed a rich man, a very very rich man.  As soon as the the words had disappeared into the silence, he found himself in such house the like of which he had never seen.  Servents lightly running across the stone hall floor to make ready the duck from burning, to make up the goose feathered beds.  There was that smell of insence and leather and dood and big fires and most of all of money.......


thoughts

'Peter the fisherman, tatooed and unshaven

bums a cigarette in the eye of the sun

who laying down his head to rest

casts lines of shimmering orange light

onto the breaking ocean:

Infinite and forever, the image that inspired God to create'

'The Painter

      inspired flicks colours

of golden fire across

       the layered spindled

dome of the sky'

'Tonight the moon shines not the suns light but her own'

'What comes from nothing but a fertilized field for the mind to grow her crops'

One thing did strike me today is the description of Om in the preface to Hesse' novel Siddartha; 

'a mystic monosyllable....the word of words'.  From what I understand it transcends all things. 'the stone is a stone; it is also the animal, God and Buddha'

now compare this with Forster's description of the word 'Boum' in a Passage to India.  Again within the sound of the word all things are transcended.  Infinity resides within the syllable.  Did Forster have 'Om' in mind.  Both words seem to portray the same message but from totally different points of the wheel.


December 2008

Mo Tu We Th Fr Sa Su
Nov |  Today  | Jan
1 2 3 4 5 6 7
8 9 10 11 12 13 14
15 16 17 18 19 20 21
22 23 24 25 26 27 28
29 30 31            

Search this blog

Most recent comments

  • Wow deep! I really liked reading this, such poetic writing, when's the next story Zebedee? by on this entry
  • I kinda want to comment on the trackback rather than leave my lame appreciative noises at the end of… by on this entry
  • I kinda want to comment on the trackback rather than leave my lame appreciative noises at the end of… by on this entry
  • Ah…purple prose :P But I love this whole concept, and I love how it's written, for reasons which I… by on this entry
  • or noone employed him , cutting stones was just his hobby, so after he became rich, he could spend a… by XCW on this entry

Blog archive

Loading…
Not signed in
Sign in

Powered by BlogBuilder
© MMXXII