a mirror-image, faithfully expressed,
reflects a mirror-universe inside
all memories. This day we thank the Lord
for all these shining moments held within
this mind where human memories are stored.
And this shall be the moment they begin
to shatter, to become ten thousand stories
reflecting human life in all its beauty:
each smile, each poem, every sunset's glories,
that call to those remaining of their duty
to see this story speaks and never fails;
to call, recall again ten thousand tales.
Attention
Perhaps I have forgotten how to read.
I mean, I haven't lost the alphabet
but more and more I'm starting to forget
the way to focus in the form I need
to read a novel; more and more I find
my mental structures seem to fall apart
before the end, before I even start,
with only wrecks remaining in my mind
that sink, or blow away in gales, or burn;
I long for clarity, and for the power
to concentrate on reading for an hour.
If only I could read a book to learn
the way to build a house that won't collapse.
I have forgotten how to read, perhaps.
Song of Lent
O Lord, withhold your wrath against my wrong!
Be merciful to me— I faint and fail.
My vision draws to darkness, and I wail:
How long until you rescue me? How long?
Still groaning, since my strength is spent with groans,
By night I weep until I drench my bed,
My sight grows dim from sorrowing and dread,
My pains absorb my spirit, sleep and bones.
My Father, turn and save us as you said!
Display your love declared to us of old:
No hearts or mouths can praise you once grown cold,
Nor any man remember you when dead.
Away! The Lord has heard me call his name!
And all my foes shall surely fall in shame.
Too many sonnets
“Too many sonnets”, growls the curt rejection.
Too many sonnets? Can the news be true?
This polished work is workshopped to perfection,
a classic form recast to something new.
But still, I'll keep them coming while I'm living,
and when I'm old and sinking into death
I'll write a final sonnet of thanksgiving
and gasp the sestet in my final breath.
And then in death, what nightmares may inspire?
Within the circle of the realms infernal
reserved for sonneteers, I'll write in fire
to send to Styx Review, or some such journal,
and if there's surplus sonnets there in hell...
well... then I may compose a villanelle.
Villanelles
The day I die
My inside's on the out, the day I die,
Though (here and now) my inside's on the in.
Spread out like spirit butter on the sky,
the sunrise flaunts its colours in my eye
like all I'm not, sequestered here in sin.
My inside's on the out, the day I die,
yet here the world's outside and I am I,
divided from the cosmos by my skin.
Spread out like spirit butter on the sky
the clouds reflect my soul, the lights on high
are macrocosms matching what's within;
My inside's on the out. The day I die
is creeping slowly closer. By and by
will freedom of my captive self begin,
spread out like spirit butter on the sky.
And separated out, I still may sigh,
The waiting's brief, the barrier is thin;
My inside's on the out, the day I die,
Spread out like spirit butter on the sky.
And yet you show surprise
The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise
to find him solid in the midday light.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
You told yourself you're sure to recognise
the green-clad arms, the ring upon the right;
the world's so queer, and yet you show surprise?
His name won't pass your lips. You know… those guys.
You know his name. At least you think you might.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
The happy folk? And after many tries
you force a smile, a single smile, polite.
“The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise…
You've seen me here before, contrariwise;
You can't pretend you don't recall the sight.”
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
(Your sister's outer clothing all of lies.)
(Your brother was a changeling in the night.)
The world's so queer, and yet you show surprise.
He looks at you with strangely laughing eyes.
Gods
I have a friend who doubles as a god.
I'd seen the tell-tale signs I can't deny
for years before I realised it was odd.
A greener grass is growing where he's trod;
his bitter is immune from running dry.
I have a friend who doubles as a god,
a silent friend, who'd smile at me and nod;
I'd known him, and his one remaining eye
for years before I realised it was odd.
You're staring at me, thinking “silly sod”.
But no, it's not just him: I don't know why.
I have a friend who doubles as a god:
her flesh is stars; with storms her feet are shod;
I'd noticed she was goddess of the sky
for years before I realised it was odd.
These people give my mind a gentle prod.
“The least of these you comfort: it was I.”
I'd had a friend who doubled as a god
for years before I realised it was odd.
Metaphor
A metaphor’s a gentle curse
that darkens life with soft implying:
or so I learned from reading verse.
A blanket is a woollen hearse.
A lover’s word is widows’ sighing.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse.
And sex is just a human purse
with prices, goods, and people buying,
or so I learned from reading verse:
transactions made we can’t reverse:
a one-way street, a kind of dying.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse,
though dying is a friendly nurse
with copper coins to ease your crying,
or so I learned from reading verse.
I’m left to wonder which is worse:
to hear your truth, or see you lying.
A metaphor’s a gentle curse,
or so I learned from reading verse.
* * *
First published in Tilt-a-Whirl.
A ghost complains about blackberries
And I have nothing else to do again
but walk these halls and wish I wasn't here,
but picking berries in a country lane.
A shadow is my face, the dust my brain,
my voice is but an echo in your ear.
And I have nothing else to do again
but counting every pace to keep me sane.
Dead as I am, I've nothing else to fear.
(But, picking berries in a country lane...)
Within me lives the spectre of a pain,
the ache of endless summer, yesteryear,
and I have nothing else to do again
but live in memory without my chain<
br />
and walk an aimless autumn Cambridgeshire,
but picking berries in a country lane.
Each universe must reach its long refrain.
A moment all my chains must disappear
And I'll have nothing else to do again
But picking berries in a country lane.
Angels
This wall you build around angelic things
to keep their halos shiny-bright, instead
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
These Precious Moments smiles and wedding-rings
(for mixed-sex couples only), when they wed,
this airtight wall around angelic things,
a thousand miles from where a seraph sings
God's love for hated folk and underfed;
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings
unless you break the prejudice that brings
the boundary where angels fear to tread,
this airtight wall around angelic things
that shutters out angelic visitings,
or when you too are dying on your bed
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
You never know with whom they'll break their bread,
or so the writer to the Hebrews said;
this wall you build around angelic things
will never hear the sound of downy wings.
A small hotel
If life should ever leave you left behind
just take a holiday. I'll stay with you
within a small hotel I call my mind.
A quieter place to stay you'd never find.
I'm hoping you'll remember what to do
if life should ever leave you left behind;
remember me, if you should be so kind.
And though I sometimes decorate in blue
within a small hotel I call my mind,
in every room I've written and I've signed
a note reminding you my love is true,
if life should ever leave you left behind;
and every evening finds us intertwined;
and every morning finds the bed as new
within a small hotel I call my mind.
A week becomes a century or two;
and when you're checking out, I'll follow too,
if life should ever leave you left behind
within a small hotel I call my mind.
Song against Twitter
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
you put my puzzle pieces into place.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It didn't fit. I thought I could delete
one part, about the joys of your embrace;
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
but still it was too long. I thought I'd cheat
ByMergingWordsAndUsingCamelCase.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It failed again. I must admit defeat.
Like Fermat's margin, Twitter lacks the space
to let me say you make my life complete.
It makes the longer forms seem obsolete.
But even Petrarch's work would meet disgrace
if cut and scaled to send it as a tweet!
And somehow public posts seem indiscreet.
I think I'd rather whisper to your face
the message that you make my life complete,
and far too full to post it as a tweet.
Triolets
In depths of darkness out of doors
In depths of darkness out of doors
in thunderstorms, in pouring rain,
the kisses on my mind are yours.
In depths of darkness, out of doors,
I'll bide my time until it pours
and lose myself in you again
in depths of darkness out of doors
in thunderstorms, in pouring rain.
For all the words I mean to say
For all the words I mean to say
that I can squeeze inside a book…
I've written them, another day.
For all the words I mean to say
I'll say them in another way
and give my love a second look
for all the words I mean to say
that I can squeeze inside a book.
For it's late in the night
For it's late in the night
and you're heading to bed.
And I'm sure that you're right
for it's late in the night
but I wish that I might
be with you instead,
for it's late in the night
and you're heading to bed.
Circadian rhythm
I'm not at my best
when the morning is new;
when the sun's in the west
I'm not at my best;
and most of the rest
is a crappy time too.
I'm not at my best
when the morning is new.
15th February
Today's just a day
That's not Valentine.
No roses, no wine.
Today's just a day
I still want to say
I'm glad that you're mine.
Today's just a day
That's not Valentine.
Since the day doesn't store
Since the day doesn't store,
and the seconds can't stay,
each moment's no more.
Since the day doesn't store,
when you're seventy-four,
I'll kiss you good day;
since the day doesn't store.
and the seconds can't stay.
The echoes of an amber god
Electric sparkles in your touch,
the echoes of an amber god.
You fill my batteries with such
electric sparkles in your touch,
that Tesla would have charged too much
and Franklin dropped his lightning-rod:
electric sparkles in your touch,
the echoes of an amber god.
For you are the sun
For you are the sun
and you are the thunder.
In sunlight I run
for you are the sun
that fills me with fun
that fills me with wonder
for you are the sun
and you are the thunder.
But how can they hear?
“How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? How will they believe in him whom they have not heard? How will they hear without a preacher?” — Romans 10:14
But how can they hear
if you don't go and preach?
The judgement is near,
but how can they hear?
They're drowning, I fear;
with you, I can reach...
but how can they hear
if you don't go and preach?
As the drawing shall tell
As the drawing shall tell
and the paper responds,
some enchantment just fell,
as the drawing shall tell…
in a paper for spell
with your pencils as wands,
as the drawing shall tell
and the paper responds.
Before the sun begins to set
Before the sun begins to set
we'll share another cup of tea;
the kettle's never settled yet
before the sun begins to set,
and every morning since we met
you've shared your joyful life with me;
before the sun begins to set
we'll share another cup of tea.
Water
My health needs are few,
but water comes first.
I tell you, it's true:
My health needs are few,
And water is you.
I'm aching with thirst.
My health n
eeds are few
but water comes first.
To sleep next to you
To sleep next to you
when the weather is cold
is trusted and true.
To sleep next to you
is decades from new
yet it never grows old
to sleep next to you
when the weather is cold.
More deep than my heart
More deep than my heart
or the roots of my brain:
the smiles you impart,
more deep than my heart,
pull me back to the start
and I'm falling again,
more deep than my heart
or the roots of my brain.
Reality checkpoint
Is this my home ground?
We'd lived here, it's true.
But what I have found
is this, my home ground,
is town all around
full of empty of you.
Is this my home ground?
We'd lived here. It's true.
Fin
Where poets tell about a Fin,
her mind is where adventures are.
Adventurers may well begin,
where poets tell about a Fin,
to seek, to find, to stand within
the sunlight of her burning star;
where poets tell about a Fin.
Her mind is where adventures are.
I'd write you a verse
I'd write you a verse
like the moon in the dark,
like a muttering curse.
I'd write you a verse
from better to worse,
from muffled to stark,
I'd write you a verse
like the moon in the dark.
If the world is your stage
But you're clutching a script
if the world is your stage.
You've mumbled, you've slipped,
but you're clutching a script
and the binding is ripped
and you're missing a page;
but you're clutching a script
if the world is your stage.
I heard this tale about a queen
I heard this tale about a queen
whose anger rose against a cliff
she coloured crimson, shade unclean.
I heard this tale about a queen...
I think I'd cleanse it back, with green
and live with you beside it, if
I heard this tale about a queen
whose anger rose against a cliff.
May our minds overflow
May our minds overflow
to the seas of the soul
as we love and we grow
may our minds overflow
from their riverbeds, so
two halves become whole.
May our minds overflow
to the seas of the soul.
As I love you anew
As I love you anew
for the rest of my life,
I haven't a clue
(as I love you anew)
what other folks do
without you for a wife;
as I love you anew
for the rest of my life.
Minimal pairs
For you
my dear
anew
for you
all through
the year;
for you
my dear.
The fall
The fall will unwind
the shrivelling day,
the works of my mind
the fall will unwind,