Poem XVII - Glasgow Winter Nights

They have never met before,

    these two lovers who pass each other on the snow-carpeted street.

    There is nothing between them save
    the briefest and most meaningful exchange of glances.

A young man stumbles on the slippery pavement,
  regains his balance
    and moves on.
      (A waft of cider in his wake.)

The colour of this night—its romance, its essence—is wanting;
    the insipid, bright incandescence of street-light
    dims the world.

Alone—      stood still—      wondered—      first apprehended
                                                                                             silence.

~

Beneath feet
                       frost glitters
      
                and stars are tread upon.

~

Christmas lights flourish through heat-fogged windows,

                                                      and the cheer
                                                  warm within
—better days finding their way back home,

                            if but for a night.

Looking there—hidden well, beside all the lights—

                        one window
                            is dark.

It does not pretend
  joy,
    goodwill,
      compassion,

        or a truce in view of the occasion.

Within it is dark, and ghosts accompany
those who have just come in
        from the cold;
                   a coldness that is
                   an affinity for these
                   wraiths akin.

~
  
For a moment the ornaments steal me away—

    for a moment—

from the mob I weave through;

                                                       moments
                           that I have come to cherish;
                                                       moments
wherein I have lived a thousand lives and one,

                        in one.

But the lights, hung this way and that, usher my return

                                        and I continue
                                             on my way,

                                     as I have always
                                                     done.

M.M. — November-December MMX

I lie on my bed...

I lie on my bed, still—unburdened from the cares of motion and the external world—staring at the wall, the ceiling—at nothing and everything.

Pervading the room, the enclosure of my cavernous mind: music; its beat an affinity seeking union—one of its proposals a deep earthly throbbing, and another repeating like the hurling into the distance and its eventual auspicious return. My thoughts intermingle with the sounds, the rhythm; at once detaching themselves from their host and extending their tendrils further into that hidden crossover point that perplexes.

How inconspicuous is breath: to sup from the unseen and sustain this motionless soma of mine. And my heart: its pumping working away in the eloquence orchestrated by nature. I place my hand upon my breast but fail to attest to the symphony..."the symphony of nature".

How did they begin: the heartbeat, the thoughts, the music? Were these to be reverted to the moment of their genesis what would be there? God? A god? Something more fantastic? Or perhaps, in actuality, something beyond our infantile ken?

There and then,

at the primæval stillness,

motion preceded

and motion succeeded.

Metapoem I - Stars in the Water

 

 

I saw

stars in the water



I saw them

shimmering

elusively



I immersed my hands

till they were

wrist-deep

and all were



one



I felt

starfire



I submerged

my face


swooned


and birthed from

suffusing heat complete



I withdrew

and wondered at

my living flesh

  

M.M. — November MMX

Poem XVI - Death Mask

A portrait perfectly moribund,
long had she left the sun;
the fever now sets her face,
her flame has lost its pace.

Sweat bedews her wan skin,
tears telling of future that has been.
As fingers gnaw at a noxious bed,
nothing more will ever be said.

She hears murmurs by the bedside
from those who had mollified and lied:
their hollow words becoming more indistinct,
the dimming of lights growing succinct.

The matters that raked or reminisced
are remnant flurries, and both missed.
Her weakening grasp to her blares,
resounding loud in the thickening air.

There had been a girl with such a laugh,
whose voice is now wine in a leaking carafe.
And a soft, scented hand will not caress,
will not run fingers through youthful tress.

And a boy: there had been a boy, and love;
she had once loved (dare she think thereof?).
But his smile heightens what is already sown—
this is the most she has ever felt so alone.

Convivial in melancholy's gainful time,
doom is wielding its hand, committing its crime;
cascading like the pain in her muted cries,
like the fear etching itself about her eyes.

Black draperies accent the intent with such candour,
though the panting of thought is so much grander.
The nothings in the room impress unavoidably:
the stark last things that she will ever see.

At last the gaunt gentleman has returned
with his look of apathy—and concern.
Or is it the lady of the impending storm
regarding between the flitting forms?

And what is that behind the door,
skulking now along the floor?
She is tightly grasped in its scheme;
it has burrowed deep in her bitter dream.

It comes close—creeping, creaking—
as she turns her head, speaking:
"I think it is time for us to go.
What is next? I wish to know."

When morning came, and dawn sung,
she was gone with a breath—the deed, done.
Nothing was left but the cold, vacant shell;
nothing but the mask Death had moulded so well.

M.M. — September-November MMX

"Epyllion I" to be published

I earlier reported that "Poem XII" had been successful in this year's Poetry Rivals competition, having been selected for publication at the end of November.

I am further pleased to announce that "Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan" (reprinted below) will also be published by Forward Press in their anthology Forward Press Regionals 2010 - The World Is Your Oyster.

The collection is set to be printed on 31 December 2010.


Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan

"Come, dear warrior, Son of the Light,
What ails you so? Gone is Hixen's Blight,
And the world rejoices at your valiant deeds!
Do you not walk as hero? No other's feet
Shall ever tread where you met plight."

So said Felnah, ascended from Her Nether Realm.
Replied Sókan, lifting his weary head, removing his helm:

"O Goddess, Guardian of Those Who Slumber,
You speak no lie: all the enemy I have left asunder.
The righteous have triumphed and the benighted earth
Shall be as it was—all will welcome again hope and mirth.
But Agánn has fallen! and I feel heavy and sombre."

The Lady of Shadows took pity upon hearing this,
And told Sókan of the fate of Agánn, comrade now missed:

"The indomitable Agánn: loyal friend, warrior bold;
His brand will be ever sheathed, his body ever cold.
But pine not for him: he now sleeps the Blissful Sleep,
Dreams the Eternal Dream, and reposes where I keep.
There he will be when on you death begins its hold."

This uplifted the battle-worn Sókan and assuaged his grief
As he watched Felnah depart, soundless, like master thief.

M.M. — Februarius MMX

Evensong I - My Lord the Sun

With such momentousness I witness Your departure, my Lord the Sun
Your reign, Day, is done

At the top of the world did You erstwhile sit
Upon Your throne that touched aught and all
But Your descent, roaring steps down the once-azure stair, has come

Look how Your retinue, Your court the Clouds, turns as You fall!
The golds and somewhat reds that I once glimpsed in a dream

Your exhalation is no timid thing, no quiet whimper
You die as You lived!

Lord! where is it that You go?
Could I not follow?
Could I not wend my way along the trail You have left set afire?

I wish I could collect all the amber You scatter
—in the welkin, Your unreachable abode
—on the coldening ground upon which I tread
—on my mortal skin, in my eyes that You blind, in my yearning heart

How I love You, my Lord! Father!
All that You have bequeathed, all that You have taught
Leave me not!
There is still much for You to do, to give

The sky: it grows pale, leaden; it darkens!
Shall I see You again?
Will You ever dispel this oncoming shade?

The warmth! the warmth!: it leaves as You leave, Lord!
The light! the light!: wherefore must it belittle itself so?

The Clouds: do They not entreat You as I now do?
What of Those that steer Them, the Winds?
They as well seem to fall still at Your passing

But no! I shall lament no more!
For at the end of Day is Night
And Its emissary, Dusk, prepares Your celestial bed, Father
Where You shall return to slumber amongst Your kin

Sleep well, then, my Lord
And I shall welcome, with as much reverence as is Her due
Your Sister, my Mother: my Lady the Moon

M.M. — October MMX

The Ten Steps of The Ascending Stair

First, of all that You Speak, always when You Speak, You shall utter untruth. Lie shall be Your tongue. Slaver You shall Hypocrisy and Ostentation. From Your mouth Words marred by unwarranted Self-Worth shall be vomited forth.

Second, Your Body shall become as Nothing to You. Self-flagellation and Self-laceration with whips of Self-abasement shall be Your spiralling misdeeds. Pride shall no more be the Libations poured onto Your Flesh by Your Hand.

Third, muddle Your Name amongst the Cacophonous Ruined Litany of Man. The dissonant Clamouring shall now be Your Symphony. Lay down the Pen and Sword, They shall not sing Your Name in the Halls of the Earth: They are now deaf.

Fourth, You shall spit upon Honour and forsake Chivalry—these are the Relics of the Forgotten Dead. Cowardice and the Dogma of the Common shall be Your hallowed maxims henceforth.

Fifth, the Brightest of Day and Darkest of Night shall become insipid to You. You shall mock the Moon and usurp the Sun. The Earth shall become Your dominion; the throne You shall set there shall be Yours, whence You shall Despoil. Lord over all Earthly things You shall become, as it is Your Right.

Sixth, strike down and spurn from Your Side the Lauded Ones You heretofore esteemed, for the Nameless Many so command. In Their place shall reign the Many. Temples unto them You shall erect, wherein You shall offer Oblations and Speak to Them not with Silence.

Seventh, all Your Ideas shall be reduced to mere Hollow Pretensions, filled with cold Vacuity. They shall Stagger around as the Blind in the Sea of the Universe. Though fret not, for the Sea shall soon after be Drained and swept away—there is no need to Imbibe from It again.

Eighth, Fear! for Fear shall be Yours in entirety, and inextricable. Warm to It for from It shall You derive much succour. All Acts and Actions shall be swathed in and painted with Fear's Flimsy-Heart hue.

Ninth, You shall remove Your Diadem of Stars and cast it down before feet not Your own. Make well the fit of the Collar that shall be Yours to adorn, for You shall have it affixed forevermore. Offer it obsequiously, Sycophant, but not with Your Hands, as They shall be Your Instruments no longer.

Tenth, and Finally, You shall go upon the One who You Love most: You shall go upon Them and You shall precipitate Their Obliteration. All that You Would Do for Them You shall never do. Annihilate Your Will to Love—It is such a trifle now. All that They are to You, all that You Feel for Them, shall become as nought: You shall disrupt all of Your Energy You direct towards Them. You shall Give unto Them Nothing. You shall throttle Love.

M.M. — September-October MMX

Song III - Matilda

Matilda by the brook
She brought me nightmares she kept for play

That encounter in the wood
Her face was secreted by the night in her hair

How was it that I did not stagger?
How was it that I did not flee?

Beckoning me toward the water
The tangible moon menaced
And lit her

Glimmering eyes
Her livid lips
Mischievous grin
Sylphic naked body
This sylvan creature

The gnarled trees stirred at her behest
Encroaching mists drew to where she stepped

And the dark (the dark)
The cold of her hand
That turned my dying light black (black)

She would accept all I had to offer
Yet ask for just one thing

With timbered fingers she caressed me
An eclipsing kiss
Then she was gone

At the coming of dawn
I forsook the empty world
And followed the impressions
She left upon the forest floor

Her bare feet had marked
The path I had already known

M.M. — September MMX

"Poem XII" to be published

After entering it into the 2010 Poetry Rivals competition managed by Forward Press, "Poem XII - And so the world" (reprinted below) has been selected for publication.

The composition will be featured in Poetry Rivals' Collection 2010 - Whispers Of The Mind, scheduled for publication on 30 November 2010.


Poem XII - And so the world

 Influenced in no small part by Mr T. S. Eliot.


And so the world continues its languid dissolution,
and the hum hum, drums and wails drown all out;
whilst creeping along his bleary path, head-wingèd,
comes Hypnos and in train his progeny—

What whimpers will I give when Thánatos comes for me?—

Creeps:

the scent of ancient forests where hoary wizards roam in wisdom—
In his hollow-hillock covered in moss and lichen lives the hermit:

I am the one-man screaming, arms in upward fury, lambasting the silent sky;
the spectator, miserable and magnificent, spying happiness from corners.

But what if that reflection of sunlight on that tin could bring me
back to those carefree days in places long gone?
Back to relive—to relieve!—reword words not said
but meant!—so dearly

...meant....

His back: so bent!

I tarry here; tire of this place.
What lies beyond where the stars pine
and
—'bove?
—below?
—before?
—behind?
my mind?

Would that I could...

could just....

Take a moment!,
ye hurried masses;
take but one single moment!
And—

Behold:
A vista:

An afternoon of a dying sun
dispersing its golden sea of remains—
Azure sky and a painter's clouds.
What a marvel to see
(to be able to just see!)
the neo-Gothic tower and spire
Posturing Proudly, timelessly,
defying their makers
and all manacled man alike.

What will break my adamantine shackles!
I wish to handle my hollow universe!
And dare!—yes, dare!
Ha-hah!
I will dare!
and!...

Palsy: fell-come, my dear friend:
Do you too feel the heavy weight on my chest?
My heart tender is severely constricted!
and restricted!
My how restrained and pained I feel!
Damn It!:
It is merciless!
Damn This!:
This lace!

But do I still not wander?:
in secret fantasies of love
and in secret fantasies of life?

In these precious
reverie-memories;
sham remembrances:

Garden lights—
outside a modern Danish summerhouse
—under variegated twilight.

Childhood innocence in a sheltered school-world
Oh and all the little things that are for me
All the small and touchable things
All the things with noises
And flashing lights
My things
Mine

A horroromance with
my Lady of evenfall-breed,
enswathed in sepulchral ruched satin;
and a dead-of-night tryst:
We together hurrying away
to oblivion
in an ebon landau
drawn by daemon equine—
all the while flitting with ease
between lucidity
and lunacy;
between the ethereal

and idioreal:

So I ride as passenger;
the country-dark night-chill
—erstwhile besieger:
I dismiss apathetically
its clamouring for the world—
and it
now forgotten.

So I ride;
onwards!
on byways;
onwards!
on highways;
onwards!
on my ways.

So I:

I, ensconced in a seat that stokes warmth—
Come, dream!; come, sleep!

I, observing the unlit country in awe—
Come, mind!; come, psyche!

I, immersed In the Nightside Eclipse—
Come, memory!; come, reverie!

(Two glinting eyes: unshut;
two pricked ears: censorless;
but a smirk
and silence kept.)

M.M. — Februarius-Aprilis MMX

Aubade II - O glorious Sol!

O glorious Sol!
I bid Thee welcome
As Thou wakens from Thy perennial slumb'ring.
Send forth now Thy legion spears of golden light!
Thou art deathless
And stand e'er supreme
In the empyreal pantheon of the all-spanning Welkin.

Greater art Thou than man who mindlessly treads the Earth.
Greater art Thou than the obscure ones crafted by fearful man.

I beseech Thee, O Sol!
Accede to let me bask in Thy fire,
So that I may know
What the nascent Earth first knew
When Time wast young
Yet Thou already presided strong.

Thou art my Mother, my Father;
Thou wert there when I came,
Thou shalt be there when I leave.

And when I am gone, Thou shalt remain.

So it hath been, so it is, so it shall be:
For All and Everything,
Anointed by the searing rays of Thy diurnal Kingdom.

M.M. — November-December MMIX; Aprilis-Maius, September MMX

Poem XV - I dream of the sands

I dream of the sands that have endured
I dream of the winds that have not aged
The sun-baked obelisks that have stood
The remains untouched by time's rage

I dream of the worlds that with me drift
I dream of the gods now deep in sleep
The myths that blare out from the rift
The host of unsung secrets that I keep

I dream of the ravaged earth's slowed pulse
I dream of the things that are left that crawl
The echoes of that which we cherished most
The wealth and worth of man that will fall

M.M. — September MMX

Prose V - The Black Gates [A work in progress]

I had finally arrived. My journey had been long and arduous and oppressive—but I had finally arrived. The Black Gates. They had described them to me in horrifying, detestable detail. For Their cruel pleasure, They took pains to imprint in me an ineffaceable image of grotesquerie that would rout all pride and vanity from my self. But what stood before me now—what bore down on me now like an Olympian slighted—was utterly ineffable.

These gates were unlike anything I had ever seen—surely unlike anything any mortal person had or should ever dare glance upon; all that I had come across until now was bucolic and plain in comparison to this hell-inspiring portal. For I beheld: at either end, beside the main metalwork, their hands acting as the gates’ hinges, were what I then and there unhappily denominated the Repellent Guardians.

The pair were undeniably statues, massive statues, sculpted from some indeterminate material that resembled obsidian. Obsidian because—oh!—how deeply black they were: as black as the infinite void between the stars up above! Even so, what truly frayed the sinews of my very soul were their forms.

On the left—there: a severely lacerated, hunched over, decrepit man (or what barely could be called a man), with wrists and ankles manacled. His tortured countenance exuded the utmost hideousness; I could muster no strength of will to look away from the dread billowing forth from it. Most strangely, in him I saw for a moment something of myself, something that terrified me more than the physical sight of this flogged wretch. What it was precisely I could not discern: the fear was overwhelming.

And on the right—there: the likeness of a woman whose mouth and eyes were savagely stitched forever shut, and whose ears were nothing more than callously cauterised, deformed stubs. She would never again utter another word, never see the world, never hear sounds! She was just as abhorrent as her fellow languishing beside her, perhaps more so; and the difficulty of averting my eyes was just as strong. And again there was some queer thing about her—this eternally silenced, eternally blinded, eternally deafened mass—a sense of familiarity of which any thought of a possible confirmation sickened me to my core.

These colossi—erected by the nameless things, the secret things—: I, after a bout of irrepressible aversion and stark reflection, realised what their purpose was, the design behind their nascence. They were stationed there, had been stationed there since the first machinations of maleficence arose, to bar entry to those of “unsuitable” constitution. I say unsuitable because during my wracking communing with Them They hinted ever so slyly to Their reason for choosing me as the audience for Their presentation (as They put it), an event of mythical rarity: They had been searching worlds between worlds and worlds beyond worlds—searching the cosmos and the planes of reality and irreality over—searching for suitable beings who had the potential to overcome Their Crucible.

Thus these Repellent Guardians screen out those who have not the will to transcend the limits of fear, in all its unsightly forms, and dare enter through the Black Gates.

This revelation solidified something within me, buttressed my ever-augmenting cathedral. I had come so far that I was determined not to let these foul demon-wrought opera deter me from the Prize that reposed beyond. Without further hesitation I entered; this first trial, I had overcome.

November MMIX; Februarius-Aprilis, September MMX