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
16 June 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.
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