All 14 entries tagged Poetry
View all 698 entries tagged Poetry on Warwick Blogs | View entries tagged Poetry at Technorati | There are no images tagged Poetry on this blog
September 17, 2014
Like stout Cortez
He will not fall
On Darien’s high peaks and hills
In valleys he will walk until
He hears the sound of Scotland’s call
No more will he hear Big Ben toll
Out on the land where workers toil
In run-down houses and degraded soil
In vain for fifty years or more
Under iron fists and broken laws
By the Thames they shout and squeal
And promise there’ll be no more meals
They bang their fists and shake their heads
But he wrings his hands; he’s made his bed
“They’re only ever words of fear
In time they’ll fade and disappear
So raise your hands and drink your beer
Our sweetest-hearts and mother’s dear
Are the only ones who have our ears
It may be true, our day is here,
Though frightening; it may appear
The chance is there for us to seize
We’ll ride our luck, as Ulysses
Made his own way on stormy seas
The sun is out and the lilac’s blooming
The shadow of the past is brooding
Phantom-like in darkened corners
Lets rid the past of would-be mourners!”
His shout cries out but all alone
He finds himself on rugged stone
Volcanic lava that once was molten
Dead as granite, and only frozen
He stands a shadow on barren crag,
A dim sea beside him as feeling lags
That he’s still to seek that name he lacks
With no place to sleep and his bedrooms taxed
His health is weak and the wind is strong
It knocks the breath from weakened lungs
The voice they carry, lost in the throng
Of fearful waves against the rock
That beat in time with London’s clock
– A city t’would be painted gold
If only it weren’t already sold
At vast expense, they had been told
But no one dare to speak out bold
And question: with that great expense
Could they bring back some common sense?
“Greatest hopes that had been placed
Now drift away as the margin fades
Men fight fire with only fire,
Though the need is great and warnings dire
To do much else just leaves them tired”
The tide turns as his mother chides him
She nods his head when he says ‘they’re lying’,
They often do, those men in power
They smoke cigars in phallic towers
And compensate for small endowments
“Our chance can come again,” she said,
“Not on ballot paper, but in our heads,
And in our minds; so if you please
Go live your life to the lees
They cannot take what they cannot see.”
August 21, 2014
Loosely jacketed against the frost bite
In the air, tight on the skin and in the strands
Of hair follicles. Beneath the swarming stars
On the dais of the earth, circling in the dark,
No light falling on them but only around them,
On a high prairie, chalk stone on the horizon,
They heard horses, jaunty, in the distance,
Though coming to that place finding no trace
That a herd ever had crossed it. And thinking the
Light from those stars may have carried them up
And borne them from the dark earth,
The electricity of night about them and
Walking through a myriad of different
They came at once to an ancient orchard
Where the fruit was of their own making.
Though it was cold, they stole like thieves
Loosed from a chain-gang and stumbling
Upon a treasure trove of different worlds
Ten thousand universes and futures ahead of them
And infinite possibility abounding like the swarming stars
There and always there for their choosing
Though until this night always just out of reach.
July 02, 2014
Studying the prickling heat on his skin,
Imagining each spot of pain to be spider bites,
Pricking flesh and spilling not quite blood
but a liquid coloured at the edge of it.
He felt no appetite, for there were no apples
Like those apples he tasted that afternoon,
He had never tasted apples like those.
Not before nor since.
There were never apples like that again
And the sun beats down on his forgetfulness
And memory seems shattered:
The smell of rain, fresh on the stone
Of paving slabs and steps beside the lawn
Where he ran on the wet grass and fell:
He fell more than he should
but it did not matter.
August 24, 2011
I wasn’t breast fed. And
Most of my conversations with men, seem
Stifling. Revolving around hip size and
You probably didn’t kiss Mary when you knocked her up.
Seconds are secular, minutes, minute and
The scales of dead fish from oil slicks
Are echoes from the parties which took place
Inside Egyptian tombs and pyramids.
The factor is me,
Standing next to a photograph of a portrait of
Abraham Lincoln, Beneath the surface of our purpose
Lies rumours of ancient rain,
Different moments in time's continuum has allowed history to
catch up with
Unravel our eyelids so that we may ingest the clouds
Which have descended and are descending
London sits in what would be its shadow
Had the lack of light not meant casting shadows
Is now purely metaphorical.
Depending on how you look naked,
Stripped of demeanor,
Is hereafter how one shall judge the state of the economy
Our anatomy, large, small, slim, spot covered,
Is a far more accurate representation of what’s going on
Behind closed doors in canary wharf,
But I’ve seen David Cameron naked when we were at Eaton together,
And then again at Oxbridge,
And from experience I can assure you he looks absolutely gorgeous
Which means that we’ll be fine.
We’ll be standing alongside the bankers,
Who are currently letting the sun soak their skin
On high board Haitian holidays,
In no time at all.
Though we are small compared to rain drops,
As they fall in our mouths we may conjure silver,
The slivers that fall, scraps, from the high table,
There, Jesus sits, tired from talk, and
Full of spite for you, God.
That you have overshadowed the name of mortal men.
Lightning is crashing over me and through me as I wait outside,
Looking into the last supper through a slat in the window.
They boast and mutilate food and laugh
At the foolish lamb spinning round the base of a tree which
Grows from the floor of the room.
The lack of natural sun has stunted the growth of its leaves.
There are ice cubes lodged in my naval.
Meanwhile a woman, enclosed by a thatched litter pulled
By slaves, sits in the lotus position. Her eyes are shrouded
Behind a silk scarf. A pendant hangs from a necklace
I can comprehend its value but not its meaning.
I slept, once. Framed by the skulls of my grandparents.
We do not remember dreams, only nightmares,
Werewolves hunt in mountain ranges, slipping
Across the edge of ancient glacier lakes,
They have neglected the travails of their hearts,
Blood has been washed from their mouths,
They dance in worship of Saturn, a planet fringed by a rainbow,
For they know only believers in death, die.
They would sing, yet their lips have been sown together,
And their tongues sit in the back of their throats,
My darling Saturn.
You are not mine to own, nor mine to satiate,
Ride the tide towards divinity,
Senses; now finely tuned instruments,
Follow the voice of children, dancing for the devil.
July 17, 2011
This is the silence that comes from paying back debt,
I’m indebted to you, we’re all in this together, One for all
And one for each other, Well I’ve slept long enough in this
Facade of a dream world in this real world where my feet crunch
Over dollar bills on cobbled streets where rivers meet,
Stirred by sleet they rise and swell against these
Bastian walls, only time will tell etcetera
cliched phrase, etcetera
Well we were part of this star trek generation which assumed
Beings from all nations and across the universe spoke Anglais.
Now I’m afraid if we were ever speaking from the same language;
The same page, then we’ve underestimated how poor we are at
Understanding this riskier business they call banking
But seems more like a free for all, an unregulated brawl
In a tavern where the landlord sits and takes tabs.
Sometimes I wake as if I've fallen through the looking glass,
Found myself in wonderland, a never, never land,
Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, mere commodities to sell,
And those who found themselves here, deviated course and
Now live, underrated making pornographic films, in
These dust bowl cities, circling those cataclysms of foreclosure
Where catastrophe is creeping into the streets, sleeping
Next to those whose homes were on the edge of the bubble,
The trouble is this watermarked catastrophe has crawled into bed
And is snoring next to the government, Ignoring the
Sub-prime by watching prime-time television soap operas.
If they put onus on home ownership why won’t they own up
Like grown ups won’t own up to their kids when they make mistakes.
Now I haven’t been to Baltimore, but I’m sure if I did,
I’d feel bad for having grown up in a home
That wasn’t threatened with repossession,
And that my parent’s divorce was the closest I came to ever feeling remorse,
Well that might not be true of course but true apology is hard to come by these days.
April 12, 2011
I’ve buried you.
In the sands which washed us,
Too full of imagination.
Closed in by water marks.
Cut off what I can.
To take this, solitude.
You astonish me.
In every place I’ve been,
I’ve buried you.
This, heroic act,
The denouement of Achilles.
The sting of rain,
Embittered and recreated by the
Fingers of the violinist.
Rest in my shaking hands.
These hands that cannot draw.
April 02, 2011
Wasting time procrastinating
On infinite idealism, Inspiring
Perspiration from participating in
Unethical debates, bragging
About the bastardization of the State,
Working in debilitating degrees
Of silence, Insinuating separation
Scaling the charts, though this
Situation is boring me, evaluate
The depth of the sea,
Analyze your claims to
Stop being so damn fascinating,
Stay still for a second, satiate and
Acquire your conception of notions.
Pouring through vodka bottles
Writing lists of demands surrounded
By statistical evaluation of the
Primordial evolution of devolution.
Shade in the colour of your wings,
They aren’t as pure as scientific potions,
They begin within the winning mentality,
They begin with that shared second
Sitting beside each other on children’s
Swings. Swinging back towards the
Concentric cyclical crevasse of a
Gothic cathedral’s spiraling staircase,
You can be so much more than your pay-grade
You might have read too many books,
Might have heard to many problematic
Philosophies, but the confines of your mind
Expose you to your instilled inclinations.
Cry at what you laughed at and laugh at what
Others refuse to smile at, curled lips and
Exposed teeth are goddam sexy,
Not quite as much as a short black skirt
And a need to be loved, but pretty close.
Making the most of nights of revelry
Stops making chivalry look worth
Anything. Anything you want isn’t
Necessary, it’s all part of the contemporary
Wish to be seen. Stop reading lies in
Social commentaries, stop listening
To rhymes which are totally nonsensical
Whether they are clerical or not,
Stop speaking aloud to fill silence
Let the silence fill you and engage with it,
Segregate and annihilate your dispositions
to be disposed to particular theisms and theologies
Which can be laughed at when you understand
Analogies to bland aspects of life like
Things are, alright.
Satisfactory, you might say.
You might say things here are
Maybe a little on the dull side
Or just slightly too static.
I would say, that things are a bit like cheese.
Cheddar cheese, in fact.
There are lots of cheeses I could use
But Edam is too classy for this analogy
And as for those blue cheeses well
They’re too much of a fad.
Not that I don’t like blue cheese.
It’s what cheese would taste like
If it were a colour. I just think
Blue cheese lacks substance.
It might be popular and a little eccentric
But eventually it will lose it’s popular basis
Unlike Mozzarella. There’s a cheese
With a fine tradition at its foundation.
It would take a huge scandal for Mozzarella
To tumble. Because of this fact unfortunately
That rules Mozzarella out of the equation too.
Because the thing with Cheddar, is that
It will do.
You can melt it onto most things and they will taste fine
But you wouldn’t take it over mozzarella on Pizza or over
Blue cheese and crackers.
That would be ridiculous.
But you’d take it over not having cheese.
That goes without saying
So before you being to think where am I going with this
I’m going to talk about life and death.
And how cheddar, is a little bit better than
You see, we don’t have it bad.
We don’t have it great and because of that
We get pissed off; since we know we could have it great.
But we’re not hungry,
We’re warm and listening to poetry.
I’m even a little bit drunk
Which is more than you can say for
People who aren’t warm, listening to poetry
And who don’t have access to a cheap bar.
You see I’d take a cheap bar over no bar,
Poetry over silence, warmth over cold.
Just as I would take Cheddar cheese over no
Cheese at all.
So you see, I think I’ve done it,
I think I’ve won the bet
That I made with my friend Jason,
That I couldn’t make an allegorical comparison
Between the state of humankind
February 10, 2011
Eat your dinner silently as
you stare at each other without seeing
what you saw in each other.
scrape your leftovers into the red bin
Oh shit you’re supposed to put food in the blue bin!
Now she’s gonna be mad. Maybe if you
get that kitchen towel and scrape it
from one bin to the other?
too late she’s in the room she’s seen
what you’ve done and she’s
screaming again but she’s not
screaming with anger she’s just
screaming because you’ve both forgotten how you
to be able to talk to each other softly after making love,
lying in your cramped single bed with the
light’s on after shagging each other with your clothes on.
You take out the green bin. The green bin is safe.
can’t go wrong with a bit of recycling
eco-friendly dave, that’s you, conscientious you
care about whales and lions and even krill cos
even though it’s not documented, krill have a rough time of it too.
Out in the yard outside the front of the house you
knew was just a temporary thing before you
got your big break
then came matrimony and lying and fucking your secretary soon became
making love to your secretary
and soon you were standing under moonlight in Paris
and the moon was dripping down your back
and Mary was crying after the meal
and you didn’t put your arm around her.
Glass bottles for bottling your liquid aggression
and cans full of corporate thought
you look over at the neighbours bins and their
recycling bin is empty,
why is it empty? are they on holiday?
Their audiis are outside, both of them, one green and one red.
You look to your left and your right and there’s
no one in sight so you leap as a fox
an urban fox in the dark
over their stone wall barrier
and you open their black garbage bin
and tear open the bin liner and out spills
Arseholes fucking arseholes man they’re killing the world their killing the environment
fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck them
Don’t they know there are starving children in Ethiopia?
This is the end of the line
you’re tired of letting people slide into this middle class individualism
selfish selfish selfish selfish
Let them eat fire
let them eat petrol
let them drink their fill of smoke
who knew that rags and fuel could fuel a vendetta against the riches
the fire crackles behind the glass
glorious recyclable glass
do they know their house is on fire?
let them sleep in the fire
let them warm their hearts
oh shit man there was a dog inside and the dog
man it’s going fucking mental it won’t stop barking
it won’t stop barking
it won’t stop barking
head back inside to the cupboard by the stairs
take the extinguisher out. She
watches you but she doesn’t say anything she just
watches you leave with the red extinguisher
you’ve never used one before so she’s going to
watch you struggle
watch as you try to stop the flames
fuck man this is a carbon dioxide extinguisher!
you’re fueling global warming you idiot
but the dog won’t stop barking
maybe you can get to the shops and buy a new water extinguisher?
shops probably sell extinguishers.
now their’s this
screaming. Is it her? Is it one of the neighbours? This
screaming is getting closer and louder and it’s filling your brain with
screaming man it won’t go away.
and there are blue lights in your eyes and the red of the fire
is melting into your retinas
blue, red and green...
...and the grey of the police cell.
Will Mary remember to sort out the recycling?
January 03, 2011
Watch shadows dissolve the day,
Dead hearts in soul’s oblivion,
Wash away sins, yearning years,
Forget the fleeing panic of the sky’s
Listen to what those preachers say,
Take heed with no salvation,
Remove your rings, dispel your fears,
Watch the lord control the flies
And then destroy the nation.
Speak soft sonnets on the way,
Dear Danger feed my hesitation,
Hear those who win, mourning tears,
Break the selfish idle ties
That halt your inclinations.
These damnable traces are etching
Thoughtless examples of freedom
Which wake me, searching, retching,
From a sleepless serfdom,
Deep pollution fills the seas,
Love this revolution.