It’s bright, so glaringly bright! Winter’s slipped
as day tumbles forth from night. Creatures dipped
in bronze melt all through my sight. Myna skipped
the fresh-cut grass, catching flight, as clouds wisped
past swathes of blue-tinted light. Ice-wind crisped
breaths healed by Ra’s molten might! Three ants nipped
across the page I’d soon write, darted, tripped
and fell to earth: a great height. Moods have flipped
from tight-clenched fists to delight. Beings tipped
from low to high, wrong to right. Minds equipped
with nature’s gift for insight. Honey-dripped
days, praise! Loop this bliss-tinged plight with no script.
In the age-old tradition
of propaganda and repetition
we are expecting
of the truth
with a percussive deluge
in blinding succession
by incendiary instants
of infinite insanity
upon marginalised percentages
of human populations
by pandemically disproportionate
in indecipherable waves
of community-conscious pathos
by an hysterical post-ethical
imperative to imperil
inherent critical faculties
with antithetical rhetoric
by a dispassionate discourse
of preposterous proportions
among the privileged unharmed
and the righteously
The truth of me is not beautiful at all
It’s the story of so much blood, tears and mud
Seeping into crevices, drying out and cracking
Under a relentless radiant gaze
Rendering my skin transparent to the sun.
Look! You won’t find anything inside
It’s all out here in front of me. All of it.
The debris of inspecting and judging
And downcast eyes while turning away.
I’m too modest and too proud
For the mechanics and toil of beauty
Too tired of endless repetition
Stripping down to perfection
Carving and threshing and tweaking
Until we’re all wearing the same face
And my eyes have turned opaque.
Once I saw a young boy dance his vision.
Another time, you and I sat for hours together
Contemplating unity and the nature of water.
In that moment your life took form
As the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Against a decoupage landscape of highlights and spotlights
Permanent looks of mild surprise and unfathomable ideals
Candid poses and so much inhumanly-toned skin;
Members of the Brotherhood-of-Lies
Have arrived at an entirely different truth than mine.
This is the second “Missive from the scrap heap”. It was written in response to a request a couple of days ago but it turned out to be inappropriate for that purpose. What is most interesting to me is how I experienced the idea of beauty 20 years ago compared to this surprising response to the idea of beauty now.
For those who seek
Of much they speak
Of near and far
And thoughts that mar
The ebbs and flows
But no-one knows
Which way is right
Or what to fight
Our natures deep
Our questions keep
A tangled knot
Of what is not
That’s held up high
But brings a sigh
To all the tears
We’ve shed these years
May peace begin
With peace within
Nothing to find
Except [accept] _____ your _________ mind.
I write a lot of poems in the shower, generally to some kind of rhythm or rhyme — I don’t really know why the shower muse comes by…
Old men read the lesson in the setting sun. Beat the cymbal and sing in this life, or wail away the hours fearing death. From the I-Ching