Unglimpsed destiny

 

scan 26

 

 

Lostness   (100)

 

 

An aged image casts a lure

as my gaze meets
once sighted eyes
past living.

What reflections might be heard
if these long silent lips could
regain speech?

 

In fading prints
of monochrome
I look upon them still:
Victorian and Edwardian days.
Quite close to ours
they feel.

 

When browsing books of photographs
collecting vintage scenes
where bustling city streets show
people stressed or hurried
chasing after needs which
seemed so vital then
but did not leave a trace.

Like those faces briefly
turned aside
forever now
concealed.

 

Around some corner
through old doorways…

They’ve all gone
ahead
before us.

 

Into darkness
well obscured.

Fared forth on
unglimpsed
destinies.

 

 

 

 

(2011)


 

 

 

scan 24

 

 

I was struck by how, from mid 20th century, viewers may know everyone seen in specific dated photographs could not possibly be alive.

Examining such reproductions of reality populated exclusively by the dead, is a fairly recent human experience. Just a few generations old.

 

 

scan 25

 

 

(Portraits used above are the only ones to survive from my grandparent’s youth:

Kathleen Regan (1896-1984) at first communion (1904).

Charles Webber (1900-1971) in uniform (1918).

And with his son (my uncle): Raymond Webber (1923-2017).

I honour and miss them all.)

 

 

While time remaining wanes
I live alone in lostness
as my failure to find love has left
the chain of family
broken.

 

 


 

 

( Comments especially welcome!

Opening the heart feels lonelier met by silence.

Thank you for reading.)

 

 


 

(art / beauty / books / depression / life / lostness / love / mental health / photography / poem / poetry / relationships / thoughts )

 

 

Advertisements

Zombie or vampire?

Konica1194

 

 

Lostness   (98)

 

 

People often resent what they’re forced to do
so why should the poor love work?

 

Some call on social transformation
yet revolutions rarely
end oppression: merely change oppressors.

Now globalists prefer consumers rootless
differences defanged
as just diverse.
Nothing prompting dying for
or fighting.
Culture in vast fashion statements
varied clothes plus wide food choice.

Once traditions have been undercut
those mourning them may get disdained.

Perhaps reports
on communism’s death
were slightly overdone
since it also served by propping up
our bloated capital?

Old antagonists continue
toxic codependency: where
thesis and antithesis promote
stasis before synthesis.

Still certain rebels find their
opposition shuns contentment.
Dissidence becomes life’s purpose
intolerant at long set ways
and furious for progress.

 

Violence forms a spectacle
while serenity does not.
Hence millions scan the broadcast news
or enjoy combat games.

 

Recently my onscreen view showed
rioters busy looting shops
they dragged away new psychic bonds
as extra TV sets.

Clutching shiny product’s flesh with
addict’s raging neediness.

(Resembling films:
when zombies rush
in mobs
like savage proles
compared to smarter vampire
aristocrats.)

 

Then noticing
alone
among the glass-strewn streets:

a single bookstore
stayed untouched

and only there
might one feel
tempted…

(wisdom’s value transcends cash)

…but

though
peace of mind
could be worth stealing

I doubt
it would
result

from
theft.

 

 

 

(2011)

 


 

(Any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are very welcome!

My views remain small and it’s always nice to hear from readers.

Thank you for visiting.)

 


 

(art / beauty / books / culture / drawing / lostness / love / mental health / news / poem / poetry / politics / thoughts)

Chance wisdom

 

Konica12852

 

 

Lostness   (96)

 

 

Answers may seem diminished
by a taint
of retrospective obviousness.

What I need are fewer facts
yet greater power
to mould emotions
round the known:

a self controlling
my own moods.

Not faking superficial coolness

(useful once
for youth’s bold pose)

to cover ego’s hidden wanting
many people’s fond esteem
as fame
that honours
things achieved.

 

I look across our profit culture
loudly advertising greeds
where vice takes
alibis from virtue
with signs of bright seduction
feigning love.

While speed displaces patience
losing respect for old age
progress breeds swift irritation
at those deemed standing
in its way.

 

Some rushing flees
a darker side
from boredom’s emptiness.

Or noticing
sad memory binds us

(like cold chains
of tight regrets)

through
time’s dimension
shaped by loss.

 

These feelings
active
drove my seeking
after
chance wisdom
in libraries.

(Though my quest
with this topic
soon flopped.)

 

I’ve seen books
on techniques
to remember.

 

But can’t find
one

on how
to forget.

 

 

 


 

(2010)

 


 

(Any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.

Comments are very welcome!
My audience is quite small and things get really quiet on here most days, so it’s always nice to hear from people.

Thank you for reading.

I wish everyone a HAPPY NEW YEAR!)

 


 

( art / beauty / books / culture / depression / drawing / lostness / love / mental health / philosophy / poem / poetry / thoughts )

 

 

Lost time

 

Konica12858

 

Lostness   (87)

 

 

 

Opening the book reveals a lone dark hair

left curled between its surfaces.

 

This single strand lay hidden
sixteen years
inside Proust’s “Remembrance of things past”
still coloured from before my going grey.

Encountered, not expected
like a trigger for new recollection.

Ironically placed
amid the very scene where changes
wreaked upon appearance
by old age
are best described.

 

An ending near ascension and epiphany
after lengthy disillusion
carrying conceptual weight beyond
preceding textual mass

Suggesting art might fill a faith-shaped void

yet how many find that happen?

 

 

(I also broke my only clock
whilst reading:
ill and housebound
having no computer, mobile phone or watch
thus felt slightly vague
in time.)

 

 

Finishing the work
we learn

despite all seeming fruitless
during long despondence

later, Marcel gained his true
vocation as a writer

reclaiming what was lost
across an odyssey
of moments.

 

 

Now my own life’s shrunken
among little
but impressions

I retain hopes
to one day sink back
through that sensuous web’s
great edifice of memory

following those faded scents
down paths toward
some beauty
far less disappointing
than the humdrum flux
existence brings.

 

So
then

once more
before it grows
too late

just let me
turn
the page.

 

 

 

 

(2006)

 

 


 

(Any art on the blog is mine.  Comments are very welcome!  Thank you for reading.)

 


 

(art / beauty / books / culture / drawing / fiction / life / lostness / mental health / poetry / Proust / reading / writing )

 

Art versus death

 

Konica128510

 

 

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)

 


 

 

(Any art on this blog is mine: I hope you like it.
Comments are also very welcome!
Thank you for reading.)

 

 


 

 

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

 

One-sided love

 

Konica1195

 

 

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)

 

 


 

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it.  Comments are very welcome!)

 

 


 

 

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

 

 

 

 

Hidden soundtrack

 

 

Konica1026

 

 

 

Lostness   (76)

 

 

 

Perhaps they had it wrong about Creators?

We might explain life more
picturing deities who
enjoy our suffering.

 

Yet
at libraries
I also browsed the “Spirit” shelf
as if searching after absent recompense
for my inherent maladaptation.

 

Amid thought’s discomfort then
considering an idea:

that one should give up attempted penetration
to instead remain
upon the surfaces of things
in vigilant shallowness.

Turned away from metaphysics
(like old repressions around sex)
struggling toward silence
over words best left unsaid

Avoided through aseptic logic
plus therapeutic strategies

Suspecting any opaque realms
by their obscure interiority

So preferring drawing blank
across such latent soul
or unquiet desire.

 

 

But behind this
later linked

a recollecting
out of childhood

first remembered moral rules
learnt among shouting and abuse
(bound to problems with authority)

A voice which sneered
its covert verdict:

“You can never be punished enough

for the crime
of existing.”

 

 

His harshness lives on inside me
calling primal curses down
introjected before reason
could answer back.

Lodged adjoining endless shame
where hostility had
displaced love.

 

Now I come to no relationship
unscathed.

 

While
beneath these lines

lying

still unheard

 

that hidden soundtrack

of rage

 

and stifled
cries.

 

 

 

 

(2002)

 

 


 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like it. Comments are welcome.)

 

 

 


 

 

 

(art/books/culture/depression/drawing/lostness/mental health/poem/poetry/thoughts/writing)

Temples for the lost

 

Konica1025

 

 

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)

 

 


 

 

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it. Comments welcome.)

 

 


 

 

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

 

 

Idol of the book

 

Konica12506

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)

 

 


 

 

(art on the blog is mine: hope you like it.)

(I try to post each Sunday.)

 

 


 

 

(beauty/books/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/opinions/poem/poetry/thoughts)

 

 

 

Postponed living

 

 

Konica12510

 

 

Lostness   (46)

 

What could save me from this abyss of the self?

 

Books have assisted in postponing existence.
Now unfit for life, I make do by reading about it.
My attempts to “start really living” led nowhere.
Or, rather, back to isolation;
and these words.

Too restless to take pleasure by mere being,
while with human company I often feel stressed,
there is a reassurance in the presence of books.

 

How should I learn to love myself?

 

Must I deny the verdicts of parents, or society?
Perhaps such problems stem from childhood,
accepting harsh judgement by others, upon my life.
Taught to internalise a condemnation,
which may then perpetuate injustice.
Thus, uttering any personal assertion that is positive,
I struggle against an internal barrier
of shame.

Yet implausible dreams still arise: of beauty, and a woman’s passion.
Visions neither nature nor nurture gave me the equipment to realise.

 

Can the head cure a sickness in the heart?

 

It is common to associate happiness with normality,
though times I passed as normal failed to dispel my discomfort.
Sometimes adding a sense of diminished authenticity.

Might reason overcome emotion?
How to change my automatic responses?

If thinking did not get me into this mess,
why expect it to get me out?

 

I hoped, perhaps, to mellow.
but despair
seems ageless.

 

 

(Jun-July 1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/writing/opinions/ideas)