Tormented by blue sky

 

konica12502-e1521394589531.jpg

 

Lostness   (56)

 

 

Craving touch, in a rather un-English way…

 

At times, feeling like some warm person, misplaced,
amid cold cultures…

I still have romantic dreams about unapproachable women,
who might sneer, behind tinted glass, as they pass me:
sitting by the bus stop
with library books and photocopied poetry,
in a carrier bag.

Then, while lifting my telephone
(which, being very long silent, I check remains working)
there comes an autobiographical idea for a story, called
“Not having friends”.

But was that situation entirely my fault?
People could have made attempts to befriend me.

I remember little interest, toward myself, emerging from anyone.

 


 

 

Impressions

 

 

Impressions move
among solitude
and disappear.

 

Mornings
waking too far under
for faith I shall rise

Illness
taking so much away

Alone on a bed
sensing things fade

Forced letting-go
yet wanting return.

 

 

Around open windows
curtains wave softly

Light
bouncing off leaves.

Tormented by blue sky
this body
hungry to respond

Against existence, slipping
through
these unheld fingers

Where each day sees an absence
of grace
love
or beauty
from my world.

 

Later
with evening closing in
I noticed a faint shadow
resembling smeared pencil-marks
across the white wall.

It evaporated, gently,
as the sun
went down.

 

 

And
I wondered
how many others
now wane
neglected
in their rooms?

 

 

 

(1992)

 

(beauty/blogging/depression/ideas/loneliness/mental health/poem/thoughts/writing)

 

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Forlorn lucidity

IMG_20171119_215216899

 

 

Lostness   (41)

 

 

At times I feel so unformed.

My “becoming” experienced as drifting.

Perhaps such shapelessness constitutes a price of freedom?
Hence, while freedom is curtailed by the liberty of others, or biology: I wrestle, in addition, with lack of direction.
How to advocate a lifestyle even I may not enjoy?

For me, any hopes to produce something worthwhile carry a suspicion of fantasy.
Whatever I concentrate upon leads to an imaginary complaint from neglected possibilities. Thus my shifting between art, poetry, prose, music and philosophy.
Yet these urges to “keep options open” might work against the commitment required for achievement in each area.

 

What I do, today, is more important than what I intend to do, tomorrow.

 

Writing can be lured toward an ideal:
a certain beauty, via vivid sentences, lit by clarity, evocative as distant incense, hinting at transcendence, through the web of art.

Or, in the present case, while living isolated and unknown:
a dream that people I cannot meet might still be touched by my words.

 


 

 

Forlorn lucidity

After the telephone call
turning
into that gloomy front room
lit by a single electric button, glowing
red and insistent,
under its display panel,
though daylight’s blade
slicing between almost-closed curtains
smears one white fleck
across darkened glass

I stand
perceiving some discomfort
in the head
from neurons alert
with forlorn lucidity
while self, sensed
spirit-like, lingers
where conflict had been,
on the site
of my defeat.

 

 

(1986)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/thoughts/ideas/poem)

 

 

My last poem

Put my last poem on this blog a week ago  (5th May 2017) .

Felt sad afterward. At least it had a chance to be seen, before sinking back into obscurity. (Though only one view, so far. Illness saps my energy to interact with others or gain readers.)

I have been sorting through old notebooks and papers: working on a transition to the prose. Thought I would start at the beginning: when I left school in 1972, age 16.

Art was my main interest. But then I tried writing.

It has been downhill ever since.

 

 

 

Poem 2004

Lassitude

 

Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
tired even
from dreaming
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
reclosing eyes
soon
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
in carnality
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
but here
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
by forlornness
like a bug.

Poem 1994

Suspension

 

I dreamt about distance.
To lie suspended
over the face of waters
cold as infinity.
Perhaps time would spiral
and I might go on sleeping
like a single entity.

Once cerebral storms parted
for an instant
this mind seemed clear
just entrails of images
still coated with anger
tunnelling the head.

My hand could feel a rifle
I was not quite dead.

Poem 1990 (4)

Insomnia

 

Night is so huge.
Lines mark my face
with memory.

Recalling a compliment
from her eyes
an arm intent on embrace
across our separateness.

Now lonely in this unshared world
anxiety clogs my heart.
Will I be admitted to sleep
at last?

I watch windows darken
while outside
through shuffling leaves
shake rushes of air.

Poem 1990 (3)

Afterglow

Resting partly on her soft flesh
impregnated by sleep
warmth coated me
in a soothing varnish
then drifting down
to new sensations
levers turning vaguely
while a conspiracy
of malformed sentences
mutated hazily
their strange fingers poised
above expression-keys
uncertain where to drop.

Later
I woke upon the sofa
of that recent passion
or its appeasement
struggling for recall
grasping at dream’s afterglow
through receding shapes.
We lay pressed together there
at breast and thigh
our bellies made faint cries
as if tiny ocean creatures
had been trapped
behind the skin.

Poem 1990 (2)

Remnants

 

Drained by illness
my feelings were comatose
I tried to prod them awake
or observe
in these surroundings
some unravaged vision

That pavement grey
October sky
already moon-stained

In the garden
petal remnants
yellow to brown

This mind
away again
shying like a horse
crashing over dark leaves
as my mouth
slavers
on the pen.

Poem 1990 (1)

Touch deprivation

 

I lay alone
while daydreams began:
there
seated at some vacant bar
I was soon joined
by an imaginary companion
with a thirst for my secrets.
Her leg touched mine
perhaps accidentally?
Then unmistakable warmth
from a hand on my arm.
Trying not to waver
I continued talking
in imitation of cool
just now
feeling almost alive
until my eyes
opened again
each one
empty as glass.

Poem 1985

Nocturnal Muse

 

This Muse journeys by night
preferring gloom
a certain fog
an intangible excitement
which tinges the brain then
providing more fertile ground
for her delirious issue
in their gaudy drapery
attending neuronal galleries
there she can hold convulsive court
while darkness trembles
under her
following as impulse runs astray

to obscure cerebral boltholes
sniffing-out fusty old memory-pits
where associations have lain for years
falling fearless among bubbling synonyms
metaphors with broken claws
are quickly consumed
once nerve-fibres blaze
she gets those lines dancing
a final witching waltz
of vital verbs
before they sink
utterly spent
amid sleep’s torrid brew.