Today's poet

[Mossdog]

What! A Friday and no posts!!!! Better remedy that then with our Sylvia..


Event

How the elements solidify! ---
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie

Back to back. I here an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.

The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.

Then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard.
One touch : it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.

Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.

Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip

A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?

The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.

[Hes]

You are not alone Mossy! There are a lot of very strong images in that poem, I found it compelling but disturbing. Had a very surreal drive back from an exhibition preview in a blizzard.

Journey

The road stretches ahead
darkness closing like a fist
and I am alone
but for the silent fall of snow

[Hes]

I do like this very much, glad I didn't miss it.

The Boy In The Bedroom

Obsessed suggests madness,
In love suggests bliss.
My thoughts have all left me,
Now which one is this?

My insides are empty,
My desire has gone,
The world all around me
And my mind is on one.

See sunlight in darkness,
See water in sand,
See life in eyes
That do not understand.

I could just forget you.
That’s a blessing I miss.
The boy in the bedroom,
Now which one is this?


(written about 10 years ago when life was very different!)

[Mossdog]

You are not alone Mossy! There are a lot of very strong images in that poem, I found it compelling but disturbing. Had a very surreal drive back from an exhibition preview in a blizzard.

Journey

The road stretches ahead
darkness closing like a fist
and I am alone
but for the silent fall of snow

That's gorgeous Hes. But you're not really alone, not on here anyway.

[Mossdog]

Felltop

That final glance, locks the gardened haven,
As the key turns to our Autumn home;
Lakeland's ochre vista quietly stowed away,
Slipping, even now, into what 'had been'.

Images of playful spaces and crisp sheets,
Of glowing coals lighting love's smiles,
Now soar into the void of time;
Distant already as summer's swallows.

That brief world we conjured, a retrieved dream,
Of what we might have been, so long ago;
Reached from the kaleidoscope of life's choices,
Yet lost by circumstance, swaddled in regret.

And yet still, the world churns onwards,
Our conscientious moon, rises, zeniths, sets,
Even Autumn's colours must fade too,
Under the chilled layered still of Winter.

Does Felltop echo still with our joys?
Ghosts of smiles, hugs of long held longing
Of gentle love making, fill the corridor?
Or is tangible a mere fantasy of fable?

[Alf]

What! A Friday and no posts!!!! Better remedy that then with our Sylvia..


Event

How the elements solidify! ---
The moonlight, that chalk cliff
In whose rift we lie

Back to back. I here an owl cry
From its cold indigo.
Intolerable vowels enter my heart.

The child in the white crib revolves and sighs,
Opens its mouth now, demanding.
His little face is carved in pained, red wood.

Then there are the stars - ineradicable, hard.
One touch : it burns and sickens.
I cannot see your eyes.

Where apple bloom ices the night
I walk in a ring,
A groove of old faults, deep and bitter.

Love cannot come here.
A black gap discloses itself.
On the opposite lip

A small white soul is waving, a small white maggot.
My limbs, also, have left me.
Who has dismembered us?

The dark is melting. We touch like cripples.

That is a disturbing description of their marriage bed

Thanks for posting that Mossy and I loved your "Felltop" poem. Lets hold that memory till next year

[Alf]

I am reading John Clare's biography at the moment and it begins with John Clare escaping a private asylum in 1841 and walking the 80 miles home, eating grass to stave off hunger, convinced he will meet up with his childhood sweetheart Mary Joyce. He was forbidden from forming a lasting relationship with Mary by her father. The fact that Mary died in a house fire in 1838 makes this journey all the more tragic.

John Clare wrote this poem in 1848.

Mary (A Ballad)

Love is past and all the rest
Thereto belonging fled away
The most esteemed and valued best
Are faded all and gone away

How beautiful was Mary's dress
While dancing at the meadow ball
—'Tis twenty years or more at least
Since Mary seemed the first of all

Lord how young bonny Mary burnt
With blushes like the roses hue
My face like water thrown upon't
Turned white as lilies i' the dew

When grown a man I went to see
The school where Mary's name was known
I looked to find it on a Tree
But found it on a low grave stone

Now is past—was this the now
In fine straw-hat and ribbons gay
I'd court her neath the white thorn bough
And tell her all I had to say

But all is gone—and now is past
And still my spirits chill alone
Loves name that perished in the blast
Grows mossy on a church-yard stone

John Clare

[Hes]

Oh Mossy, that's incredibly moving and very beautiful.

Felltop

That final glance, locks the gardened haven,
As the key turns to our Autumn home;
Lakeland's ochre vista quietly stowed away,
Slipping, even now, into what 'had been'.

Images of playful spaces and crisp sheets,
Of glowing coals lighting love's smiles,
Now soar into the void of time;
Distant already as summer's swallows.

That brief world we conjured, a retrieved dream,
Of what we might have been, so long ago;
Reached from the kaleidoscope of life's choices,
Yet lost by circumstance, swaddled in regret.

And yet still, the world churns onwards,
Our conscientious moon, rises, zeniths, sets,
Even Autumn's colours must fade too,
Under the chilled layered still of Winter.

Does Felltop echo still with our joys?
Ghosts of smiles, hugs of long held longing
Of gentle love making, fill the corridor?
Or is tangible a mere fantasy of fable?

[Hes]

That's true indeed. I've just had a fantastic day of running in the snow, made new friends and ran the longest I've managed in two years. How can I feel sorry for myself when I really have so much to be thankful for and there is always here to come and share things.

That's gorgeous Hes. But you're not really alone, not on here anyway.

[L.F.F.]

I do like this very much, glad I didn't miss it.

Thanks Hes. That's much appreciated.