Inner wealth?

 

 

 

 

Lostness   (85)

 

 

To love what you are best at
not get sidetracked

forms a fortunate conjoining
which
I lost so long ago.

Looking back across the wasteland of my misled paths
desires emerge that
all things should cohere.

Hence this scanning notes
and journals
searching memories

But why expect I could
systematise
an entire lifetime’s work?

Hard enough just staying in the moment
focussed
during writing

since my mind diverts on sudden
unrelated thoughts…

 

Here these start from questions:

Am I only poor because I want?

May we measure inner wealth
by what can be done without?

Or, rather
make our stern excuse
for purist deprivation?

 

Next, recalling Huxley’s claim
that speed provides
the one genuinely modern pleasure.

I assume he never had a blow-up woman
let alone an android lover?

(Me neither, though
each lonely year
the prospect of such artificial company
grows slightly less unwelcome.)

 

And, if, instead
I’d found a wife
was there any chance for
taking deep responsibilities
in parenthood?

Would I have dared
to lay the heavy burden of mortality
upon new being
while fearful this might pass
some faulty genes?

 

None remain to share
a sadness
now my bloodline
ends with me.

 

Lastly, then
arose the qualms
around earth’s overpopulation.

Yet moving past bare numbers
who
confronted with a need for lists
of those considered surplus

would volunteer
to write down

their own name?

 

 

 

 

(2005)

 

 

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Art versus death

 

 

 

Lostness   (83)

 

 

 

I bought a book about procrastination
but haven’t got around to reading it.

 

Self help texts aid my stasis
(planning is more fun than change)

such titles may well stimulate
yet also fuel reproaches
staring down from shelves
while I stay useless

mocked by any dreams
in which one shines some vital
talent through
the mundane’s
dreary cavern.

 

 

An easier course
might be retreat
defensive
as a cynic
sneering after talk of virtue
lest its light disclose
base interest.

 

Notice pleasure gossip brings
when shown those famous
marred by faults

Or reassuring stories
of flawed genius
whose defects sooth
a quiet envy
at distinctions
liable to inflame
the ego’s wounds.

 

 

Another route adopts a playful resignation
because philosophy was soon perceived
exposing
thought’s futility

so then concludes:

“If better minds than mine
can reach no answer
to life’s problems
why not give up boring study
for indulgence?”

 

 

Though these methods fail
in sharper sorrows

found creating
out of desperation
with small palettes
stressed by time

too conscious
art
is versus death

whatever traces
have been clawed back

from the abyss.

 

 

 

 

(2004)

 

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Comments are also very welcome!
Thank you for reading.)

 

 

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(art/beauty/books/depression/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/reading/thoughts/writing.)

 

Ghost life

 

 

 

 

Lostness   (82)

 

 

Can we have nostalgia for the present

 

detecting loss within these moments
even
while they’re here?

 

Once sadness brews a
dread of time

Recalling how
youth hoped
good things would happen…

Now adulthood fears they won’t
and
if old age is reached
it may regret
so much
one never did.

 

Yet should I
beware
assuming consequents
when Y does not truly follow X?

(Like those promiscuous
analogies
my verbal hunger
often fed.)

Why expect coherence after
long surveys of thought
unless mind
or self
are unities?

Perhaps such systems
only understand
a level
formed less complex

hence the brain which fails
to grasp full knowledge
of its works.

Below awareness
nature needing boundaries

that guard innate from alien

forcing vital duty on a fast
immune response.

 

Again
arising to more conscious states

identity
must fend off chaos

though strong will resents
any limit
but its own.

 

 

As subjects
childhood put us at
the centre of our world

until we saw all others
disagreed.

 

A blow extended later
by rejections

ending
with this sense:

society excludes me

since, alone,
unnoticed
year on year
I pass just strangers

as some ghost might
wander

in an
outcast silence

through

the living.

 

 

 

 

(2003-2004)

 

 

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Thank you for reading.)

 

 

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(anxiety/art/beauty/blog/depression/drawing/life/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts)

 

Nearer purgatory

 

 

 

 

Lostness   (81)

 

 

Being ill is tough
even in a nice place

but to face decline
surrounded
by a cast of fools
rubs salt on wounds.

And for each “neighbour from hell”
are several nearer purgatory

whose favoured noises enter
unwelcome
through thin walls

evoking basic territoriality

plus
learned helplessness

when we see
the first few times
attempts at change
that use persuasion
getting spurned
since none find their own sound too loud
(or they would have already
turned it down, themselves).

After action makes situations worse
spawning new enemies
stress now spirals round
in restlessness.

 

Proximity requires consideration:
once it’s lost
only clumsy instruments
such as law
remain
aiding sides to embrace victimhood
and justify severity.

People fight over almost anything
(though certain theories view social conflict
in one dimension).

I began to fantasise about
estates for introverts
with residents who prefer
a quiet read.

 

Then
standing up
I note
outside
grey spectrum spread
from clouds to concrete

full urban drab

existence giving hints
at realism:
the world too dull
to be a dream.

 

My gloom ferments
these unlit words

 

why seek more beautiful
expression of
this suffering?

 

I just want to not

be feeling it.

 

 

 

 

(2003-2004)

 

 

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One-sided love

 

 

 

Lostness   (80)

 

 

Better to think ourselves condemned
by genius

under spirit’s goad

than labelled “waster”

as I negatively judge
my current drifting

too exhausted for creation

seeking partial refuge
in retreat with books

a confined existence
measured via pages read

while more social life
would need the strength
that illness stole.

 

Here
reluctant
being pushed
to recognise
once a body
is no longer fit
for fresh romance
the mind attempts accommodating failure.

 

Yet biology resists
fate’s dismissive verdict

now made even harder after
unexpected
recent meetings
with a woman found adorable

when I sensed old wounds
of learned unworthiness
reopen through my
newly confused heart

default self-loathing
shielded from her power

preserving sterile isolation
against imagined merging
where this small world could be
shattered in assent.

 

How soon the arid
grown familiar
fields its dusty armour at
subversive reciprocity.

 

 

But such speculations
only wove some inflamed dreams

as avoided risk
ensured
fulfillment never came.

Vital words remained unsaid
and masked emotions
kept restrained
to spare our fragile sharing any
awkwardness.

 

So I later
felt sad waves
from missed
one-sided love

diminished
like a fading grief

though nothing had been lost

except
my hope.

 

 

 

 

(2003-2004)

 

 

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(art/beauty/depression/drawing/lostness/love/mental health/poem/poetry/romance)

 

 

 

 

Disruptive joy

 

 

 

Lostness   (79)

 

 

I watch a couple walking past.

One face wore the sort of controlled blankness
useful around jealous partners.

It triggers memory…

A woman I once dated
who would abruptly ask:
“You like her, don’t you?”
about another female
barely noticed.

My surprise
before pausing to consider
if attraction could ignite
at this specific instance
may not have been the best response
but reflex denial
seemed less honest.

She later left me, after all.

And so has everybody else.

Hence I search reflections
in my lostness
that attempt to conjure sense
amid futility.

 

Yet any cynical defences
might still get swiftly pierced
from kindness.

Perhaps I should even distrust
the slowly setting concrete of depression
when a simple act
could be enough
to undermine constraint
against responsive feeling.

Recently exampled
where
along some sunlit path
the happy child had spun
behind a mother’s back
and shared discreet expression
of its joy with me
as I fought an urge
which drew a hand
to briefly
land my gentlest pat
(unseen by others)
on the little upturned head.

Thus we parted
trailing smiles.

Though mine soon faded
through more musing

formed across such
rare disruption

to this dismal
constant

called
aloneness.

 

 

 

 

(2001/2003)

 

 

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Contrary stance

 

 

 

 

Lostness    (78)

 

 

 

Absence of desire

can be felt as loss
or liberation.

 

Watching advertisements
feeding need for things
which faith was meant to ease.

 

Arts have also craved
a standing beyond
disdained normality

there titles gain allure
before toil begins.

(Hence aspiring authors who may
sooner dream than write.)

Stories ripen
and want telling
lacking value
if unshared.

Cultures laud their fabrication
yet it might be reframed
a skillful form of fidgeting
chosen since we cannot rest content
with simply being.

 

Then I though of works where
an urge to shock
grew tedious

like a drunk set quarrelsome
fixated on the same contrary stance
deflecting any hope
for wider love.

 

 

While others revered
the exotic
holding what is local in contempt
perhaps lured by sensing secrets?

(Recalling those that
post-disaster
turn
to Nostradamus over Camus
fate covering
absurd indecencies of pain.)

 

Now
following assault
through centuries
upon significance
displacing older human-centred views
cold science leaves undimmed
the thirst for fame.

 

Are we
at times unwise
neglecting
drawbacks possible
from raising certain spikes among
some stranger’s envy?

 

Belief has often led to conflict.

 

Even beauty
spurred ugly deeds

once

(driven by obsession)

pure ends

excused indulgence

in a cruelty
of means.

 

 

 

 

(2003)

 

 

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Potential ecstasy

 

 

 

 

Lostness   (77)

 

 

 

Many grow dissatisfied with partners

yet fewer doubt their choosing skills.

 

I fail beforehand
since unhappy circumstance prevents
my attaining coupledom.

Plus often getting drawn to those
by whom I was disliked

or others
unapproachable
glimpsed crossing city streets
heedless of a stranger’s eye.

Perhaps the most attractive
seeming colder
in case kindness lit
an unjust hope?

 

Beauty making spirits rise

but remembering, also,
such good looks
could render less articulate
certain crucial moments
where my words had wished
to shine.

 

Hence dates resembling interviews
adding unexpected tests
when emotional nakedness felt stark
as sitting nude
while missing a CV

dreading brutal
judgement

or bare indifference
showing plain
full absence from desire.

 

 

Once daydreaming
a far-fetched notion
near conspiracy
occurred
around unspoken female union acting to ensure
this continued isolation.

(Paranoia at least dramatised
the banality
of low status.)

 

 

However
being fairer

women do sometimes talk to me
about their lives

on the understanding
that I’m not
involved in them.

 

Then later
all too soon
they leave
in search of love
and don’t return.

 

Lost like muses
passing beyond sight

 

each one potential
for an ecstasy

which I

shall never know.

 

 

 

 

(2003)

 

 

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Temples for the lost

 

 

 

Lostness   (74)

 

 

They felt like temples for the lost

 

Those second-hand bookshops
now long gone
toward which I set off
on textual pilgrimage
in hope of serendipity
or hidden wisdom.

 

Usually able to browse alone
apart from occasional fellow
maladjusted specimens.

 

Rarely diverted by the attractive

They were probably busy
living
perhaps even having actual sex?

Something inconceivable in my case
after so many futile years
cast around
through lust’s hormonal puppetry
seeking that non-existent one
who would allow me to love her.

 

Still stuck on biology’s rack
though aching desire made way
for muscle pain
and stabbing kidney stones
growing their cruel
little spines.

 

Reading retains its wonder
yet fails to suffice.

While any shreds of happiness
are side-effects once journeying
not an arrival.

 

Yearning for stamina
to make the art I want to view
and play music
heard internally
thus breaking loose
from illness.

 

Past creative output
unused
weighs upon the mind
as a responsibility
needing work
to satisfy.

Its words left unseen
in cupboards
paper yellowing
with mute reproach at conscience
for such neglect.

 

But self-promotion requires energy,
belief, luck, or friends

Finding none of these
I fret about
my ruined life
here
regretting everything

 

including
the fact
that

 

I regret everything.

 

 

 

 

(2002)

 

 

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(beauty/blog/books/depression/drawing/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts)

 

 

Idol of the book

 

Lostness   (72)

 

 

 

Saying “No” to so much
yet missing a “Yes” in its place

 

yearning for transcendent events
as life stays drearily normal

 

a spectre haunting modernity
is nihilism

unexorcised
by abundance.

 

 

We lack replacement consolations

while old beliefs survive
on more than truth.

 

Tired from logic
religion can traverse
ghettoes of the inexplicable

where hearing: “God told me to do this”
people don’t ask
how one knew that was him

or beings get defined as existing
in teaching set
against critique.

 

Now
assuming
superior entities
would feel
any need to create

should flaws be excused
such designers

depicted greying with age

when images of a playful child
may fit the role instead?

 

Idolatries
of the book
can occur

certain infallible words
preserving ossified hate
still able to damage

there
though killing transgresses most doctrines
a few might be sought it fulfils.

 

 

Our reaching an end
justifying

leaves only bias
plus faith.

 

 

Meanwhile

sidelined

I persist:

agnostic in intellect
atheist at heart
but usually seeking
escape

from reason’s empty hallway
past humid bathrooms
of metaphysics.

 

Dreaming toward closure

lured around libraries

stacked titles
gleaming
before me

already suggesting
anew

untrodden paths
for
wandering

among
these printed
forests.

 

 

 

 

(2001)

 

 

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