Poetry from November '97

11 poems written between 2/10/97 and 1/1/98

[Contact]

Touching through a bridge of translucency,
So brief and perfect.
Now home under friendly stars.
The heart's truth and the head's truth
are one in love.
The future is an open book
for us to beautify or for us to mar.

Entities are not to be multiplied beyond necessity:
Dogmatic belief
that in this universe
simplicity triumphs,
though the complex be infinite
and the simple but one.

Another ring of the alarm clock bell,
that banshee sound I know too well.
Existing from one snooze to the next,
feeling perplexed,
wanting to ignore realities summoning spell.

unable to halt the ceaseless, senseless run of days
availing in each moment to see a fragment of eternity
to keep me sane.
all the time a nameless, soulless draining lethargy
competes with mr. sandman to dampen and enshroud my brain.
treading water
in a whirlpool
does very little good.
hoping for
a weightless moment
if I only could.

        , you fill my senses to overload.
        , you're the one that I long to hold.
And        , when you smile,
the sun goes out for a while,
hiding his head in shame
'cos you shine much brighter.

wherever there are men
there is greed
so
wherever there is plenty
there is need

Your violin voice strains my heart
to tears of sadness and joy.
Your gentle touch soothes my mind
from a tumult of futile cares.
Your trumpet call rouses my soul
with a promise of glory.

Living life from nine to five,
Is this really being alive?
When deep inside you feel a hero stir,
Longing, searching for something more,
Adrenaline, adventure, on a distant shore.
But meanwhile relationships go round bend,
So different from the script of Friends.
Daily pleasures seem like chores,
There seems to be no change, no light, no tunnel end.

At the window. A flash of red,
the only moonlight on the steps ahead.
Some shaman spirit abroad tonight,
or did it merely jump the wall out of sight?
Memory of another, brief and vanishingly,
who left a mark so effortlessly.
In that moment was much exchanged,
and I was likewise muchly changed.

My brain is being disassembled,
molecule by molecule.
As I slip into the oblivion of non-being,
no one notices - perhaps it's happening to them as well.
My foot taps mechanically to the
thrum, thrum of the projector.
My body subsides gradually to the floor.
Already the edges of my view are
bending and merging.
Soon they will collapse to an infinitesimal point,
then I will be no more
.

Though your beauty is more than
all the earth and sky
and all the creatures that move therein,
yet, the beauty in you is greater.
If you could understand the birds,
You would know they sing of you.
When great oak trees moan in the wind,
I hear their deep whispers, "        ,         ".

Stronger than death's pull
A hand clenched tight
In darkness and cold
Your last breath
Gives strength to fight
Grasp life tightly
Now I will survive
Since you gave me life
Shouldering a cross of pain
And I will live

I'm not worried by the future,
nor haunted by the past,
for I know you have my life in hand,
from my first day to the last.
I am trusting in your promises,
for I know you speak the truth.
You are the bedrock of my confidence,
in all things I rely on you.

Staring though the endless ache of minutes,
the buzz of caffeine only hinders
my throbbing mind from catching hold of,
holding onto,
a fully formed and clearly stated
idea bobbing, throbbing,
tantalizing beyond the edge
                                         of consciousness.

It's time to upgrade,
to find a newer model,
this one on longer fulfils my requirements.
part of me is sad to see it go -
I've got use to its look and feel.
But I must be realistic:
I've had two years of good use out of it,
but the age is beginning to show
and I'm noticing all sorts of bugs and strains.
I'm a business man,
and it's paid for the capital outlay,
so I can move on without remorse.
Now, if only changing computers was
as easy as changing partners.

The first July day fell on Valentine's eve,
leaving an appropriate warmth in the air
to complement young love,
and a full blossomed moon.
My head humming with the poorly dubbed voice of Bruce Lee
(by some guy from Iowa called Wayne, no doubt),
and my cloths saturated in molten toffee smoke,
I point my bike home;
but decide to head wherever.
The endless tributaries of Cowley with anonymous
red-bricked libraries, warehouses and, I guess, real homes -
because that many students couldn't produce such stillness - are
rendered with mysterious beauty by halogen street lights.
Up one lane, with grass and high chain fencing either side,
just as I am expecting country smells, I stumble on an immense
graveyard of tower flats.
The inhabitants could have been wiped out by a chemical leak in
the 80's or abducted by systematic Greys,
and no one has thought to investigate.
I've always wondered how Chenobol feels.
Returning, my trail of bread crumbs are retiring revellers,
always in two's or three's, hunched or draped,
but rationed to one group per street.
Familiar landmarks appear, and I freewheel down Morrell Avenue,
empty besides infrequent taxis.
Holding my coat corners behind me, the warm air - with just a
touch of midnight chill - washes over me and I've never been so
near to flying.
I glide to a halt at the lights, elated,
and head back over Magdalen Bridge.
At the corners of Longwall I hear a greeting call and scan the
empty streets before locating a second floor window gazer.
Her smile seems genuine, but too intense for a natural high.
Back home my flat are singing and cooking sausages,
and I'm writing this outside;
perhaps they're ready now.

Well my brain is rapidly changing
into a sundried pickled egg
because of freindly radiation leaking
from our family TV set.
And after two hours scripted dialogue
I can't put two words into place
but still I keep on watching blissfully
and I surf the advert breaks.

I vow to thee my country
to waste all my days
as a video slave
instead of playing for higher stakes.

Where to stand?!
The drowning cry as Millenium Man fights
to swim against the currents.
Grasping, gasping for the surface,
for just a glimpse of lan,
though far beyong his means of reaching.
info-bursts of pictures, soundbites,
words and concepts,
a cultural Pick & Mix selection.
A hyperlinked and hyper market
of philosophies and ways of being.
Yet no home, no solid point of starting,
no orthodoxy to accept reject subvert ignore.

Lost in my mind maze madness,
clinging to a poets ball of string,
groping for words of love and sadness,
for lines which rarely mean a thing.
Hand by hand and verse by verse
I progress -
deeper, or to escape, I do not know,
but onwards, ever onwards, I must press.
When the rubble of confusion blocks my passage,
I'm compelled to backwards tread.
Willo'-whip exits around each corner,
resolve to only darkness,
and endless thread.

Casting flowers across a canyon,
which barely make it half the way.
Squinting out to glimpse your features,
but your head is turned away.

To think you need what I could give
is totally absurd.
I am mistaken once again and can
offer only words.

Still I do no dare to lift my voice and call,
to catch your eye if not your heart.
For if you saw and heard my standing here,
how could we talk and pray and laugh - when I am torn apart.

At last the darkness releases its grip
slipping, falling, helpless, hopeful
into your arms.
And half formed glimpses of scenes and lifetimes
a frothing, morphing, endless headful
of quantum vacui emotions.
Consciousness synchronises with the rhythm,
sliding, floating, senseless, heartful
of unremembered you.

I just phoned to say
there's a                    in my life
(well, I didn't say it, but that's why I phoned).
And you've filled it, now I must get on, so thanks and bye.

Alone in my room.

Alone in my thoughts.

Alone with my thoughts.

and Radiohead,
Coca Cola and Mars,
Han and Chewbaca (on the wall),
Wallace and Gromit (on my shirt),
and still others wherever I turn.

Removing my glasses.

Everything is slightly blurred and
indistinct of course.
I can't quite make out the
words on adverts or the labels on clothes.

Faces are also less clear and
harder to categorise.
I see fewer friends
but also fewer strangers.

My point of contact with
the world had shifted
2cm back.
It looks more distant, as if
seen through binoculars backwards.
But I can feel the wind on
my eyes, and it is somehow
closer too.

Caught in a consumption trap,
suffocating under all my crap.
Hung on a consumption noose,
too comfortable to get loose.

Busy men don't write poetry,
Only melancholics or ramblers,
Or lovers with time on their hands.
And it's a pity,
Because they probably have a lot to say.
But some think that there's nothing new under the sun,
And anyhow, the thing is, they're too busy.

The thornbird sings to the naked ape,
"Live, love, laugh, thrive;
suck the marrow, seek the prize,
don't be content to just survive."

The person I'd like to be with
Is someone
Of whom it could be said
That whenever we're together
She's as comfortable as
When she's on her own
And I'm as comfortable as
When I'm on my own.

There's no need to travel
             to distant stars,
Because right under your nose
             there is an unknown world.
We are afraid to meet each other's eyes.
We are afraid of the cameras in the sky.

We are living in alienation,
In the midst of an alien nation.

Who are you? Who are you?
Who am I?
Where is the truth? Where is the life?
Is it out there - in disguise?

We can travel so fast, but have nowhere to so.
We can know so much, yet be still alone.

Cold and hard, sleeping on a pavement,
No one looks, no one even stares.
Thirtieth floor, of a concrete monster,
Through Baby's crying, she can no longer care.

We are living in alienation,
In the midst of an alien nation.

As I call your name into the darkness,
If you hear, don't let the echo return alone.
I have a question, and I need to find an answer,
But I'm afraid I'll just get the dialling tone.

Are you a freak?
Are you a fake?
Are you just misunderstood?
When you come, and you say
"Here I am, I am God."

And I'm looking for the real Jesus,
Would the real Jesus please stand up.
And I'm looking for a real saviour,
Is there a real saviour to stand up?

Are you just some kind of failed metanarrative,
Which postmoderns insist we best forget.
Not a person who taught and healed and chatted,
And suffered willingly a sacrificial death.

And two thousand years since you came,
Men still kill and love in your name.
More books have been written than I could ever read,
Only you can end confusion and satisfy my need.

Were you a freak?
Were you a fake?
Were you just badly misunderstood?
When you came, and you said
"Here I am, I am God"

And I'm looking for the real Jesus
Could I spot the real Jesus in a crowd?
And I'm looking for a real saviour,
If you are the truth please stand and shout it loud.

You can't touch it or smell it,
Buy it or sell it.
You can't breath it or eat it.
See it or meet it.
Without air you choke.
Without food you starve.
But without meaning
You long to die.

It's strange how words form poems past,
Still hold to my heart quite so fast;
Although I might now rightly say
I hardly knew you 'till this day.
I wonder if, perhaps, the soul and pen,
Scout way beyond the mortal ken;
But yet they give me no clue, when we meet,
To the rhythm and focus of your heart-beat.

Here's another poem for my collection.
And I wonder, will my heart be changed,
Or a fallen world be rearranged,
By this indulgent habit of introspection?

I want you, I want you.
I need you, I need you.

I want you, I want you.
I need you, I need you.

I want you to want me too to want me true
I want you.
I need you to need me too to need me true
I need you.

I want you, I want you.
I need you, I need you.

I want you, I want you.
I need you, I need you.

Without you, without you.
Without you, without you.

Without you I don't know what to do, how I'll get through, what's false or true
Without you.

I need to be near to you be dear to you.
I want to be true to you be made new with you.
I want you.

Vast as the sea,
Washing over me.
Warm as tropical breeze,
Filling me with ease.
Caritas Dei.