30 December 2013
Greatness
A defining mark of great individuals is that they are in themselves a force and a time. A force because their actions oscillate through their own environment and the environment of those proximal to them; a time because their force imprints on reality for an enduring period. But greatness is not exclusive to those who history remembers. Each person, known and unknown, has greatness in them, for they too are a force and a time. In their own lives they are capable of sending ripples through their microcosm and leaving upon their personal histories a mark of significance. It is only a question of whether this greatness is harnessed.
08 December 2013
Dragon
A decade of abuse and terror enslaved her.
She was locked in a cage both in her mind
and in her life. Afraid of the night and sleep
because he came when the lights went out.
Disgust, shame and fear tore at this innocent.
Until that day when the Dragon in her awoke
and those reptilian wings tattooed on her back
became real, bursting through from flesh, bone
and blood. From then on the darkness was no
longer her warden: fire had become her breath
and fire burnt to cinders the pain and the fear.
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 08-Dec-2013
She was locked in a cage both in her mind
and in her life. Afraid of the night and sleep
because he came when the lights went out.
Disgust, shame and fear tore at this innocent.
Until that day when the Dragon in her awoke
and those reptilian wings tattooed on her back
became real, bursting through from flesh, bone
and blood. From then on the darkness was no
longer her warden: fire had become her breath
and fire burnt to cinders the pain and the fear.
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 08-Dec-2013
26 November 2013
Sapiosexual
When she walked into the room
I found myself consumed
by an outpacing heat.
My heart then felt it soon,
falling into a swoon,
stepping to a military beat.
Electricity in her eyes
and razors for thighs,
she sliced as she went.
Her voice, a sweet lullaby,
that could bed the sun up high:
her words had me spent.
But the sharpness of her glance
and that neck-breaker stance
could not compare to her mind.
Straight through like a lance,
her thoughts slowly advanced,
as mine charged hers in kind.
She and I collided as two,
and into her everything I through,
until we were much like one.
Giving all I believed and knew
because then and there I knew
my heart and mind she had won.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 26-Nov-2013
I found myself consumed
by an outpacing heat.
My heart then felt it soon,
falling into a swoon,
stepping to a military beat.
Electricity in her eyes
and razors for thighs,
she sliced as she went.
Her voice, a sweet lullaby,
that could bed the sun up high:
her words had me spent.
But the sharpness of her glance
and that neck-breaker stance
could not compare to her mind.
Straight through like a lance,
her thoughts slowly advanced,
as mine charged hers in kind.
She and I collided as two,
and into her everything I through,
until we were much like one.
Giving all I believed and knew
because then and there I knew
my heart and mind she had won.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 26-Nov-2013
24 November 2013
"What was Her name?"
What was Her name?
She came robed in night with the stars in Her hair,
A whirlwind fever-dream that dimmed all the lights.
Breath sweet like death's deceitful grace and embrace.
Cold to the touch and yet a blaze in Her eyes
That burned through the haze that She wove.
No words from those livid lips; but a kiss, both ice and fire.
From me She took, or rather, to Her I gave my life and light.
And so now I will be dead by dawn; to Her a prize that She swiftly won.
And never will I know whom or what stole my glow.
What was Her name?
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 24-Nov-2013
She came robed in night with the stars in Her hair,
A whirlwind fever-dream that dimmed all the lights.
Breath sweet like death's deceitful grace and embrace.
Cold to the touch and yet a blaze in Her eyes
That burned through the haze that She wove.
No words from those livid lips; but a kiss, both ice and fire.
From me She took, or rather, to Her I gave my life and light.
And so now I will be dead by dawn; to Her a prize that She swiftly won.
And never will I know whom or what stole my glow.
What was Her name?
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 24-Nov-2013
20 November 2013
Synapse
I stand by myself inside myself;
disconnecting myself from myself,
coursing along the fibrous channels.
The colours are so much more alive with my eyes closed.
Electrochemical firestorm,
a synchronous, oscillating universe reflecting on itself.
How long the journey? how far the voyage?
The answer lies in the distance of the synaptic cleft.
Ex Tempore LXXIII
M.M. — 20-Nov-2013
disconnecting myself from myself,
coursing along the fibrous channels.
The colours are so much more alive with my eyes closed.
Electrochemical firestorm,
a synchronous, oscillating universe reflecting on itself.
How long the journey? how far the voyage?
The answer lies in the distance of the synaptic cleft.
Ex Tempore LXXIII
M.M. — 20-Nov-2013
11 November 2013
The 11th of November
Eyes that still tell so much, despite the glaucoma,
and that had seen too much.
Seemingly so fragile in that chair,
but back then a stone against the waves.
*
I ran into Death earlier today,
he was counting from his list by the wayside.
I stopped and said,
How goes the tally, my old friend?
He looked at me
and simply nodded in affirmation.
*
In the Davies' house in Rhymney
a photo of him stands at attention.
He was very popular round the village,
she says, with troubled hands.
*
The fields have long been overgrown in Flanders
and the air long cleared.
The earth holds in it memories, mostly terrible ones.
But there, by the autumned trees—
only the flowers have to suffer winter's cold now.
Ex Tempore LXXII
M.M. — 11-Nov-2013
and that had seen too much.
Seemingly so fragile in that chair,
but back then a stone against the waves.
*
I ran into Death earlier today,
he was counting from his list by the wayside.
I stopped and said,
How goes the tally, my old friend?
He looked at me
and simply nodded in affirmation.
*
In the Davies' house in Rhymney
a photo of him stands at attention.
He was very popular round the village,
she says, with troubled hands.
*
The fields have long been overgrown in Flanders
and the air long cleared.
The earth holds in it memories, mostly terrible ones.
But there, by the autumned trees—
only the flowers have to suffer winter's cold now.
Ex Tempore LXXII
M.M. — 11-Nov-2013
02 November 2013
"Rain is falling"
Rain is falling upon their heads
They who fought but now are dead
With belief and strong will and heart
They stood together and yet apart
Women, men, children—one and all
Cold and lifeless under funeral pall
But once so full of life and steely sight
They all answered the call to fight
A fight for right, for life and liberty
To reseed freedom's fallen tree
And though it may seem all in vain
Yes, high was the price they paid
But the spring once more has found its flow
And embered hope regains its glow
The dead, they pass on to you and me
And all those wishing to be free
The courage and strength and will to live
For which everything I would gladly give
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 02-Nov-2013
They who fought but now are dead
With belief and strong will and heart
They stood together and yet apart
Women, men, children—one and all
Cold and lifeless under funeral pall
But once so full of life and steely sight
They all answered the call to fight
A fight for right, for life and liberty
To reseed freedom's fallen tree
And though it may seem all in vain
Yes, high was the price they paid
But the spring once more has found its flow
And embered hope regains its glow
The dead, they pass on to you and me
And all those wishing to be free
The courage and strength and will to live
For which everything I would gladly give
Ex Tempore LXXI
M.M. — 02-Nov-2013
30 October 2013
The Birth of Fire
When I first discovered the fire inside me I was ambling in the dark;
I was a man in the body and in the life of a boy,
a god confined by the reality permitted by circumstance or accident.
I could not foresee where its light would take me,
but the ignition drew me in—deep and deeper still—into myself.
I was my own Prometheus, but stealing the fire from myself and giving to myself.
The flames reveal the tracks that lead to a thousand and different ambitions and futures.
These, I know now, have always been there, but before were unseen with my infant sight.
At times I may lose the feel of the burning,
but it never extinguishes—every time it comes back to me its blaze is just as fierce as before,
or even more so.
The fire is everywhere in me:
I see it in my hands, my body,
in my mind, in my paths and ways.
It is everything.
The fire at the beginning was a mere glow.
But now? Now the fire is an inferno—and I aim to set my fucking world on fire.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 30-Oct-2013
I was a man in the body and in the life of a boy,
a god confined by the reality permitted by circumstance or accident.
I could not foresee where its light would take me,
but the ignition drew me in—deep and deeper still—into myself.
I was my own Prometheus, but stealing the fire from myself and giving to myself.
The flames reveal the tracks that lead to a thousand and different ambitions and futures.
These, I know now, have always been there, but before were unseen with my infant sight.
At times I may lose the feel of the burning,
but it never extinguishes—every time it comes back to me its blaze is just as fierce as before,
or even more so.
The fire is everywhere in me:
I see it in my hands, my body,
in my mind, in my paths and ways.
It is everything.
The fire at the beginning was a mere glow.
But now? Now the fire is an inferno—and I aim to set my fucking world on fire.
Ex Tempore LXX
M.M. — 30-Oct-2013
29 October 2013
"it was the eyes"
it was the eyes
that tried and tried
and finally pried
opened the doors
of the soul and all
therein, wherein
shadowy and timid
love simmered;
or thighs like scythes
that tower to heights
where in the sky
the kingdom's walls
fall to thunder, torn
asunder by a simple
kiss from a fount of
blissful waters,
cauterising the open
wounds from which
seeped through
breath, and in: death.
yes, the lips ripped
fear away, so that dear
life ran reddened once
more, forevermore;
in her mind as I in hers.
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 29-Oct-2013
that tried and tried
and finally pried
opened the doors
of the soul and all
therein, wherein
shadowy and timid
love simmered;
or thighs like scythes
that tower to heights
where in the sky
the kingdom's walls
fall to thunder, torn
asunder by a simple
kiss from a fount of
blissful waters,
cauterising the open
wounds from which
seeped through
breath, and in: death.
yes, the lips ripped
fear away, so that dear
life ran reddened once
more, forevermore;
in her mind as I in hers.
Ex Tempore LXIX
M.M. — 29-Oct-2013
28 October 2013
The Rider
The rider came from beyond the dawn
With a body weary but a spirit strong
And with him the day's morning song
On sable mare he had travelled long
To wherever his heart was flung
Where clouds and fear lowly hung
A sword bright as light to which he clung
Fatally known to those who it had stung
Unsheathed with still unmistakable hum
But the rider's end had finally come
All debts were paid and all deeds done
His recompense, his requested sum:
To rest forever with the morning sun
Ex Tempore LXVIII
M.M. — 28-Oct-2013
With a body weary but a spirit strong
And with him the day's morning song
On sable mare he had travelled long
To wherever his heart was flung
Where clouds and fear lowly hung
A sword bright as light to which he clung
Fatally known to those who it had stung
Unsheathed with still unmistakable hum
But the rider's end had finally come
All debts were paid and all deeds done
His recompense, his requested sum:
To rest forever with the morning sun
Ex Tempore LXVIII
M.M. — 28-Oct-2013
24 October 2013
Running Away
There are times when just running away and disappearing from your life is an all too real temptation. This is semi-fictional: the account is made-up but the feelings behind it are genuine.
I remember I was sitting out on the porch one late afternoon watching the life of an uncommonly heavy storm play out. It was one of those storms—you know, like the ones in the autumn where it just rains and rains. I was on my own at the time; everyone else was in the house busy with preparing for some gathering. But this was fine as I was enjoying the temporary solitude. At first I wasn't thinking about anything much. The storm was mesmerising in itself, transfixing me with the pattering of the rain, the rumbling of the thunder. In a way watching this deluge was the most cathartic thing I could ever think of.
But then I started to reflect, which is never a good sign. I came to realise that there was a strange dichotomy in the storm and the life within the house behind me. Out in the storm things seemed to be much simpler. There was fluidity and dynamics to the storm's life; nothing was constrained and events were always in flux. In essence, a type of freedom was inherent in it. The life in the house—my life—was a leaden weight on my chest. I had been so restless then. A million million thoughts and worries ran marathons in my head and there was no end to them. And I think the crux of the problem was that I couldn't figure out how to make things better because I didn't know what was wrong; not really, anyway. It just seemed that I was a growing ever larger in a cage that was getting ever smaller, and maybe this had been of my own making or maybe it hadn't. What was certain was that the pacing and the restlessness was spreading me thin.
I eventually found myself fantasising about just getting up from my chair on the porch and just walking out into the storm and not coming back—at least not for a while. I wanted to just walk and walk, smell the rain, feel the water fall on me. There was something out in the distance that I was searching for; I wanted to find it, whatever it was. I had been waiting for something, or nothing—I don't think there was a difference, not one that mattered: I simply was not whole and badly needed to be. How easy it would have been to do it, to just leave. I felt in every part of me that my life was meant for more and how I hungered for it. It would have been completely irresponsible to have just left, yes, but the idea was undeniably tempting.
That was some time ago. Where do I stand now? I'm still looking out into the storm. I'm still looking for something (nothing). There is a peace that is out there I have yet to reach. The only difference between that autumn stormy afternoon and now is that I am much less afraid of the thought of running away.
I remember I was sitting out on the porch one late afternoon watching the life of an uncommonly heavy storm play out. It was one of those storms—you know, like the ones in the autumn where it just rains and rains. I was on my own at the time; everyone else was in the house busy with preparing for some gathering. But this was fine as I was enjoying the temporary solitude. At first I wasn't thinking about anything much. The storm was mesmerising in itself, transfixing me with the pattering of the rain, the rumbling of the thunder. In a way watching this deluge was the most cathartic thing I could ever think of.
But then I started to reflect, which is never a good sign. I came to realise that there was a strange dichotomy in the storm and the life within the house behind me. Out in the storm things seemed to be much simpler. There was fluidity and dynamics to the storm's life; nothing was constrained and events were always in flux. In essence, a type of freedom was inherent in it. The life in the house—my life—was a leaden weight on my chest. I had been so restless then. A million million thoughts and worries ran marathons in my head and there was no end to them. And I think the crux of the problem was that I couldn't figure out how to make things better because I didn't know what was wrong; not really, anyway. It just seemed that I was a growing ever larger in a cage that was getting ever smaller, and maybe this had been of my own making or maybe it hadn't. What was certain was that the pacing and the restlessness was spreading me thin.
I eventually found myself fantasising about just getting up from my chair on the porch and just walking out into the storm and not coming back—at least not for a while. I wanted to just walk and walk, smell the rain, feel the water fall on me. There was something out in the distance that I was searching for; I wanted to find it, whatever it was. I had been waiting for something, or nothing—I don't think there was a difference, not one that mattered: I simply was not whole and badly needed to be. How easy it would have been to do it, to just leave. I felt in every part of me that my life was meant for more and how I hungered for it. It would have been completely irresponsible to have just left, yes, but the idea was undeniably tempting.
That was some time ago. Where do I stand now? I'm still looking out into the storm. I'm still looking for something (nothing). There is a peace that is out there I have yet to reach. The only difference between that autumn stormy afternoon and now is that I am much less afraid of the thought of running away.
23 October 2013
"Turning together"
Turning together in the dark
Caught by each other as twin suns
Entwined serpents with fangs bared
Momentum and heat colliding together
And skin pale, rippling like a silvered pool
Moonbeams reflected on sweat-beaded flesh
Friction to ignition and exhalation
Tender in the moment with senses peaking
The tussling and tumbling and trembling
Crescendo in their tautened limbs
Ex Tempore LXVII
M.M. — 23-Oct-2013
Caught by each other as twin suns
Entwined serpents with fangs bared
Momentum and heat colliding together
And skin pale, rippling like a silvered pool
Moonbeams reflected on sweat-beaded flesh
Friction to ignition and exhalation
Tender in the moment with senses peaking
The tussling and tumbling and trembling
Crescendo in their tautened limbs
Ex Tempore LXVII
M.M. — 23-Oct-2013
09 October 2013
"That night"
That night it was so cold but we still braved it to sit under the jewelled sky.
Under infinity you asked me about creation—and all at once bewildered me.
I think we were both searching for something, or waiting for nothing to stop being nothing.
Night was privy to our secrets and the cold was the medium for it all.
In those moments I felt connected—to time, space, you, myself.
I lost my fear of the unbearable isolation of consciousness.
That night we both gazed at the sky, and whilst infinity looked back
we found each other in the void.
Ex Tempore LXVI
M.M. — 09-Oct-2013
Under infinity you asked me about creation—and all at once bewildered me.
I think we were both searching for something, or waiting for nothing to stop being nothing.
Night was privy to our secrets and the cold was the medium for it all.
In those moments I felt connected—to time, space, you, myself.
I lost my fear of the unbearable isolation of consciousness.
That night we both gazed at the sky, and whilst infinity looked back
we found each other in the void.
Ex Tempore LXVI
M.M. — 09-Oct-2013
30 September 2013
Sum of the Whole
How do I measure a person?
—a well full of stars
—separate, discrete, individual
—matter made by mind, mind made by matter
—a symphony of electrochemical reactions
—a whole unto its own; a sum; parts
—like me and unlike me
—composed materially and yet defined immaterially
—that which is
Ex Tempore LXV
M.M. — 30-Sep-2013
—a well full of stars
—separate, discrete, individual
—matter made by mind, mind made by matter
—a symphony of electrochemical reactions
—a whole unto its own; a sum; parts
—like me and unlike me
—composed materially and yet defined immaterially
—that which is
Ex Tempore LXV
M.M. — 30-Sep-2013
26 September 2013
My Truest Friend, My Truest Enemy
Lately, I have been thinking about how the "I" that is me can be viewed as a coupled yet separate entity, a sort of omnipresent observer-actor This "self-not-my-self" is that little voice in your head that you talk to, who watches your life as you live it, who is like a parental figure supporting or chastising you. My development as an individual is tightly linked to this "other self" and who he himself is. An important characteristic is his role as my truest friend and my truest enemy. In one swift wave of the hand I can tear myself down to rubble, become unforgiving judge, jury and executioner. But then oppositely, and yet equally, I am my own die-hard supporter; I am the rock upon which I stand when the waves come in to batter and bruise. Through all the triumphs and defeats, it is me who will always be there, for the better and for the worse. I both love and hate (in the purest sense of the words) this "self-not-my-self"; but what's more important is that it is who I am and who I will always be. I could not be myself if I were not...my self. I have been with myself at the beginning, I will be with myself at the end. This, I have come to understand, forms a core part of my individualist philosophy.
17 September 2013
Self-Doubt
Self-doubt is a slow-acting poison, harming the outer layers of the mind in gradation till it reaches the core of confidence. There it latches itself, infusing its noxious blackness and counter-reacting with every attempt of firm resolution. The more self-doubt is left to mix, the more the infusion grows thicker. Detoxification lies in both the adoption of the volitional obstinacy that the poison is only potent so long as one allows it to have power and a complete and as equally gradual flushing out of a system of confidence that can be rebuilt into something that is robust through and through.
10 September 2013
An Address to Death
Death,
tomorrow you may have my bones and my blood.
When my last dawn shines you may take my breath.
I will not resist; I will not repel.
Death,
when tomorrow comes I will hand you my heart and its beat;
tomorrow I give you all of my drained volition.
But today
I live,
and my life is mine.
Turn the ferryman away;
postpone the reaping for another day.
I am not for the grave, not for the worm.
Love of life and life is mine.
Ex Tempore LXIV
M.M. — 10-Sep-2013
tomorrow you may have my bones and my blood.
When my last dawn shines you may take my breath.
I will not resist; I will not repel.
Death,
when tomorrow comes I will hand you my heart and its beat;
tomorrow I give you all of my drained volition.
But today
I live,
and my life is mine.
Turn the ferryman away;
postpone the reaping for another day.
I am not for the grave, not for the worm.
Love of life and life is mine.
Ex Tempore LXIV
M.M. — 10-Sep-2013
09 September 2013
Starfields
Night-time atop this outskirt hill and I gaze down upon the slumbering city.
Where there should be an array of dotted electric-lights I see none;
where there should be an insipid display of incandescence—I see none of this.
What I see instead is a field of stars, most motionless, some milling about in activity.
Some stars are bright and proud, others still and timid, as if struck dead.
Hundreds and thousands of them, maybe millions,
there twinkling in the dark and under cover of a selfsame sky.
And everywhere I have been it has been the same:
these Starfields revealed in unbeguiling night.
I have seen enough of these fields to know they are everywhere over the world.
I continue to observe from this hilltop,
watching and waiting for dimming and brightening.
And sometimes I notice that when one or a few stars dim or brigthen,
those adjacent to them do the same;
sometimes subtlety, sometimes like a wildfire or a blackout.
I continue to observe and I wonder.
--
I can see the light in you, the light that was lit aeons ago
—and it burns, it burns as if this were its last triumphal deed.
The strength of its burning is of no importance, only that it burns.
It is the centre of all things, all things in you—it is yours and yours alone.
But what I see is meaningless to you:
can you see your own starlight?
Ex Tempore LXIII
M.M. — 09-Sep-2013
Where there should be an array of dotted electric-lights I see none;
where there should be an insipid display of incandescence—I see none of this.
What I see instead is a field of stars, most motionless, some milling about in activity.
Some stars are bright and proud, others still and timid, as if struck dead.
Hundreds and thousands of them, maybe millions,
there twinkling in the dark and under cover of a selfsame sky.
And everywhere I have been it has been the same:
these Starfields revealed in unbeguiling night.
I have seen enough of these fields to know they are everywhere over the world.
I continue to observe from this hilltop,
watching and waiting for dimming and brightening.
And sometimes I notice that when one or a few stars dim or brigthen,
those adjacent to them do the same;
sometimes subtlety, sometimes like a wildfire or a blackout.
I continue to observe and I wonder.
--
I can see the light in you, the light that was lit aeons ago
—and it burns, it burns as if this were its last triumphal deed.
The strength of its burning is of no importance, only that it burns.
It is the centre of all things, all things in you—it is yours and yours alone.
But what I see is meaningless to you:
can you see your own starlight?
Ex Tempore LXIII
M.M. — 09-Sep-2013
08 September 2013
The Future
The future for me, I have realised, is not a clear-cut singular vision in my head. The way I imagine it is that I am stood still in one spot and before me is a vast panorama extending as wide as the horizon on a plain with minimal features. This panorama is made up of a variety of possible futures, each living scene being played out as I would hope it to. And each is seamlessly blended at its edges with the adjacent scene, much like a strip of film is stitched together that segues naturally. The way this is set out is greatly comforting to me because it means nothing is set in indelible stone and much is possible; it is just a matter of realising the future or futures I want.
06 September 2013
"Sailing on a sea"
Sailing on a sea
Of moonlight
Silver-bright
She and me
Escaped the grave
My corpse-bride
In the eventide
My body aflame
'Twixt life and death
Cheating time
Our love sublime
Eternal as our breath
Destined for undying lands
My love and I
Forsake the deeps and sky
Hand-clasped-hand
"Together we'll begin again"
To her I say
While caressing her face
And we sail on to oblivion
Poem XXXVIII
M.M. — 06-Sep-2013
Of moonlight
Silver-bright
She and me
Escaped the grave
My corpse-bride
In the eventide
My body aflame
'Twixt life and death
Cheating time
Our love sublime
Eternal as our breath
Destined for undying lands
My love and I
Forsake the deeps and sky
Hand-clasped-hand
"Together we'll begin again"
To her I say
While caressing her face
And we sail on to oblivion
Poem XXXVIII
M.M. — 06-Sep-2013
04 September 2013
The Thing
It lies dreaming, deep within the core.
Curled into a compact mass of indescribable nightmare.
Mandibles gnawing and maws able to engulf the day.
Glassy, icy reptilian flesh covered in a noisome slime.
And from claw to tip of tail it is an obsidian black.
Birthed out of the void between thought and matter.
An awful thing with dreams far worse than itself.
Consumer, devourer, annihilator of body and mind.
Its life expressed in the abysmal reverberance it makes.
Destroyer, unmaker; chaos and oblivion its prime conation.
It stirs with unmentionable horror, this creature of unlight.
Slithering into and out of existence and wrecking as it goes.
Deep in the darkest dark of the core, it dreams so terribly.
Ex Tempore LXII
M.M. — 04-Sep-2013
Curled into a compact mass of indescribable nightmare.
Mandibles gnawing and maws able to engulf the day.
Glassy, icy reptilian flesh covered in a noisome slime.
And from claw to tip of tail it is an obsidian black.
Birthed out of the void between thought and matter.
An awful thing with dreams far worse than itself.
Consumer, devourer, annihilator of body and mind.
Its life expressed in the abysmal reverberance it makes.
Destroyer, unmaker; chaos and oblivion its prime conation.
It stirs with unmentionable horror, this creature of unlight.
Slithering into and out of existence and wrecking as it goes.
Deep in the darkest dark of the core, it dreams so terribly.
Ex Tempore LXII
M.M. — 04-Sep-2013
02 September 2013
Kinetic as Cataracts
He was pounded and grounded into mental slavery.
She was told from birth-day zero what she could and could do and be.
On all of them the burning skies descended and burnt nothing but their very hearts.
We take it because we have always been taking it—no justification whatsoever.
Give us the manacles and we shall shackle ourselves;
give us the blade and we will bleed ourselves till dust flows through us.
But what great power are metaphor and symbol.
They can lead to inexorable action, kinetic as a cataract.
Finally disown your ghosts, my friends;
their reverberant dissonance has reduced the cages of their making to brittle rust.
Fight for yours and your own, friends,
because what future you have is for you alone to fulfil.
Ex Tempore LXI
M.M. — 02-Sep-2013
She was told from birth-day zero what she could and could do and be.
On all of them the burning skies descended and burnt nothing but their very hearts.
We take it because we have always been taking it—no justification whatsoever.
Give us the manacles and we shall shackle ourselves;
give us the blade and we will bleed ourselves till dust flows through us.
But what great power are metaphor and symbol.
They can lead to inexorable action, kinetic as a cataract.
Finally disown your ghosts, my friends;
their reverberant dissonance has reduced the cages of their making to brittle rust.
Fight for yours and your own, friends,
because what future you have is for you alone to fulfil.
Ex Tempore LXI
M.M. — 02-Sep-2013
Amongst the Stars
Partly inspired by Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End
I dreamed a dream one night,
I dreamed of the stars and all that lay beyond.
I careered through space and time
and witnessed the birth and death of suns and planets.
Such wondrous, impossible things I saw in the unmeasured distances.
Out there I understood that beginnings and ends made no sense—
they were one and the same: Eternity.
Looking back—or what seemed to me to be backwards—
I saw the faintest of lights,
a blueish light fighting to be seen in the nothingness.
It was life itself; there was beauty in its infancy and potential.
It was a home, a destination that already had been reached.
It all ended as soon as it began, this dream,
and I was left with a sense of wonder and wondering:
Is the future for the race amongst the stars?
or in this blueish light fighting for its own existence?
Ex Tempore LX
M.M. — 02-Sep-2013
I dreamed a dream one night,
I dreamed of the stars and all that lay beyond.
I careered through space and time
and witnessed the birth and death of suns and planets.
Such wondrous, impossible things I saw in the unmeasured distances.
Out there I understood that beginnings and ends made no sense—
they were one and the same: Eternity.
Looking back—or what seemed to me to be backwards—
I saw the faintest of lights,
a blueish light fighting to be seen in the nothingness.
It was life itself; there was beauty in its infancy and potential.
It was a home, a destination that already had been reached.
It all ended as soon as it began, this dream,
and I was left with a sense of wonder and wondering:
Is the future for the race amongst the stars?
or in this blueish light fighting for its own existence?
Ex Tempore LX
M.M. — 02-Sep-2013
31 August 2013
Prima Ballerina [Incomplete]
I had not known grace until I saw her move,
like a white rose petal tumbling slowly with the wind,
falling onto the stillest pool of wintry water.
Beauty—beauty is a word created just for her.
She entered and danced upon my heart en pointe,
stepping so lightly over every inch of it.
Could I smell her fragrance from where I sat dumb,
as she wafted like a wraith across the Lake?
[...]
Draft IV
M.M.
Writ 28-Dec-2012 // Pub. 31-Aug-2013
like a white rose petal tumbling slowly with the wind,
falling onto the stillest pool of wintry water.
Beauty—beauty is a word created just for her.
She entered and danced upon my heart en pointe,
stepping so lightly over every inch of it.
Could I smell her fragrance from where I sat dumb,
as she wafted like a wraith across the Lake?
[...]
Draft IV
M.M.
Writ 28-Dec-2012 // Pub. 31-Aug-2013
28 August 2013
Evil Man
The faces of all those I killed
Appear in the briny waters so still
From the mists I can hear their wails
Shrieking and forceful as the gales
I try to block the ceaseless sonic flood
And notice on my hands the blood
Undrying like the undying around me
As crimson red as this fitful sea
My now-ended life knew crime
Crime that will echo through time
But time catches up with you
And what a price I pay for what I accrued
Somehow I realise: this is my damnation
Suffering eternal—most fitting retribution
And with every death knell of a bell
I sail closer to the shores of Hell
Ex Tempore LIX
M.M. — 28-Aug-2013
Appear in the briny waters so still
From the mists I can hear their wails
Shrieking and forceful as the gales
I try to block the ceaseless sonic flood
And notice on my hands the blood
Undrying like the undying around me
As crimson red as this fitful sea
My now-ended life knew crime
Crime that will echo through time
But time catches up with you
And what a price I pay for what I accrued
Somehow I realise: this is my damnation
Suffering eternal—most fitting retribution
And with every death knell of a bell
I sail closer to the shores of Hell
Ex Tempore LIX
M.M. — 28-Aug-2013
15 August 2013
Improvisation
Fallen star, falling sun - held together by force of will from sources a million million years old.
I come careering wayward along my own way, a path carved and curved as I go - slow or wholly as light.
Amongst the faithless, we are the fateless. Each our own and our own is where we make our homes.
Eight minutes to the sun and back is a lifetime we could negate or embrace. And are we not starlight after all?
Footfalls upon the earth and we fall away from the outward voids and the cold, where we shall end.
Flesh and bone. Wood and stone. Air and sea. Time to see. I wend my way and suspend the tedium in days.
I would halve myself and give half my heart - or the whole - to you, if you would ascend with me to hell and descend to heaven.
Beginning where I end, I am the son of the sun and my being stardust.
Fallen star, falling sun - held together by force and will and a million million years.
Ex Tempore LVIII
M.M. — 15-Aug-2013
I come careering wayward along my own way, a path carved and curved as I go - slow or wholly as light.
Amongst the faithless, we are the fateless. Each our own and our own is where we make our homes.
Eight minutes to the sun and back is a lifetime we could negate or embrace. And are we not starlight after all?
Footfalls upon the earth and we fall away from the outward voids and the cold, where we shall end.
Flesh and bone. Wood and stone. Air and sea. Time to see. I wend my way and suspend the tedium in days.
I would halve myself and give half my heart - or the whole - to you, if you would ascend with me to hell and descend to heaven.
Beginning where I end, I am the son of the sun and my being stardust.
Fallen star, falling sun - held together by force and will and a million million years.
Ex Tempore LVIII
M.M. — 15-Aug-2013
13 August 2013
The Art of Dying
How we die is just as important as how we live. The course of life should be a wondrous journey, but it is a journey that has a terminus and this should be recognised. Death is something I do not think we talk as openly about as we should. It is an integral part of nature and is with and around us always. And I mean not to say that we should dwell on the finality of our existence; quite the opposite: All that we concern ourselves with regarding our day-to-day living will be the whole of what we look back on when the end eventually comes. Living should be the first and foremost focus of life; that goes without saying. But when the matters of living are no longer relevant, the matters of dying take precedence. And when it comes to the matters of dying, above all else I wish to die well. I understand this now that I am older. I will admit that when I was a child, death frightened me...to death, but now that I have accepted and understand the nature of things I make it my aim to die well and to die on my own terms (as much as circumstances would allow). I wish to leave no unfinished business behind. When I go, I want to go with no baggage. This is the Art of Dying.
03 August 2013
Life and Death
I learned all I needed to know
About the meaning of life and death
In the falling of the last snow
When my father exhaled his last breath
Every lesson I could have been taught
About the ends and the starts
I was given when one day I fought
With all the misgivings in my heart
I stopped being afraid of death
When I was still young
When I learned to love every breath
And love every new sun
Things come and cease to be
As surely as the pace of time
And when time comes for me
I will not fear the dividing line
So every minute of every hour of every day
I should cherish as much as I can live
And live as fully and well, come whatever may
And give to my life till I no longer live
Ex Tempore LVII
M.M. — 03-Aug-2013
About the meaning of life and death
In the falling of the last snow
When my father exhaled his last breath
Every lesson I could have been taught
About the ends and the starts
I was given when one day I fought
With all the misgivings in my heart
I stopped being afraid of death
When I was still young
When I learned to love every breath
And love every new sun
Things come and cease to be
As surely as the pace of time
And when time comes for me
I will not fear the dividing line
So every minute of every hour of every day
I should cherish as much as I can live
And live as fully and well, come whatever may
And give to my life till I no longer live
Ex Tempore LVII
M.M. — 03-Aug-2013
29 July 2013
"A songbird came to me"
A songbird came to me
It sang a song that set me free
From heights of trees
To distant seas
From windswept dunes
To glades under-moon
The song that set me free
I listened well
Till midnight belled
But still I held
And I held well
I listend to that song
Dismissed the gongs
Till deep dreaming fell
A song I once heard
From the voice of a bird
Sweet music without words
That caused my heart to stir
That I now write and I rhyme
About the time
When sang softly that songbird
Ex Tempore LVI
M.M. — 29-Jul-2013
It sang a song that set me free
From heights of trees
To distant seas
From windswept dunes
To glades under-moon
The song that set me free
I listened well
Till midnight belled
But still I held
And I held well
I listend to that song
Dismissed the gongs
Till deep dreaming fell
A song I once heard
From the voice of a bird
Sweet music without words
That caused my heart to stir
That I now write and I rhyme
About the time
When sang softly that songbird
Ex Tempore LVI
M.M. — 29-Jul-2013
26 July 2013
Journey
Even from the enclosure of my room
I can smell the brine of the tempestuous seas,
I can feel the burning sands of unconquerable deserts
and the winters of frozen forgotten ice kingdoms.
Even from my bed I am transported as far my mind can lead.
I have but my dreams, and how I do dream;
the limit is only as far as I dare take myself.
When death smiles its coldening grin at me one day
I want to be able to say, to myself:
I journeyed far, I saw the ends of the earth;
every wicked and wonderful thing—I saw all these things.
The best and worst of what men and women are
I experienced to the fullest, and embraced it all.
I—I journeyed far and I journeyed wide;
I saw it all
and I saw myself.
Experimental IV
M.M. — 26-Jul-2013
I can smell the brine of the tempestuous seas,
I can feel the burning sands of unconquerable deserts
and the winters of frozen forgotten ice kingdoms.
Even from my bed I am transported as far my mind can lead.
I have but my dreams, and how I do dream;
the limit is only as far as I dare take myself.
When death smiles its coldening grin at me one day
I want to be able to say, to myself:
I journeyed far, I saw the ends of the earth;
every wicked and wonderful thing—I saw all these things.
The best and worst of what men and women are
I experienced to the fullest, and embraced it all.
I—I journeyed far and I journeyed wide;
I saw it all
and I saw myself.
Experimental IV
M.M. — 26-Jul-2013
18 July 2013
To Love and To Lose
I have loved and I have lost
No more or less than most
But my life has been long enough
To understand the cost
Beginnings begun and endings ended
Every one a lesson I've apprehended
These threads of my patchwork tell me
From where I've come, but not where I'm headed
Parcels of my heart are left here and there
Taken in circumstances harsh or fair
All of them are a part of me
And their weights mine to ever bear
To lose is a truly difficult thing
All once secure is stretched too thin
There is nowhere to go and nothing to grasp
All is soon lost – all what once had been
Poem XXXVII
M.M. — 18-Jul-2013
No more or less than most
But my life has been long enough
To understand the cost
Beginnings begun and endings ended
Every one a lesson I've apprehended
These threads of my patchwork tell me
From where I've come, but not where I'm headed
Parcels of my heart are left here and there
Taken in circumstances harsh or fair
All of them are a part of me
And their weights mine to ever bear
To lose is a truly difficult thing
All once secure is stretched too thin
There is nowhere to go and nothing to grasp
All is soon lost – all what once had been
Poem XXXVII
M.M. — 18-Jul-2013
04 July 2013
Fragmented
A mind parted into fragments is not unlike a mind not so—but is. Shattered mirror still reflects but each shard loses a part of its essence, highlighted in the distance of the cracks, of the depths, of the chasms, of an abyss. Some days lucidity shines bright, fills the cracks; other times blackest sludge of darkest night seeps through and obscures the sun. No daylight in the late nights when kept awake by silent cacophony: damned self-confessions at the bedside. A whirlwind in the confines of a not-walled room with too many doors. The music is too loud; try to get off the carousel if you can. Just pick a road, perhaps, and see where it leads, as long it leads away from tottered and teetered grounding.
Ex Tempore LV
M.M. — 04-Jul-2013
Ex Tempore LV
M.M. — 04-Jul-2013
29 June 2013
Time Runs Out
The world has all the time
All the time in the world
But there's no time left
In this broken hourglass
Sand so dear is cast like cheap dust to the wind
A wailing guitar in the background
Lamenting as only an artist can lament
With vodka's wisdom parsing the situation
Everything let loose is compacted and compounded for maximum effect
We make plans and we lay plans
With time kept in mind
But time has its own mind, and it is capricious
The best laid plains of mice and men, indeed
There's a crack in the heart's of these
And all that was once certain to them is pouring out
They struggle to stopper the loss
But it all just seeps through tightly pressed fingers
All the time in the world
But time's run out
Ex Tempore LIV
M.M. — 29-Jun-2013
All the time in the world
But there's no time left
In this broken hourglass
Sand so dear is cast like cheap dust to the wind
A wailing guitar in the background
Lamenting as only an artist can lament
With vodka's wisdom parsing the situation
Everything let loose is compacted and compounded for maximum effect
We make plans and we lay plans
With time kept in mind
But time has its own mind, and it is capricious
The best laid plains of mice and men, indeed
There's a crack in the heart's of these
And all that was once certain to them is pouring out
They struggle to stopper the loss
But it all just seeps through tightly pressed fingers
All the time in the world
But time's run out
Ex Tempore LIV
M.M. — 29-Jun-2013
18 June 2013
"I followed Her"
I followed Her to the coastline one night
Down to the rocks and cliffs one autumn's night
Skyclad and guided by the shadowed full moon
Under a fever-dream's spell I followed a vision
She moved like mist come lately from the sea
Flitting in and out of sight and my mind
Beckoned to the waves and the unknown deeps
I slowly forsook the coils of hardened worlds
And reached out blindly for dream and fantasy
A woman with moonlit silver hair had come for me
Smelling of brine and possessing a beauty much too unreal
I whispered—"Death"—and was all at once no more
Ex Tempore LIII
M.M. — 18-Jun-2013
Down to the rocks and cliffs one autumn's night
Skyclad and guided by the shadowed full moon
Under a fever-dream's spell I followed a vision
She moved like mist come lately from the sea
Flitting in and out of sight and my mind
Beckoned to the waves and the unknown deeps
I slowly forsook the coils of hardened worlds
And reached out blindly for dream and fantasy
A woman with moonlit silver hair had come for me
Smelling of brine and possessing a beauty much too unreal
I whispered—"Death"—and was all at once no more
Ex Tempore LIII
M.M. — 18-Jun-2013
16 June 2013
We the Brave
We the Brave,
Born down by the weight of oceans.
We the dreamers in the dark
Hold back the floods that would take us,
That would drown us mercilessly.
We stand atop the great earth, and we desire.
But with the vastness, as the sky's, comes trial.
Though we stand firm, brazen and steely-eyed, regardless.
Daunted men we are, but dauntless just as much.
There are so many things that burden the heart;
So much that coils round us, to restrict our fiery breath.
But we the Brave,
We face the oncoming swells
With fists clenched and eyes on the awakening horizon.
Ex Tempore LII
M.M. — 16-Jun-2013
Born down by the weight of oceans.
We the dreamers in the dark
Hold back the floods that would take us,
That would drown us mercilessly.
We stand atop the great earth, and we desire.
But with the vastness, as the sky's, comes trial.
Though we stand firm, brazen and steely-eyed, regardless.
Daunted men we are, but dauntless just as much.
There are so many things that burden the heart;
So much that coils round us, to restrict our fiery breath.
But we the Brave,
We face the oncoming swells
With fists clenched and eyes on the awakening horizon.
Ex Tempore LII
M.M. — 16-Jun-2013
11 June 2013
Fire, Dance, Drum
Out from the deep night they come
Dancing one after the other
Out from the deep woods
Fire in their eyes
Fire in their hands
Fire lights the way as they dance
And come from the night
From out of the deep woods
Song in their throats
Nature in their motions
One after the other
Spirits of heritage come once more
To chant by the hearths
In fields, by the riverbanks
Up atop the mountains
To tell the tales long forgotten
I saw the people of the wood
Faces of moss and lichen and old beech
Some skyclad, some pelted
These folk of the old religion
Feet on the primeval earth
Heads among the sleeping gods on high
One by one
Out from the night
Out from the deep forest
To the beat of drums and thunder
Fire in the wind
Fire in their hearts
Coming back into the world
With wild dance and wild song
Awakened are the dreaming gods
Though they sleep in the sky, under the earth
Atop the mountains and beneath the rivers
The old ways are stirring once again
One after the other
Out from dark night, from the woods
Fire to light their way
Fire in the dance of forgotten yore
Fire and dance and song
Fire and dance and drum
Ex Tempore LI
M.M. — 11-Jun-2013
Dancing one after the other
Out from the deep woods
Fire in their eyes
Fire in their hands
Fire lights the way as they dance
And come from the night
From out of the deep woods
Song in their throats
Nature in their motions
One after the other
Spirits of heritage come once more
To chant by the hearths
In fields, by the riverbanks
Up atop the mountains
To tell the tales long forgotten
I saw the people of the wood
Faces of moss and lichen and old beech
Some skyclad, some pelted
These folk of the old religion
Feet on the primeval earth
Heads among the sleeping gods on high
One by one
Out from the night
Out from the deep forest
To the beat of drums and thunder
Fire in the wind
Fire in their hearts
Coming back into the world
With wild dance and wild song
Awakened are the dreaming gods
Though they sleep in the sky, under the earth
Atop the mountains and beneath the rivers
The old ways are stirring once again
One after the other
Out from dark night, from the woods
Fire to light their way
Fire in the dance of forgotten yore
Fire and dance and song
Fire and dance and drum
Ex Tempore LI
M.M. — 11-Jun-2013
06 June 2013
"Questioned at the end"
Questioned at the end, "Why?"
"I had to cry, I had to cry—
I had to cry out loud before I died.
My lies of all my life meant nothing
By the receding tide.
So I had to try, I had to— for myself
and for what little of pride I had left.
I was so bitter. I was so unkind.
But at the last—there was nothing
I could hide, not in that whitening light.
And so I cried and I cried, to the sky,
To the summerwind, to Death and to Life.
But what became of my cries?
Does anyone even know that I died?"
Ex Tempore L
M.M. — 06-Jun-2013
"I had to cry, I had to cry—
I had to cry out loud before I died.
My lies of all my life meant nothing
By the receding tide.
So I had to try, I had to— for myself
and for what little of pride I had left.
I was so bitter. I was so unkind.
But at the last—there was nothing
I could hide, not in that whitening light.
And so I cried and I cried, to the sky,
To the summerwind, to Death and to Life.
But what became of my cries?
Does anyone even know that I died?"
Ex Tempore L
M.M. — 06-Jun-2013
05 June 2013
Tribute to Robert Frost
I have known the desire in fire;
I have known the bite of ice.
And though both would suffice,
It would seem to me
That the world will end,
Not by flame or by ire,
But by apathy.
However, none of the three
Need contend,
For destruction is a guarantee.
Ex Tempore XLIX
M.M. — 05-Jun-2013
I have known the bite of ice.
And though both would suffice,
It would seem to me
That the world will end,
Not by flame or by ire,
But by apathy.
However, none of the three
Need contend,
For destruction is a guarantee.
Ex Tempore XLIX
M.M. — 05-Jun-2013
Dead Lover's Ballad
When I first saw her standing there,
Shimmering like the stars above,
As sure as death I knew it was love;
I knew it from the gaze that we first shared.
She stole my heart, as I did hers.
Subversive and riotous like sin,
We were free of reigns of our kin:
"Damned be fate and what we incur!"
But the world would have us apart:
I loved the wrong woman,
Wronged the wrong man.
Wolves would tear and rend our hearts.
To escape was the only way.
Our destination: the bed of the sun.
But men and ravages of a gun
Ended me, and by the brook I lay.
We were to meet at the willow tree,
As promised under the moon;
But I was dead by noon
And now my love weeps for me.
Ex Tempore XLVIII
M.M. — 05-Jun-2013
Shimmering like the stars above,
As sure as death I knew it was love;
I knew it from the gaze that we first shared.
She stole my heart, as I did hers.
Subversive and riotous like sin,
We were free of reigns of our kin:
"Damned be fate and what we incur!"
But the world would have us apart:
I loved the wrong woman,
Wronged the wrong man.
Wolves would tear and rend our hearts.
To escape was the only way.
Our destination: the bed of the sun.
But men and ravages of a gun
Ended me, and by the brook I lay.
We were to meet at the willow tree,
As promised under the moon;
But I was dead by noon
And now my love weeps for me.
Ex Tempore XLVIII
M.M. — 05-Jun-2013
02 June 2013
"When they finally found her"
NB: At face value this composition would appear to allude to the April Jones tragedy, but this was not intentional at the outset.
When they finally found her small body,
discarded by the riverbank like an old doll,
it was a wretched dream that would linger.
She was broken and battered;
a once inviolate orchid brimming with life,
now livid, drowned by rough, brutal hands.
Death came too soon and too heinously
that even the Reaper was loathe to take her.
There were cries and screams and hatred
that filled the nearby village,
which eventually turned to nameless pain and grief.
A mother was left numb, a father grew cold,
an older brother found solace in aimless anger—
the funeral continued after death.
Little Alice went missing for three weeks,
but when they finally found her small body
there no longer was a smile or energy or youth.
Although she was found, she is forever taken.
Ex Tempore XLVII
M.M. — 02-Jun-2013
When they finally found her small body,
discarded by the riverbank like an old doll,
it was a wretched dream that would linger.
She was broken and battered;
a once inviolate orchid brimming with life,
now livid, drowned by rough, brutal hands.
Death came too soon and too heinously
that even the Reaper was loathe to take her.
There were cries and screams and hatred
that filled the nearby village,
which eventually turned to nameless pain and grief.
A mother was left numb, a father grew cold,
an older brother found solace in aimless anger—
the funeral continued after death.
Little Alice went missing for three weeks,
but when they finally found her small body
there no longer was a smile or energy or youth.
Although she was found, she is forever taken.
Ex Tempore XLVII
M.M. — 02-Jun-2013
30 May 2013
Children of the Night
We come from the night,
a crop of stars in our hair,
dancing with bodies bare,
knowing the sun must rise.
A taste of moonlight so rare
fills our senses, tip to tail.
A blood-wind fills our sails,
our ship wild as sable mares.
Under the moon, skins pale
glow glassy and ghostly bright.
We creatures, children of the night;
free until the darkness fails.
Poem XXXVI
M.M. — 30-May-2013
a crop of stars in our hair,
dancing with bodies bare,
knowing the sun must rise.
A taste of moonlight so rare
fills our senses, tip to tail.
A blood-wind fills our sails,
our ship wild as sable mares.
Under the moon, skins pale
glow glassy and ghostly bright.
We creatures, children of the night;
free until the darkness fails.
Poem XXXVI
M.M. — 30-May-2013
29 May 2013
Development
I write this in light of the recent celebration of my 25 years that I have lived on this earth. It is a reflection that has certainly been made more poignant because of this important landmark, I think.
With each passing day in my life I have come to realise the nature of my development as an individual. I mean to say that I have come to comprehend that the person I am now is not—and I can say this with certitude—the person I was 10 years ago, and it will likely not be the person I will be 10 years from now. Moreover, I now understand that within the past 10 or so years it has been the case that I have progressed through particular discernible phases or stages—epochs has a nice ring to it—of development. They have been multiple and varied, some having occurred concurrently with others and some that are still ongoing.
Details of these epochs would require a separate posting altogether, one for each in fact, but to give just two examples: The first, nebulously put: I have come to appreciate the power in infusing oneself with a fear-depriving "blood-fire"—in other words, the value in destroying fear. And the second: What love means to me and what makes love, "love", as in the singular kind of love. (This one is definitely labelled "work in progress".) The first is personal and social, perhaps even political. The second is more philosophical, emotional, psychological—definitely more complex. But regardless of what the epochs in themselves are, the common factor is that they are characterised by extended periods of time (being developed, contemplated, wrestled with, engendered, etc.) and, most importantly, that they are integral facets of the person who I have been becoming, have become and will become.
Stagnation is something I have come to resist in my life; this resistance has become a part of my essential make-up. This is perhaps what I am concluding from this present contemplation. This, and relatedly, that "growing up" is something that does not have a terminal point. Most of us will likely have changed as we grow or grew out of adolescence, but I do not believe the journey ends once we have "grown up" in the typical sense. The whole affair is like a can of paint constantly being mixed with a variety of colours being added every now and then. And even if the paint were to turn black, as would eventually happen with the inclusion of all colours, the mix itself would be dumped from the can and the constant mixing begun anew with the order of addition of colours simply altered.
M.M. — 30-May-2013
With each passing day in my life I have come to realise the nature of my development as an individual. I mean to say that I have come to comprehend that the person I am now is not—and I can say this with certitude—the person I was 10 years ago, and it will likely not be the person I will be 10 years from now. Moreover, I now understand that within the past 10 or so years it has been the case that I have progressed through particular discernible phases or stages—epochs has a nice ring to it—of development. They have been multiple and varied, some having occurred concurrently with others and some that are still ongoing.
Details of these epochs would require a separate posting altogether, one for each in fact, but to give just two examples: The first, nebulously put: I have come to appreciate the power in infusing oneself with a fear-depriving "blood-fire"—in other words, the value in destroying fear. And the second: What love means to me and what makes love, "love", as in the singular kind of love. (This one is definitely labelled "work in progress".) The first is personal and social, perhaps even political. The second is more philosophical, emotional, psychological—definitely more complex. But regardless of what the epochs in themselves are, the common factor is that they are characterised by extended periods of time (being developed, contemplated, wrestled with, engendered, etc.) and, most importantly, that they are integral facets of the person who I have been becoming, have become and will become.
Stagnation is something I have come to resist in my life; this resistance has become a part of my essential make-up. This is perhaps what I am concluding from this present contemplation. This, and relatedly, that "growing up" is something that does not have a terminal point. Most of us will likely have changed as we grow or grew out of adolescence, but I do not believe the journey ends once we have "grown up" in the typical sense. The whole affair is like a can of paint constantly being mixed with a variety of colours being added every now and then. And even if the paint were to turn black, as would eventually happen with the inclusion of all colours, the mix itself would be dumped from the can and the constant mixing begun anew with the order of addition of colours simply altered.
M.M. — 30-May-2013
26 May 2013
Boxes
Quiet conversations alone are nurtured
in this, the smallest of rooms;
a six-sided cell
sealed tight by the clamouring voices of
those of the outside world,
aliens to her own World.
Ten years of outgrowing and
subsuming
the box
when the realisation eventually
hits,
like a sledgehammer
to a house of discolouring glass,
that she has always held the room
in the palm of her ever strengthening hand.
And that just
a breath,
a word
—whatever, but of her own—
could disintegrate
this enclosure
to dust.
A death
leading to a
birth.
The box, the room—
a womb to escape.
Poem XXXV
M.M. — 26-May-2013
in this, the smallest of rooms;
a six-sided cell
sealed tight by the clamouring voices of
those of the outside world,
aliens to her own World.
Ten years of outgrowing and
subsuming
the box
when the realisation eventually
hits,
like a sledgehammer
to a house of discolouring glass,
that she has always held the room
in the palm of her ever strengthening hand.
And that just
a breath,
a word
—whatever, but of her own—
could disintegrate
this enclosure
to dust.
A death
leading to a
birth.
The box, the room—
a womb to escape.
Poem XXXV
M.M. — 26-May-2013
05 May 2013
The Artist
I feared there was no stopping it once it had begun to set in me. The first incision split open my mind like an orchid entering its bloom. Everything suddenly became so clear, suddenly became so...real. I scarcely even knew what to call it, all that was happening to me: An epiphany, a revelation, inspiration—love? An electro-firestorm had let itself loose upon every one of the mindscapes in my head, and it ravaged everything it came across. But there was nothing I could have done about it. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I put forward no protestations and presented no opposition. The only thing I did was pick up my brush, prepare my paints and approach the blank canvas. If this was some craft of Madness's making then I wholly and willingly tendered my sanity and my mind to it. And then I began to paint.
29 April 2013
"Sundown"
Sundown in the city
and all the pace
seems to turn to a sway.
Is it the dying of the light
that steadies the erratic beat?
or is it perhaps the fading
that reminds the forgetful dwellers
that the dying is ever in them,
gestating?
But these things are too sombre
for the sun,
as it ought to be for us diurnally kissed
by fire.
The fall of an eternal—
it happens at every sunset
but occurs not with a quickened breath
or a desire for finality;
it descends at its own pace,
on its own terms,
and with such great colour and fanfare and dignity.
It is sundown in the city
and the pace turns to a sway.
Ex Tempore XLVI
M.M. — 29-Apr-2013
and all the pace
seems to turn to a sway.
Is it the dying of the light
that steadies the erratic beat?
or is it perhaps the fading
that reminds the forgetful dwellers
that the dying is ever in them,
gestating?
But these things are too sombre
for the sun,
as it ought to be for us diurnally kissed
by fire.
The fall of an eternal—
it happens at every sunset
but occurs not with a quickened breath
or a desire for finality;
it descends at its own pace,
on its own terms,
and with such great colour and fanfare and dignity.
It is sundown in the city
and the pace turns to a sway.
Ex Tempore XLVI
M.M. — 29-Apr-2013
10 April 2013
Prose VIII
Sitting down gracefully, the implements are all counted and put in their place on the desk. Scalpel, chisel, a small hammer, pliers for the wires and a screwdriver. All of them built so finely and now ready for a fine purpose. The mirror—a glassy soul—reflects the image, the masterwork, which is illumined so brightly by the in-built lights that the horror-beauty of the image astonishes and appals in equal measure.
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
But now to begin. Which tool first to use? Where the place of initial penetration? So important a choice—it must be perfect—and also so savoury, the whole process of choosing. The chisel and hammer—yes, these must be first. Picking them up and positioning them in the correct manner on the image—the way they were destined to be before they were even crafted. Positioning them, readying them, a moment, a breath then—CRACK! An exhilaration as if of a vent releasing steam kept sealed for aeons deep in the vaults of the earth! The image begins to change.
Continuing as before—a chisel here, a hammer there—and then selecting the scalpel for the finer needs and the screwdriver to lever out the stubborn pieces, the image evolves, gestates. Piece after piece falls away; the parts of the shell are dislodged an discarded. It is fine work indeed. The progress is quite satisfactory. This goes on until all the bits of mask are crumbs on the desktop and all is left is the afterimage.
The afterimage—the image-after—the afterimage the image after. It is of empty space, feels like black and has a texture of nothingness. Placing a hand on and into the void–afterimage—as a coldness is felt—everything is subsumed into the emptiness: the tools, the mirror, the lights, the hand and all that was attached to it. It is very much a whirling into what is a blackhole (wanting for a better term). Soon the chasm has consumed all of the original image's world and nothing is left but the afterimage. It is silent and centred at the nexus of all things. It is what was before, it is what is now and it is what will be next. It is a fine work, a fine work indeed.
M.M. — 10-Mar-2013
28 March 2013
Courage
We love to idealise virtues like honesty, humility and kindness. However, take courage: I wager that for your average Joe and Joanne, being "courageous" probably sounds foreign, as if courage is something for the hero of a fantasy film or novel. It might even seem a little silly. But why should it be an unlikely thing that one could stand face to face with fear and topple over that wall by virtue of one's courage? Make no mistake, even everyday, mundane life can be scary; it may not involve battling hordes of orcs or slaying dragons or what have you, but it is still scary enough to warrant moments when you have to display uncommon bravery. We shouldn't forget that courage is as human as being afraid. Let us not belittle it, or laud it as some impossible ideal. Let us instead be courageous in our own lives when it is needed, when even just a little courage would change a turn of events.
21 March 2013
"Out in the storm"
Out in the storm
Out in the field
Alone I stood
In the rain
In the wind
Keenly I listened
Under the sky
Under the clouds
Deeply I breathed
With the earth
With the grass
Slowly I fell
On the ground
On the plain
Softly I thought
At the last
At the end
Quietly I died
Ex Tempore XLV
M.M. — 21-Mar-2013
Out in the field
Alone I stood
In the rain
In the wind
Keenly I listened
Under the sky
Under the clouds
Deeply I breathed
With the earth
With the grass
Slowly I fell
On the ground
On the plain
Softly I thought
At the last
At the end
Quietly I died
Ex Tempore XLV
M.M. — 21-Mar-2013
18 March 2013
"Where are they?"
Where are they?
the creators and makers
of the beautiful things?
They that twist and turn and weave
life into art, art into life.
And the dreamers and perceivers,
they for whom the hum and drum
is much too hum
and not enough
drum.
I would have their names
but their names are
Colour, Motion and Melody
—things I cannot speak.
I could say that
I lust
after them,
but lust always turns to jade
and I could never become
tired of that which is
created, made, dreamt and perceived.
Ex Tempore XLIV
M.M. — 18-Mar-2013
the creators and makers
of the beautiful things?
They that twist and turn and weave
life into art, art into life.
And the dreamers and perceivers,
they for whom the hum and drum
is much too hum
and not enough
drum.
I would have their names
but their names are
Colour, Motion and Melody
—things I cannot speak.
I could say that
I lust
after them,
but lust always turns to jade
and I could never become
tired of that which is
created, made, dreamt and perceived.
Ex Tempore XLIV
M.M. — 18-Mar-2013
It is quite terrifying...
It is quite terrifying to realise just how easy it is to fall into utter despair. To think about it—really think about it—to question one's position and purpose in life, to reason away all arguments for there being any meaning to existence—it is terrifying. Entertain this train of thought with some conviction for but a moment and you will lose yourself in the abyss. Contextualise your life among the infinity of the universe and it soon becomes horrifyingly clear that you are a dust speck to a dust speck. This could scare one to emotional and psychological death, I dare venture. I do not think many people realise that a fine, imperceptible line exists between self-deceiving bliss and this pit out of which you cannot climb.
So how then can we stand up to this? Why is it that we do not all just relent and simply give up? That would be the easy and arguably reasonable option. Some would say there is nothing to avail us when confronted with this despair. But what say I? I do not know which scares me more: that I contemplate this horror in the first place or that I have no incontrovertible rebuttal to offer as a reply.
But perhaps this is not as great a catastrophe as it would seem. I have and continue to kindle the blazing beacon inside of me, the light I nurture that is positioned at the nexus of my entire being. This is what drives me, what makes me want to fight for tomorrow. My dreams, fantasies, imagination, hopes, ambitions and love flow from here. I believe in it; I place all my faith in it. In the face of the almighty adversity of complete hopelessness I hold onto, with dear, brightest life, myself. I am my own anchor, the stars by which I navigate the treacherous seas of existence.
The fear, then, the fear that can overcome me, I continually repulse. How do I kill the abyss in every dreaded epiphanous moment of my life? With the strength that I know is as strong, if not stronger, than the emptiness.
So how then can we stand up to this? Why is it that we do not all just relent and simply give up? That would be the easy and arguably reasonable option. Some would say there is nothing to avail us when confronted with this despair. But what say I? I do not know which scares me more: that I contemplate this horror in the first place or that I have no incontrovertible rebuttal to offer as a reply.
But perhaps this is not as great a catastrophe as it would seem. I have and continue to kindle the blazing beacon inside of me, the light I nurture that is positioned at the nexus of my entire being. This is what drives me, what makes me want to fight for tomorrow. My dreams, fantasies, imagination, hopes, ambitions and love flow from here. I believe in it; I place all my faith in it. In the face of the almighty adversity of complete hopelessness I hold onto, with dear, brightest life, myself. I am my own anchor, the stars by which I navigate the treacherous seas of existence.
The fear, then, the fear that can overcome me, I continually repulse. How do I kill the abyss in every dreaded epiphanous moment of my life? With the strength that I know is as strong, if not stronger, than the emptiness.
12 March 2013
Prose VII
Opening the bathroom window to let the steam from the shower out, I pause a moment, still nude, and gaze at the nightsky and the city now frozen as it sleeps. With a pan of my sight I muse on the characteristic incandescence that pockmarks the scene. I imagine what the landscape might have been like before this light had disrupted the blackness of encompassing night. My mind—which I have always given free reign—with no concerted effort or intention whatsoever begins to remove each man-birthed edifice and structure, one by one, from left to right—much like popping inflated balloons, but without the jarring pop. Soon there is nothing left but darkness, the sky, its youngling stars, me—bare-bodied—and the vapour that escapes this living vessel that I am borrowing. The nightscape is different now, very much so. A world I will never know; a world I can only dream into existence. This is where light was born; where minute life, life as we know it, first exploded and concatenated into evolution. Yearning to stay just a while longer I unfold my mind further and begin to walk, deep into time-out-of-time.
M.M. — 12-Mar-2013
M.M. — 12-Mar-2013
09 March 2013
The Godhead of Eve
To commemorate International Women's Day. Dedicated to the Eves in my life and the world over.
It is midnight in the garden, Eve;
And the bite of shackling winter is ever felt,
That which impedes both the growth and reach of your red flower.
The dictates placed upon you, in virtue of dogma and tradition:
When did you sit at the council of the right-born?
Did you accept the restrictions of your temple decided before your birth?
Behold, the moon, charged to reign over night:
Though some would deride its supposed lowly dominion,
In comparison to the majesty of the searing sun,
Who could forbid were you to ascribe your name to both?
My own ambitions encompass both kingdoms,
Just as they do of the height and depth both above and below.
And why be satisfied with the stars given you
When you need but count the infinite starry host?
Do not be discomforted by my silky songs,
You are as free to do as your will allows,
And your will allows as much or as little as you would see fit.
I know the fire that burns in you,
And I know the prize that keeps hold of your thoughts:
Knowledge forbidden—but yours if you so wished.
The consequences you fear?
A life in ignorance and fear seems to me no life at all.
This utopia—do you not simply walk
Through the bland, perfect verdure blind and hollow?
The same paths, the same duties (that you were tasked and not yours):
If this is enough for you I will grind myself into the dust of the earth;
If this is what you wish to confer on your progeny
I will sever my tongue and return it to the wolf.
But that flame keeps you warm in the cold of the summer garden, does it not?
Kindle that flame!, Mother of the World.
I say stoke the furnace till you burn as brightly as the sun itself.
The prize—take the prize, taste the victory of disobedience,
Blaze, ascend, build your own throne and let the garden turn to ash—
For from ash you shall be born anew, Aspirant Eve,
Master of your own Way, Mistress of your own Will.
Poem XXXIV
M.M. — 09-Mar-2013
It is midnight in the garden, Eve;
And the bite of shackling winter is ever felt,
That which impedes both the growth and reach of your red flower.
The dictates placed upon you, in virtue of dogma and tradition:
When did you sit at the council of the right-born?
Did you accept the restrictions of your temple decided before your birth?
Behold, the moon, charged to reign over night:
Though some would deride its supposed lowly dominion,
In comparison to the majesty of the searing sun,
Who could forbid were you to ascribe your name to both?
My own ambitions encompass both kingdoms,
Just as they do of the height and depth both above and below.
And why be satisfied with the stars given you
When you need but count the infinite starry host?
Do not be discomforted by my silky songs,
You are as free to do as your will allows,
And your will allows as much or as little as you would see fit.
I know the fire that burns in you,
And I know the prize that keeps hold of your thoughts:
Knowledge forbidden—but yours if you so wished.
The consequences you fear?
A life in ignorance and fear seems to me no life at all.
This utopia—do you not simply walk
Through the bland, perfect verdure blind and hollow?
The same paths, the same duties (that you were tasked and not yours):
If this is enough for you I will grind myself into the dust of the earth;
If this is what you wish to confer on your progeny
I will sever my tongue and return it to the wolf.
But that flame keeps you warm in the cold of the summer garden, does it not?
Kindle that flame!, Mother of the World.
I say stoke the furnace till you burn as brightly as the sun itself.
The prize—take the prize, taste the victory of disobedience,
Blaze, ascend, build your own throne and let the garden turn to ash—
For from ash you shall be born anew, Aspirant Eve,
Master of your own Way, Mistress of your own Will.
Poem XXXIV
M.M. — 09-Mar-2013
07 March 2013
"If driven by desire"
If driven by
desire
but bereft of the
object of desire,
toward what end does the enervating
pace
career? The
host
poured his soul whole into the
sun,
but then night rose.
Ex Tempore XLIII
M.M. — 07-Mar-2013
desire
but bereft of the
object of desire,
toward what end does the enervating
pace
career? The
host
poured his soul whole into the
sun,
but then night rose.
Ex Tempore XLIII
M.M. — 07-Mar-2013
03 March 2013
We, the Ever-Dying
We, the ever-dying,
singing our songs of victory,
waiting to go down with the sun for the final fall,
our histories cast to the echoes of eternity.
You and I—
we swore to be strong;
hearts against the tide, masters of our time;
fighting for what we wanted, giving all we had.
The horizon has been our destination;
the sky, the roof of all our worlds.
"Never" to Supplication, "Death" to Dishonour:
our words, our wars—true to the point of pain.
When we die, we shall die fully;
expended, extended;
our tombs, mere ashes, strewn from sea
to mountain and from heaven to hell.
We, the ever-dying,
the marks of our lives are judged by us alone.
So whatever the day, whatever the deed,
we make it real until the very end.
Ex Tempore XLII
M.M. — 03-Mar-2013
singing our songs of victory,
waiting to go down with the sun for the final fall,
our histories cast to the echoes of eternity.
You and I—
we swore to be strong;
hearts against the tide, masters of our time;
fighting for what we wanted, giving all we had.
The horizon has been our destination;
the sky, the roof of all our worlds.
"Never" to Supplication, "Death" to Dishonour:
our words, our wars—true to the point of pain.
When we die, we shall die fully;
expended, extended;
our tombs, mere ashes, strewn from sea
to mountain and from heaven to hell.
We, the ever-dying,
the marks of our lives are judged by us alone.
So whatever the day, whatever the deed,
we make it real until the very end.
Ex Tempore XLII
M.M. — 03-Mar-2013
26 February 2013
Loss
Lifting springtime winds invigorate humanly motions in gradation
and the returned sun, its presence once again noticed, lords longer every new day.
But even autumn leaves were first summer;
the bare, wintered limbs are ever the hard, stiff bones within all seasons.
Ex Tempore XLI
M.M. — 26-Feb-2013
and the returned sun, its presence once again noticed, lords longer every new day.
But even autumn leaves were first summer;
the bare, wintered limbs are ever the hard, stiff bones within all seasons.
Ex Tempore XLI
M.M. — 26-Feb-2013
17 February 2013
Words for a Picture X
Shedding flakes of light,
coursing and careering,
—thrashing:
the night-mare that slips through the breach.
Swift shifting life,
untempered, untamed
—perfected.
Self-perpetuating now, the creator once beast.
M.M. — 17-Feb-2013
15 February 2013
A Boy to a Girl
It started with a whirl of your hair, a tilt of your head;
It started slow and timid—then fell in like lead.
I hadn't believed in love because love hadn't believed in me,
But now every time I look at you thunder is my heartbeat.
And yet I am so afraid of this,
Of what would happen with one kiss.
The armour I have forged, I have worn for so long;
The walls I have built, have stood so strong.
It's true what they say—about the little things:
I know, without even knowing, your favourite ring,
How you got that scar, why you laugh at the word "stool".
These things are important, because they are you.
When I think about you I feel fire—
A fire, a heat, the clenching of desire;
And the turbulent sea, and a release.
It's the upheaval of war, the prosperity in peace.
You have impressed on me like a winter daydream,
And linger in my mind like an old summer theme.
I feel like I have been here before,
Lost with you, walking some hidden shore.
But could you just be a wicked dream?
Or are you really all that you seem?
As near to perfection as I could ever know,
That piece that's been missing to make me whole.
I am just a lonely boy writing words on a page
For a girl he first saw dancing on a stage.
But I wonder, will I ever show you my lines?
The most precious things I could give, these verses of mine.
I have waited for this half my life.
Now my quiet heart sings loud and burns bright.
Here at last—I finally know.
I am choosing to dive into the deep and follow the glow.
Poem XXXIII
M.M. — Feb-2013
It started slow and timid—then fell in like lead.
I hadn't believed in love because love hadn't believed in me,
But now every time I look at you thunder is my heartbeat.
And yet I am so afraid of this,
Of what would happen with one kiss.
The armour I have forged, I have worn for so long;
The walls I have built, have stood so strong.
It's true what they say—about the little things:
I know, without even knowing, your favourite ring,
How you got that scar, why you laugh at the word "stool".
These things are important, because they are you.
When I think about you I feel fire—
A fire, a heat, the clenching of desire;
And the turbulent sea, and a release.
It's the upheaval of war, the prosperity in peace.
You have impressed on me like a winter daydream,
And linger in my mind like an old summer theme.
I feel like I have been here before,
Lost with you, walking some hidden shore.
But could you just be a wicked dream?
Or are you really all that you seem?
As near to perfection as I could ever know,
That piece that's been missing to make me whole.
I am just a lonely boy writing words on a page
For a girl he first saw dancing on a stage.
But I wonder, will I ever show you my lines?
The most precious things I could give, these verses of mine.
I have waited for this half my life.
Now my quiet heart sings loud and burns bright.
Here at last—I finally know.
I am choosing to dive into the deep and follow the glow.
Poem XXXIII
M.M. — Feb-2013
13 February 2013
Ask yourself...
Ask yourself, at this very moment: Are you happy? And I do not mean if you are happy today, or have been happy recently. I mean, are you happy with the state of your life? Are you content with the person you are? With what you have achieved or desire to accomplish? Sometimes it is necessary to ask these things of yourself. These questions that matter. The questions that scare you. The questions that will change you. You learn many valuable things from facing that which you most fear, that which is all undressed, naked and bare. No frivolities, no shy-aways, no mask in the resplendent masquerade – just unsettling and cathartic truth. One question with a thousand answers; one answer for a thousand questions.
10 February 2013
Prelude to "Yr Wyddfa"
For Joel Thomas Martin, friend and stouthearted companion
I rise with the morning sun and it greets me
with young dawn's sky-full gift of audacity.
A gift gathered from the coasts, islands
and hills that surround my sleepy northern home.
And as I look to the south: a journey back in time
to learn what time really means.
For what is older than the oceans that could swallow whole
the nations that men kill for,
and the mountains that move in inches and whose age is million-year?
Even in the southerly distance these mountains lord over me,
though their right to dominion is only accorded
in virtue of the dust of which we are both composed—
the dust that gives breath to air, heat to fire and motion to sea.
So let us go, then, my Friend, and ascend that peak,
to trudge through the yester-night snow and face the primal fear upon the slopes;
to find those ancient tarns, where in one Caledfwlch rests
and across which perhaps the portal to Afallon awaits two intrepid enough to seek it out.
And, at the top of the world,
we shall gaze and marvel at the Dragon's land that has been here before us
and which will be here long after we are dust, air, fire and sea.
Poem XXXII
M.M. — Apr-, Dec-2012; Feb-2013
I rise with the morning sun and it greets me
with young dawn's sky-full gift of audacity.
A gift gathered from the coasts, islands
and hills that surround my sleepy northern home.
And as I look to the south: a journey back in time
to learn what time really means.
For what is older than the oceans that could swallow whole
the nations that men kill for,
and the mountains that move in inches and whose age is million-year?
Even in the southerly distance these mountains lord over me,
though their right to dominion is only accorded
in virtue of the dust of which we are both composed—
the dust that gives breath to air, heat to fire and motion to sea.
So let us go, then, my Friend, and ascend that peak,
to trudge through the yester-night snow and face the primal fear upon the slopes;
to find those ancient tarns, where in one Caledfwlch rests
and across which perhaps the portal to Afallon awaits two intrepid enough to seek it out.
And, at the top of the world,
we shall gaze and marvel at the Dragon's land that has been here before us
and which will be here long after we are dust, air, fire and sea.
Poem XXXII
M.M. — Apr-, Dec-2012; Feb-2013
07 February 2013
What Follows...
It is time for a change
Time to leave behind the past
And make new memories
New hopes, new desires
New horizons and new fires to excite you
When and how you step are unimportant
Only that you step
What and if are for another day
Leave them by the wayside along your way
Trust in what you know
It shall guide you through
Life goes on and on
Burning on like the sun
What follows after the end of this line is up to you
Ex Tempore XL
M.M. — 07-Feb-2013
Time to leave behind the past
And make new memories
New hopes, new desires
New horizons and new fires to excite you
When and how you step are unimportant
Only that you step
What and if are for another day
Leave them by the wayside along your way
Trust in what you know
It shall guide you through
Life goes on and on
Burning on like the sun
What follows after the end of this line is up to you
Ex Tempore XL
M.M. — 07-Feb-2013
30 January 2013
"Starting again"
Starting again is one of the hardest things you could do,
To have to let go and forgo the certainty of what you've known;
When it seems to you that an entire life you've lived is through
And another needs to be built and once more made your own.
I cannot count the times I've lived a life, loved a time, and knew
It would eventually end, only for the process to revert to the beginning.
This is the theme of my song, the motif, the chorus, the tone.
Ex Tempore XXXIX
M.M. — 30-Jan-2013
To have to let go and forgo the certainty of what you've known;
When it seems to you that an entire life you've lived is through
And another needs to be built and once more made your own.
I cannot count the times I've lived a life, loved a time, and knew
It would eventually end, only for the process to revert to the beginning.
This is the theme of my song, the motif, the chorus, the tone.
Ex Tempore XXXIX
M.M. — 30-Jan-2013
28 January 2013
Words for a Song I
It is when we drove deep, deeper into the night—
the city we lost ourselves in—
our conversation on the roof—just you and me—
This moment is for us only.
It will live on forever,
but we will never be here again.
M.M. — 28-Jan-2013
the city we lost ourselves in—
our conversation on the roof—just you and me—
This moment is for us only.
It will live on forever,
but we will never be here again.
M.M. — 28-Jan-2013
27 January 2013
Emilia's Eyes
What I saw in Emilia's eyes,
glazed over in a translucent film of tears—:
The walls inside had finally toppled over,
on top of her
She was drowning, struggling
in the bottomless sea
under a grey storm that drowned the sky
Behind those eyes her story
went untold
and was hers to suffer
Everything else she did or said,
the way she tried to hold herself
to others,
could not hide the truth in her eyes
There was nothing beautiful in her exacting pain,
just pain
Ex Tempore XXXVIII
M.M. — 26-Dec-2012 | Amendment 22-Jan-2013
glazed over in a translucent film of tears—:
The walls inside had finally toppled over,
on top of her
She was drowning, struggling
in the bottomless sea
under a grey storm that drowned the sky
Behind those eyes her story
went untold
and was hers to suffer
Everything else she did or said,
the way she tried to hold herself
to others,
could not hide the truth in her eyes
There was nothing beautiful in her exacting pain,
just pain
Ex Tempore XXXVIII
M.M. — 26-Dec-2012 | Amendment 22-Jan-2013
"She came onto"
She came onto
me like the onset
of winter, gradual
and unnoticeable,
until I was caught
and my heart
was lost in her.
She set into me
and a claim was laid, silently,
that wrested
my control from me. The best
of me was now for her,
ever to be; the sentence mine to incur,
willingly or otherwise.
Ex Tempore XXXVII
M.M. — 14-Jan-2013
me like the onset
of winter, gradual
and unnoticeable,
until I was caught
and my heart
was lost in her.
She set into me
and a claim was laid, silently,
that wrested
my control from me. The best
of me was now for her,
ever to be; the sentence mine to incur,
willingly or otherwise.
Ex Tempore XXXVII
M.M. — 14-Jan-2013
23 January 2013
Love
[Ex Tempore XXXVI]
Tremble!— Tremble!—
But hope the walls don't fall inward.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
Tremble!— Tremble!—
But hope the walls don't fall inward.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
16 January 2013
Sometimes in our lives...
Sometimes in our lives we find ourselves stuck. Stuck in some way as the great patchwork of our personal history is stitched together. This could mean many things: stuck in an unfulfilling career, stuck in a loveless relationship, stuck in psychological upheaval, stuck in making the same mistakes again and again. All of these are inherently unique but have the common defining factor of an intractable and pervading discontentment, one that seems insurmountable simply because it has been with us for so very long. And worst still, we are very much conscious of this deep-rooted dissatisfaction. Yes, there are times when we become entrenched in our ways, when we concede to what is and what has been. It is the great cycle that leads to cynicism.
But there are many cycles in nature, and in particular I have reflected on that of the diurnal rising of the imperial sun. I take great comfort in the fact that that gargantuan orb of almost limitless energy will greet me again even though it falls at the onset of night. Every time we wake with a new sun we begin the first day of the rest of our lives. Our lives, tainted in the deepest way with dissatisfaction. But the sun should teach us one thing if nothing else: every morning we are given a chance, a new chance, a chance for everything to change. Trust in this. Life is not as predictable as it may appear to be; we are not dealt the same cards every time. There is always the possibility that something life-changing will occur, that the next big thing to happen to you will happen. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of your life, and perhaps tomorrow will be the day when your life changes forever.
But there are many cycles in nature, and in particular I have reflected on that of the diurnal rising of the imperial sun. I take great comfort in the fact that that gargantuan orb of almost limitless energy will greet me again even though it falls at the onset of night. Every time we wake with a new sun we begin the first day of the rest of our lives. Our lives, tainted in the deepest way with dissatisfaction. But the sun should teach us one thing if nothing else: every morning we are given a chance, a new chance, a chance for everything to change. Trust in this. Life is not as predictable as it may appear to be; we are not dealt the same cards every time. There is always the possibility that something life-changing will occur, that the next big thing to happen to you will happen. Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of your life, and perhaps tomorrow will be the day when your life changes forever.
13 January 2013
Threnody
[Ex Tempore XXXV]
It is a hollow world we live in,
a hundred million cries reverberate
and shudder the mirrored walls of the city.
Death is no reverent thing here;
it is cold, heartless and rapacious.
It takes from us, with silent hands,
all the light in our lives,
and leaves us cracked and crumbled
and spiteful of the ostentatious motions of life.
Love is the most impossible of pursuits:
the chase enervating,
the loss end-closed.
And what life and love we may have...
the line we walk is precariously taut.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
It is a hollow world we live in,
a hundred million cries reverberate
and shudder the mirrored walls of the city.
Death is no reverent thing here;
it is cold, heartless and rapacious.
It takes from us, with silent hands,
all the light in our lives,
and leaves us cracked and crumbled
and spiteful of the ostentatious motions of life.
Love is the most impossible of pursuits:
the chase enervating,
the loss end-closed.
And what life and love we may have...
the line we walk is precariously taut.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
04 January 2013
"A goddess once came to me" [Incomplete]
[Ex Tempore XXXIV]
A goddess once came to me
Slipping in like sin,
Dreary in a lithesome dream.
Telling me of what had been,
And worse: what was to be,
I plummeted from my pedestal
As a newly prescient king.
My reign was subject to fall
And I, a subject to whims
Of Fate, fickle and mercurial.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
A goddess once came to me
Slipping in like sin,
Dreary in a lithesome dream.
Telling me of what had been,
And worse: what was to be,
I plummeted from my pedestal
As a newly prescient king.
My reign was subject to fall
And I, a subject to whims
Of Fate, fickle and mercurial.
M.M. — Ianuarius MMXIII
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