"I walked by Cardiff Bay" [Incomplete]

[Ex Tempore XXVII]

In a rhyme scheme typical of Edgar Allan Poe.

I walked by Cardiff Bay to see the sea;
The sun shone, the air was wholesome,
And glee in all around me was my company.
I strolled along, watching daughters and sons
Laugh and live and be, as I thought,
"Ah! to be a child again! To know fun
As they do: so naturally; to be caught
By no care that so troubles the likes of me."

M.M. — December MMXII

"And all the bells"

[Experimental III]

An improvisation written whilst half-drunk.

And all the bells were ringing as we were all singing,
singing and dancing down in the wedding hall.

They two were twirling and round they were spinning,
spinning and laughing there on the dancing floor.

It was love that was rising as they were grinning,
grinning and drinking, they, the happiest of all.

I watched as they were singing and spinning,
and laughing and grinning, as they danced till their feet were sore.

And though time was ticking, they were not thinking,
save of the joyous ringing, of a moment that we all wish for.

So on and on they went unceasing, and reaching,
ever reaching for a perfect feeling, a feeling of little and yet of more.

There are bells always ringing, and I am always singing,
singing and dancing—but waiting and waiting, waiting for when I can soar.

M.M. — December MMXII

"Do you remember"

[Ex Tempore XXVI]

Do you remember that time when we gazed at the sable night-sky,
up at all the stars that shone so brightly and so wildly?
When you and I picked at each distant sun with our fingers, as if we could
remove them from the great cosmic canvas, placing them in our hands,
or wherever else we wished. They were diamonds that we
played with like sand on a beach whose breadth is a notion
that is only understood in numbers but which neither you nor I could explain.
But somehow we knew what it all was, knew what we were:
"you"—"I"—"we". We knew but we did not need to
acknowledge this. All there was was you, me and the stars watching us.
I remember that night, I remember that time—
a single moment when we were lost in the span of eternity and infinity.

M.M. — December MMXII

Drinkers' Paradise

[Ex Tempore XXV]

My friend, we have lingered here for far too long,
Searching for answers at the bottom of a whisky glass.
We have drunk our lives and our hopes dry,
Under the glare of the insipid tavern light.
Our incessant course runs round and round,
Round the swirl of the liquor that flows into us.
And down we have gone, further down than
We have ever drowned ourselves before.
It is all null and dulled away: the pain
That sobriety deals unto us so amply.
Another drink, my friend, just one more;
And another till we find salvation, or oblivion.

M.M. — November MMXII

I consider the time...

I consider the time when you are lying awake in bed at night, waiting for sleep to take you away to oblivion, to be one occasion when you truly get to know who you are. For consider: there you are, alone with just the whirl of your thoughts and darkness to block out everything around you, to encase you within your overactive mind. It is here when you progress through all the significances of your life, those that constitute the current important events that either agitate or delight you. But what is of note is that there is nothing to cause (or enable) you to dismiss even your most troublesome thoughts. That is to say that even though you may be able to pack away the thoughts that you find distressing during the day, they have the mischievous habit of rising to the fore when your mind is free to churn, as it is when you lie contemplatively in bed before sleep. Sorely envied is the person who has but pleasant and agreeable musings when conversing with themselves during this time. I for one nightly engage in a tussle of reflection and slicing introspection that has no resolution at its end. But then, in my life I demand and actively pursue truth as much as possible. And truth, I can assure you, always awaits you patiently in the darkness.

Unlit Window

[Poem XXXI]

There is such envious joy in an unlit window.
The lights inside perhaps just recently switched off,
that had lit a scene of laughter and vivid colour.
And the warmth within cooling—but only for a time,
until they all return in joy, laughter and vivid colour.

**

There is such tragedy in an unlit window.
Silhouettes stand motionless and cold,
unmoved and unneeded for far too long.
They stare at themselves and at nothing,
and out to a world that goes by and goes on.

M.M. — Augustus, November MMXII

Rain

[Prose VII] 

For Lulu.
Never dismiss the faeries; this comes from my own⎯

It had started to rain before I had left the building. The end of my day had come and I collected my things to leave. It became clear enough when I was outside that it was yet another rainy day in Wales. But this was no light shower I had found myself under; this was a torrent of water let loose from the sky to batter the earth below. This realisation was quick in settling in in my mind, and added to itself a hint of sour delight when it came to me that I had only a hooded jumper to wear through this child-storm. Accepting I would be far from dry when I got there, I started to walk home.

The heavy falling of rain—like that of the downpour I was now walking through—changes one's world in such a way. Those caught under it, braving it to make their way somewhere, seem to be hurried, as if the hounds of time were chasing them down for no obvious reason. For myself, though, the most curious thing about the rain is its insulating effect. More often than not I find that when I'm out and it's really chucking down I become encased in myself. Every detail of the world around me is accentuated: the sound of the rain's patter as it hits ground, rooftop, waterproof; the almost hazy curtain made up of droplets; the chill that accompanies the rainfall. All the people I pass turn almost into disinterested spectres flitting through the streets, specimens that I study half-keenly.

In barely any time my clothes were soaked, nearly through and through. The textile of my shoes could hardly keep out the water such that my socks and feet soon felt like slush. I was drenched. It became as though I were wearing some awkward-fitting one-piece that was just as unwieldy as it was the most natural garment I could ever have worn. But then at this point I did something unexpected. I pulled back the hood of my top and turned my face toward the sky, so that I could feel the drops fall on me—every single one of them. There really was no reason behind it, either; it was spontaneous, I just had to do it. I had to feel the rain as it was sensed through my skin: something external to me as it felt inside of me. And because of this I felt I was something else. I was immersed in myself, so immersed in myself that I had... found the deepest point of my self. My world, just moments ago a bustling machine of sights and sounds, had become a microcosm. A universe made of and birthed within myself where I was both a spectator and a creator. I continued onward, an intangible being on the inside, a sopped heap of clothing and flesh sloshing its way home on the outside.

And a heap I certainly was when I finally got to my house. Immediately stripping off and tossing away my sodden clothes, my first and only thought was to shower. The hot water was an ecstasy. And this is another curiosity for me: a hot shower. There is something primal about the heat from the water stimulating the skin on my bare body. A sort of transcendence results from that physical sensation and, for a brief moment, I am overcome. It's as if I am removed from everything I know and everything I am. Ecstasy is certainly one way of putting it, but it's also much more. A millennium lived or a galaxy leapt, all in an instant: it's much like that. And I plunge into myself. Indeed, however deep in myself I had been while walking in the rain, this heat now drew me in even deeper.

Stepping out of the shower, I was anew. Drying myself was like wiping away the dirty, liquid remnants of a part of me that I no longer wanted or needed. I then stood before the mirror, naked, and used my towel to clear away the vapour on the glass. The man looking back—the droplets on his skin, that distinct sheen in his hair given by the water—was not the same man that had been before the downpour, is never the same man. I stared deep into his eyes, wondering what I could see in them. Perhaps I wanted to see that world that had emerged in him. After remaining puzzled like this for a while, I headed to my room to put on clothes and, by doing so, complete the regeneration the rain had instigated.

Now warmed and fresh to the point of contentment, I took a moment to look out my bedroom window. The rain had just about stopped and the sun had found a weakness in the grey defence of the sky. Out in the streets, everything and everyone appeared to slow down and settle back into the rhythm that the rain seemed to have interrupted. The outside world was as it once was, and I couldn't help contemplating that soon I would be a part of it again.

M.M. — Iulius–October MMXII

"I have seen"

[Ex Tempore XXIV]

I have seen the naked flame inside of me
that illuminates the centre of me,
the flame I carry in the desolate fields
domed by star-studded night.
I have heard the call that resounds
down in the deep of me.
My ambitions are untame creatures.
They drive me on, the ravening of me;
they career like far-flung comets.

M.M. — October MMXII

"Silence in the midnight hour"

[Poem XXX]

Silence in the midnight hour
Silence in the midnight hall
Silence and I here once again
Waiting for the dawn to call

Words soon coming on
Words some not my own
Words as honest thought
Company when I'm alone

Heavy the weight of my world
Heavy the way and downward wind
Heavy the dream settling in
Negating the rules that bind

Lost in the midnight hour
Lost in the midnight hall
Lost in the labyrinth of time
As into nothingness I fall

M.M. — Iulius, October MMXII

Words for a Picture VIII

inner place 2 by ~niqe on deviantART

Rosie told her everything that had happened, all the while stumbling with fear over her words. Clarissa did not say anything throughout that moment—a perpetual moment—but then rose, gravely. Slightly hunched forward, she turned toward Rosie. Clarissa's silence was profound but tame compared to how she looked. There was enough weight in her face to collapse the sky, enough scorn to wreck heartless men. That visage signified the beginning of Rosie's doom. And Rosie knew this; her own face, now bloodless, marked it all so clearly.

M.M. — October MMXII