Did I really do that?
I’m not that cunning.
Did I really say that?
I’m not that sharp.
Did I really think that?
I’m not that clever.
Did you really take my words to heart?
Misunderstanding;
Caught on fire.
Misunderstanding;
In the dark.
Misunderstanding;
Needless heartache.
Misunderstanding’s made its mark.
If you can hear what I’m saying,
Then say what you’re hearing.
‘Cos I’m standing here,
Misunderstanding you
Misunderstanding me.
I wonder what life is like.
Really - I mean beneath the
Pretence and confusion.
Sometimes I’m tossed about
Like driftwood on stormy seas.
Dazed, disorientated, information overload.
Then life is complicated.
But sometimes I feel inspired
And witness to some divine jigsaw.
When a plan comes together and a deed is done.
Then life is simple.
So what’s the answer?
Maybe it’s just simply too complicated.
Or too complicatedly simple.
The first things you notice are the rough features,
The smooth regions of colour and their bounding lines.
Quickly the focus changes to the details;
Irregularities and incongruities,
Speckles like islands in a sea of primary tones.
The view shifts again, subtlety and unconsciously.
The simple world of forms, colours and details is gone,
Swallowed in the bottomless pupil wells.
The physical has dissolved because, in essence, eyes are boundaries.
A thin line separates mind and body;
A grey zone, not properly defined, that touches soul.
In an eye can lurk great beauty or ugliness,
A gateway to Elysium or Tartarus.
Across this portal flows a constant data stream.
A paved highway running arrow straight in both directions.
A highway without by-laws slowing the passage of traffic.
When two pairs of eyes lock together,
The highway hits rush hour.
Opposing lanes compete for flux.
The process amplifies in a feedback loop gone wild,
Dum animus tangit animum.
Blink.
Who is powerful
Who is mighty
Who is sovereign
But our God.
Who is lovely
Who is radiant
Who is beauty
But our God.
Who is gentle
Who is patient
Who is loving
But our God
Who is tearful
Who is suffering
Who is dying
None but our God.
In the summer when I see a busy honey bee,
I thank her for all the work she does for me;
And when I smell honey in a pot,
I thank her for the runny lot;
But when I taste honey on my toast,
It’s then I thank my friend the most.
We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
Two at home, the other a stranger.
Well not strange, just out of place I mean.
We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
In no hurry, no place to go.
The sun softly sapping our strength, a radiant leech.
We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
Dry lips open, forcing conversation.
Anger at either side, sadness in the middle.
Then the sky turned black and the curtain tore.
Eloi, Eloi
He lives no more.
[The Graduate]
Passion
is not reasonable,
is not polite,
is not on reflection,
is not realistic,
is real.
Fire begets fire.
Love and love,
hate and hate,
collide.
Passion
gambles everything
on a long shot,
on a last chance,
on a dream,
can do no else.
Hate always begets hate,
does love beget love?
Too much work to do,
so I watch daytime TV.
Too many friends to call,
so I skim through books.
Too much to pray about,
so I have a snack and a slash
and say ‘tomorrow, early!’
Too many poems to write,
cluttering my head,
jostling for time online.
I cast them out onto a thousand
paper scraps which pile up
with my other tasks,
waiting to be forgotten.
Double quickstep dodging rabble.
Beautious.
Eyes on target never wandering.
Mysterious.
Chasing hair along a busy street.
From behind so enigmatic.
Five steps back still anomynic.
The, suspense, the face revealed;
Would that still it was concealed!
For the elements have cut and battered,
Beauty broken, simplicity shattered.
Wind and rain
and pain and sorrow,
rejection and loneliness
failure and fallenness.
Disappointment does run deeply,
Yet still when scent drifts down the street,
I must chase hair unerringly.
Can I opt out of this madness,
call it modern cyber-life.
Tend some fields and bother no one,
make no money little strife.
Poetry
selection D