I've finally(!) received a copy of Poetry Rivals' Collection 2010 - Whispers of the Mind, shown below. (I have to admit, though, the typo in the poem's title is somewhat annoying.)
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19 February 2011
Poetry Rivals' Collection 2010 - Whispers of the Mind
Last September I mentioned that "Poem XII - And so the world" was going to be published by Forward Poetry (formerly Forward Press) in late November.
I've finally(!) received a copy of Poetry Rivals' Collection 2010 - Whispers of the Mind, shown below. (I have to admit, though, the typo in the poem's title is somewhat annoying.)
I've finally(!) received a copy of Poetry Rivals' Collection 2010 - Whispers of the Mind, shown below. (I have to admit, though, the typo in the poem's title is somewhat annoying.)
17 February 2011
Ex Tempore I
and from the heart's last pattering
came a fluttering
and a sputtering
from the mouth that was but a stuttering
there in the dark
gasped a flicker, rioted a spark
where laboured screeches of the horned lark
grew faint—desperate to leave its mark
quivering for but a while
love and hate misstepped in file
and were swallowed whole, wholly reviled
by men, who thought them too mild
just as dawning suns stood
tall they were shortly trampled under foot
by romping sons—just because they could
but did they ever wonder that they knew they would?
I had been there as well, the growing mould
on my skin telling it all, but it had already rolled
up; and then I was left alone and cold
my pulse struggled a word, but slowed
M.M. — Ianuarius et Februarius MMXI
came a fluttering
and a sputtering
from the mouth that was but a stuttering
there in the dark
gasped a flicker, rioted a spark
where laboured screeches of the horned lark
grew faint—desperate to leave its mark
quivering for but a while
love and hate misstepped in file
and were swallowed whole, wholly reviled
by men, who thought them too mild
just as dawning suns stood
tall they were shortly trampled under foot
by romping sons—just because they could
but did they ever wonder that they knew they would?
I had been there as well, the growing mould
on my skin telling it all, but it had already rolled
up; and then I was left alone and cold
my pulse struggled a word, but slowed
M.M. — Ianuarius et Februarius MMXI
13 February 2011
Poem XVIII - Where are you?
Where are you?
What, at this moment, do you do?
Do you think of me?
Do you think of me as I do of you?
Are your dreams also filled with the same things you wish were true?
How does the sky above appear to you?
Does it speak to you of love, or make you cry?
Perhaps it seeks to make you sigh?
It takes me away, that much I can say,
To places where I can wonder, as I often do of your face:
Moments that can tear me asunder.
And the fear, through the years, has not been quite absent;
But always present, even if at times out of mind, is regret,
My closest friend who lets me never forget;
Who, true-blue, will make all this a tale without end,
Subsisting gratuitously—or maybe graciously?
Is it I who insists on this? Do I wish it to continue?
Because it has been you?
Will always be you?
I would much like that I knew for certain,
That the haze raised, this heavy curtain before me.
M.M. — September MMX; Februarius MMXI
What, at this moment, do you do?
Do you think of me?
Do you think of me as I do of you?
Are your dreams also filled with the same things you wish were true?
How does the sky above appear to you?
Does it speak to you of love, or make you cry?
Perhaps it seeks to make you sigh?
It takes me away, that much I can say,
To places where I can wonder, as I often do of your face:
Moments that can tear me asunder.
And the fear, through the years, has not been quite absent;
But always present, even if at times out of mind, is regret,
My closest friend who lets me never forget;
Who, true-blue, will make all this a tale without end,
Subsisting gratuitously—or maybe graciously?
Is it I who insists on this? Do I wish it to continue?
Because it has been you?
Will always be you?
I would much like that I knew for certain,
That the haze raised, this heavy curtain before me.
M.M. — September MMX; Februarius MMXI
17 December 2010
Poem XVII - Glasgow Winter Nights
They have never met before,
these two lovers who pass each other on the snow-carpeted street.
There is nothing between them save
the briefest and most meaningful exchange of glances.
A young man stumbles on the slippery pavement,
regains his balance
and moves on.
(A waft of cider in his wake.)
The colour of this night—its romance, its essence—is wanting;
the insipid, bright incandescence of street-light
dims the world.
Alone— stood still— wondered— first apprehended
silence.
~
Beneath feet
frost glitters
and stars are tread upon.
~
Christmas lights flourish through heat-fogged windows,
and the cheer
warm within
—better days finding their way back home,
if but for a night.
Looking there—hidden well, beside all the lights—
one window
is dark.
It does not pretend
joy,
goodwill,
compassion,
or a truce in view of the occasion.
Within it is dark, and ghosts accompany
those who have just come in
from the cold;
a coldness that is
an affinity for these
wraiths akin.
~
For a moment the ornaments steal me away—
for a moment—
from the mob I weave through;
moments
that I have come to cherish;
moments
wherein I have lived a thousand lives and one,
in one.
But the lights, hung this way and that, usher my return
and I continue
on my way,
as I have always
done.
M.M. — November-December MMX
these two lovers who pass each other on the snow-carpeted street.
There is nothing between them save
the briefest and most meaningful exchange of glances.
A young man stumbles on the slippery pavement,
regains his balance
and moves on.
(A waft of cider in his wake.)
The colour of this night—its romance, its essence—is wanting;
the insipid, bright incandescence of street-light
dims the world.
Alone— stood still— wondered— first apprehended
silence.
~
Beneath feet
frost glitters
and stars are tread upon.
~
Christmas lights flourish through heat-fogged windows,
and the cheer
warm within
—better days finding their way back home,
if but for a night.
Looking there—hidden well, beside all the lights—
one window
is dark.
It does not pretend
joy,
goodwill,
compassion,
or a truce in view of the occasion.
Within it is dark, and ghosts accompany
those who have just come in
from the cold;
a coldness that is
an affinity for these
wraiths akin.
~
For a moment the ornaments steal me away—
for a moment—
from the mob I weave through;
moments
that I have come to cherish;
moments
wherein I have lived a thousand lives and one,
in one.
But the lights, hung this way and that, usher my return
and I continue
on my way,
as I have always
done.
M.M. — November-December MMX
17 November 2010
I lie on my bed...
I lie on my bed, still—unburdened from the cares of motion and the external world—staring at the wall, the ceiling—at nothing and everything.
Pervading the room, the enclosure of my cavernous mind: music; its beat an affinity seeking union—one of its proposals a deep earthly throbbing, and another repeating like the hurling into the distance and its eventual auspicious return. My thoughts intermingle with the sounds, the rhythm; at once detaching themselves from their host and extending their tendrils further into that hidden crossover point that perplexes.
How inconspicuous is breath: to sup from the unseen and sustain this motionless soma of mine. And my heart: its pumping working away in the eloquence orchestrated by nature. I place my hand upon my breast but fail to attest to the symphony..."the symphony of nature".
How did they begin: the heartbeat, the thoughts, the music? Were these to be reverted to the moment of their genesis what would be there? God? A god? Something more fantastic? Or perhaps, in actuality, something beyond our infantile ken?
Pervading the room, the enclosure of my cavernous mind: music; its beat an affinity seeking union—one of its proposals a deep earthly throbbing, and another repeating like the hurling into the distance and its eventual auspicious return. My thoughts intermingle with the sounds, the rhythm; at once detaching themselves from their host and extending their tendrils further into that hidden crossover point that perplexes.
How inconspicuous is breath: to sup from the unseen and sustain this motionless soma of mine. And my heart: its pumping working away in the eloquence orchestrated by nature. I place my hand upon my breast but fail to attest to the symphony..."the symphony of nature".
How did they begin: the heartbeat, the thoughts, the music? Were these to be reverted to the moment of their genesis what would be there? God? A god? Something more fantastic? Or perhaps, in actuality, something beyond our infantile ken?
There and then,
at the primæval stillness,
motion precededand motion succeeded.
08 November 2010
Metapoem I - Stars in the Water
I saw
stars in the water
I saw them
shimmering
elusively
I immersed my hands
till they were
wrist-deep
and all were
one
I felt
starfire
I submerged
my face
swooned
and birthed from
suffusing heat complete
I withdrew
and wondered at
my living flesh
stars in the water
I saw them
shimmering
elusively
I immersed my hands
till they were
wrist-deep
and all were
one
I felt
starfire
I submerged
my face
swooned
and birthed from
suffusing heat complete
I withdrew
and wondered at
my living flesh
M.M. — November MMX
03 November 2010
Poem XVI - Death Mask
A portrait perfectly moribund,
long had she left the sun;
the fever now sets her face,
her flame has lost its pace.
Sweat bedews her wan skin,
tears telling of future that has been.
As fingers gnaw at a noxious bed,
nothing more will ever be said.
She hears murmurs by the bedside
from those who had mollified and lied:
their hollow words becoming more indistinct,
the dimming of lights growing succinct.
The matters that raked or reminisced
are remnant flurries, and both missed.
Her weakening grasp to her blares,
resounding loud in the thickening air.
There had been a girl with such a laugh,
whose voice is now wine in a leaking carafe.
And a soft, scented hand will not caress,
will not run fingers through youthful tress.
And a boy: there had been a boy, and love;
she had once loved (dare she think thereof?).
But his smile heightens what is already sown—
this is the most she has ever felt so alone.
Convivial in melancholy's gainful time,
doom is wielding its hand, committing its crime;
cascading like the pain in her muted cries,
like the fear etching itself about her eyes.
Black draperies accent the intent with such candour,
though the panting of thought is so much grander.
The nothings in the room impress unavoidably:
the stark last things that she will ever see.
At last the gaunt gentleman has returned
with his look of apathy—and concern.
Or is it the lady of the impending storm
regarding between the flitting forms?
And what is that behind the door,
skulking now along the floor?
She is tightly grasped in its scheme;
it has burrowed deep in her bitter dream.
It comes close—creeping, creaking—
as she turns her head, speaking:
"I think it is time for us to go.
What is next? I wish to know."
When morning came, and dawn sung,
she was gone with a breath—the deed, done.
Nothing was left but the cold, vacant shell;
nothing but the mask Death had moulded so well.
M.M. — September-November MMX
long had she left the sun;
the fever now sets her face,
her flame has lost its pace.
Sweat bedews her wan skin,
tears telling of future that has been.
As fingers gnaw at a noxious bed,
nothing more will ever be said.
She hears murmurs by the bedside
from those who had mollified and lied:
their hollow words becoming more indistinct,
the dimming of lights growing succinct.
The matters that raked or reminisced
are remnant flurries, and both missed.
Her weakening grasp to her blares,
resounding loud in the thickening air.
There had been a girl with such a laugh,
whose voice is now wine in a leaking carafe.
And a soft, scented hand will not caress,
will not run fingers through youthful tress.
And a boy: there had been a boy, and love;
she had once loved (dare she think thereof?).
But his smile heightens what is already sown—
this is the most she has ever felt so alone.
Convivial in melancholy's gainful time,
doom is wielding its hand, committing its crime;
cascading like the pain in her muted cries,
like the fear etching itself about her eyes.
Black draperies accent the intent with such candour,
though the panting of thought is so much grander.
The nothings in the room impress unavoidably:
the stark last things that she will ever see.
At last the gaunt gentleman has returned
with his look of apathy—and concern.
Or is it the lady of the impending storm
regarding between the flitting forms?
And what is that behind the door,
skulking now along the floor?
She is tightly grasped in its scheme;
it has burrowed deep in her bitter dream.
It comes close—creeping, creaking—
as she turns her head, speaking:
"I think it is time for us to go.
What is next? I wish to know."
When morning came, and dawn sung,
she was gone with a breath—the deed, done.
Nothing was left but the cold, vacant shell;
nothing but the mask Death had moulded so well.
M.M. — September-November MMX
04 October 2010
"Epyllion I" to be published
I earlier reported that "Poem XII" had been successful in this year's Poetry Rivals competition, having been selected for publication at the end of November.
I am further pleased to announce that "Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan" (reprinted below) will also be published by Forward Press in their anthology Forward Press Regionals 2010 - The World Is Your Oyster.
The collection is set to be printed on 31 December 2010.
Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan
"Come, dear warrior, Son of the Light,
What ails you so? Gone is Hixen's Blight,
And the world rejoices at your valiant deeds!
Do you not walk as hero? No other's feet
Shall ever tread where you met plight."
So said Felnah, ascended from Her Nether Realm.
Replied Sókan, lifting his weary head, removing his helm:
"O Goddess, Guardian of Those Who Slumber,
You speak no lie: all the enemy I have left asunder.
The righteous have triumphed and the benighted earth
Shall be as it was—all will welcome again hope and mirth.
But Agánn has fallen! and I feel heavy and sombre."
The Lady of Shadows took pity upon hearing this,
And told Sókan of the fate of Agánn, comrade now missed:
"The indomitable Agánn: loyal friend, warrior bold;
His brand will be ever sheathed, his body ever cold.
But pine not for him: he now sleeps the Blissful Sleep,
Dreams the Eternal Dream, and reposes where I keep.
There he will be when on you death begins its hold."
This uplifted the battle-worn Sókan and assuaged his grief
As he watched Felnah depart, soundless, like master thief.
M.M. — Februarius MMX
I am further pleased to announce that "Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan" (reprinted below) will also be published by Forward Press in their anthology Forward Press Regionals 2010 - The World Is Your Oyster.
The collection is set to be printed on 31 December 2010.
Epyllion I - Felnah consoles the forlorn Sókan
"Come, dear warrior, Son of the Light,
What ails you so? Gone is Hixen's Blight,
And the world rejoices at your valiant deeds!
Do you not walk as hero? No other's feet
Shall ever tread where you met plight."
So said Felnah, ascended from Her Nether Realm.
Replied Sókan, lifting his weary head, removing his helm:
"O Goddess, Guardian of Those Who Slumber,
You speak no lie: all the enemy I have left asunder.
The righteous have triumphed and the benighted earth
Shall be as it was—all will welcome again hope and mirth.
But Agánn has fallen! and I feel heavy and sombre."
The Lady of Shadows took pity upon hearing this,
And told Sókan of the fate of Agánn, comrade now missed:
"The indomitable Agánn: loyal friend, warrior bold;
His brand will be ever sheathed, his body ever cold.
But pine not for him: he now sleeps the Blissful Sleep,
Dreams the Eternal Dream, and reposes where I keep.
There he will be when on you death begins its hold."
This uplifted the battle-worn Sókan and assuaged his grief
As he watched Felnah depart, soundless, like master thief.
M.M. — Februarius MMX
01 October 2010
Evensong I - My Lord the Sun
With such momentousness I witness Your departure, my Lord the Sun
Your reign, Day, is done
At the top of the world did You erstwhile sit
Upon Your throne that touched aught and all
But Your descent, roaring steps down the once-azure stair, has come
Look how Your retinue, Your court the Clouds, turns as You fall!
The golds and somewhat reds that I once glimpsed in a dream
Your exhalation is no timid thing, no quiet whimper
You die as You lived!
Lord! where is it that You go?
Could I not follow?
Could I not wend my way along the trail You have left set afire?
I wish I could collect all the amber You scatter
—in the welkin, Your unreachable abode
—on the coldening ground upon which I tread
—on my mortal skin, in my eyes that You blind, in my yearning heart
How I love You, my Lord! Father!
All that You have bequeathed, all that You have taught
Leave me not!
There is still much for You to do, to give
The sky: it grows pale, leaden; it darkens!
Shall I see You again?
Will You ever dispel this oncoming shade?
The warmth! the warmth!: it leaves as You leave, Lord!
The light! the light!: wherefore must it belittle itself so?
The Clouds: do They not entreat You as I now do?
What of Those that steer Them, the Winds?
They as well seem to fall still at Your passing
But no! I shall lament no more!
For at the end of Day is Night
And Its emissary, Dusk, prepares Your celestial bed, Father
Where You shall return to slumber amongst Your kin
Sleep well, then, my Lord
And I shall welcome, with as much reverence as is Her due
Your Sister, my Mother: my Lady the Moon
M.M. — October MMX
Your reign, Day, is done
At the top of the world did You erstwhile sit
Upon Your throne that touched aught and all
But Your descent, roaring steps down the once-azure stair, has come
Look how Your retinue, Your court the Clouds, turns as You fall!
The golds and somewhat reds that I once glimpsed in a dream
Your exhalation is no timid thing, no quiet whimper
You die as You lived!
Lord! where is it that You go?
Could I not follow?
Could I not wend my way along the trail You have left set afire?
I wish I could collect all the amber You scatter
—in the welkin, Your unreachable abode
—on the coldening ground upon which I tread
—on my mortal skin, in my eyes that You blind, in my yearning heart
How I love You, my Lord! Father!
All that You have bequeathed, all that You have taught
Leave me not!
There is still much for You to do, to give
The sky: it grows pale, leaden; it darkens!
Shall I see You again?
Will You ever dispel this oncoming shade?
The warmth! the warmth!: it leaves as You leave, Lord!
The light! the light!: wherefore must it belittle itself so?
The Clouds: do They not entreat You as I now do?
What of Those that steer Them, the Winds?
They as well seem to fall still at Your passing
But no! I shall lament no more!
For at the end of Day is Night
And Its emissary, Dusk, prepares Your celestial bed, Father
Where You shall return to slumber amongst Your kin
Sleep well, then, my Lord
And I shall welcome, with as much reverence as is Her due
Your Sister, my Mother: my Lady the Moon
M.M. — October MMX
The Ten Steps of The Ascending Stair
First, of all that You Speak, always when You Speak, You shall utter untruth. Lie shall be Your tongue. Slaver You shall Hypocrisy and Ostentation. From Your mouth Words marred by unwarranted Self-Worth shall be vomited forth.
Second, Your Body shall become as Nothing to You. Self-flagellation and Self-laceration with whips of Self-abasement shall be Your spiralling misdeeds. Pride shall no more be the Libations poured onto Your Flesh by Your Hand.
Third, muddle Your Name amongst the Cacophonous Ruined Litany of Man. The dissonant Clamouring shall now be Your Symphony. Lay down the Pen and Sword, They shall not sing Your Name in the Halls of the Earth: They are now deaf.
Fourth, You shall spit upon Honour and forsake Chivalry—these are the Relics of the Forgotten Dead. Cowardice and the Dogma of the Common shall be Your hallowed maxims henceforth.
Fifth, the Brightest of Day and Darkest of Night shall become insipid to You. You shall mock the Moon and usurp the Sun. The Earth shall become Your dominion; the throne You shall set there shall be Yours, whence You shall Despoil. Lord over all Earthly things You shall become, as it is Your Right.
Sixth, strike down and spurn from Your Side the Lauded Ones You heretofore esteemed, for the Nameless Many so command. In Their place shall reign the Many. Temples unto them You shall erect, wherein You shall offer Oblations and Speak to Them not with Silence.
Seventh, all Your Ideas shall be reduced to mere Hollow Pretensions, filled with cold Vacuity. They shall Stagger around as the Blind in the Sea of the Universe. Though fret not, for the Sea shall soon after be Drained and swept away—there is no need to Imbibe from It again.
Eighth, Fear! for Fear shall be Yours in entirety, and inextricable. Warm to It for from It shall You derive much succour. All Acts and Actions shall be swathed in and painted with Fear's Flimsy-Heart hue.
Ninth, You shall remove Your Diadem of Stars and cast it down before feet not Your own. Make well the fit of the Collar that shall be Yours to adorn, for You shall have it affixed forevermore. Offer it obsequiously, Sycophant, but not with Your Hands, as They shall be Your Instruments no longer.
Tenth, and Finally, You shall go upon the One who You Love most: You shall go upon Them and You shall precipitate Their Obliteration. All that You Would Do for Them You shall never do. Annihilate Your Will to Love—It is such a trifle now. All that They are to You, all that You Feel for Them, shall become as nought: You shall disrupt all of Your Energy You direct towards Them. You shall Give unto Them Nothing. You shall throttle Love.
M.M. — September-October MMX
Second, Your Body shall become as Nothing to You. Self-flagellation and Self-laceration with whips of Self-abasement shall be Your spiralling misdeeds. Pride shall no more be the Libations poured onto Your Flesh by Your Hand.
Third, muddle Your Name amongst the Cacophonous Ruined Litany of Man. The dissonant Clamouring shall now be Your Symphony. Lay down the Pen and Sword, They shall not sing Your Name in the Halls of the Earth: They are now deaf.
Fourth, You shall spit upon Honour and forsake Chivalry—these are the Relics of the Forgotten Dead. Cowardice and the Dogma of the Common shall be Your hallowed maxims henceforth.
Fifth, the Brightest of Day and Darkest of Night shall become insipid to You. You shall mock the Moon and usurp the Sun. The Earth shall become Your dominion; the throne You shall set there shall be Yours, whence You shall Despoil. Lord over all Earthly things You shall become, as it is Your Right.
Sixth, strike down and spurn from Your Side the Lauded Ones You heretofore esteemed, for the Nameless Many so command. In Their place shall reign the Many. Temples unto them You shall erect, wherein You shall offer Oblations and Speak to Them not with Silence.
Seventh, all Your Ideas shall be reduced to mere Hollow Pretensions, filled with cold Vacuity. They shall Stagger around as the Blind in the Sea of the Universe. Though fret not, for the Sea shall soon after be Drained and swept away—there is no need to Imbibe from It again.
Eighth, Fear! for Fear shall be Yours in entirety, and inextricable. Warm to It for from It shall You derive much succour. All Acts and Actions shall be swathed in and painted with Fear's Flimsy-Heart hue.
Ninth, You shall remove Your Diadem of Stars and cast it down before feet not Your own. Make well the fit of the Collar that shall be Yours to adorn, for You shall have it affixed forevermore. Offer it obsequiously, Sycophant, but not with Your Hands, as They shall be Your Instruments no longer.
Tenth, and Finally, You shall go upon the One who You Love most: You shall go upon Them and You shall precipitate Their Obliteration. All that You Would Do for Them You shall never do. Annihilate Your Will to Love—It is such a trifle now. All that They are to You, all that You Feel for Them, shall become as nought: You shall disrupt all of Your Energy You direct towards Them. You shall Give unto Them Nothing. You shall throttle Love.
M.M. — September-October MMX
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