Mood:
flirtyNow Playing: the Bard
Topic: Poetry
ONE OF THE WONDERS of a good clear-out is the stuff you find you never knew you had. The following poetry I salvaged from my old Green poem collection... I don't know what to say about them, except these are three of the best ones (so just imagine what the worst are like!!) I've not written any poetry at all (to the best of my memory) in the last ten years. Oh yeah. Except that wonderful mousey song you'll find posted some time in December. Because I remember t'was the season for "Little Donkey"-type carols anyhow. Oh, and BTW; concerning these three:— that last one, the wanderer. How grim, eh!?! Hmm...
If anyone has a comment/comments I'd be interested to hear what people think of these. They don't seem to be quite as crappy as I remembered.
PS If you want a real laugh, go for a poke through the works of William Topaz McGonnagal. The Tay Bridge Disaster is one of his best known works. Click here for an entertaining read: http://www.taynet.co.uk/users/mcgon/disaster.htm. The closing couplet is fantastic. My American friends might prefer to start with Jottings of New York: http://www.taynet.co.uk/users/mcgon/jottings.htm — a "Topaz" command performance. Not, to my mind, as boringly Victorian as his Tay Bridge ejaculation, in it he murders one's sense of the sublime more practisedly & is altogether entertaininger. See what you think.
Anyhow, folks; here's me:—
Embankment by Night
A thousand lights are hanging in the Thames,
garlands strewn by swirl and tide
into a protoplasm of stars
echoing reticence of frosty night;
glitter so gladly and so bright.
I wish to touch their candied radience,
they lift me like a trip,
smiling, splashed, fantasticated suns
immune to miseries of wind and cold,
shards of celebration drawn from sleep,
the cosmos of a reverie reflected
in the blood of a town too jaded to dream.
11 January 1997
Words
What are words for?
Words make use of breathing:
consciousness of living:
they tell us we can hear.
Lips and faces.
What are faces for?
If not for telling who we are.
And how we feel
and how we are.
Words can lie; but eyes find flickered feeling.
Without eyes, faces have no meaning.
Then only words could tell the truth
or lie.
Do you see?
7 January 1997
The Wanderer
The evening wanderer moves
amongst the shadows of the night:
the world of people is passed
and dusk takes its own.
Day by daylight he moves,
a shadow among people;
a ruined church
in a thicket of lost graves.
Night by light the days
pass like speeding cars;
merge, drop by drop
in some forgotten pool...
Grey memories crowd
in sleepy groves, shades
of shadow-cities gather
gloating in the gloom, attentive.
The cold fingers of past
caress his throat,
tightening like strange dreams;
a whispering: "Remember me."
And when the wanderer rests,
his bed will be his grave.
1991/1992
Copyright © 2007 by Gledwood all rights reserved & all...
