Wisteria is a collection of poems written within the space

of one year in four different places: Littlebourne ( England ),

Murren, Interlaken, and Seelisberg ( Switzerland ).

Wisteria is an expression of what was for me,

the greatest and most rewarding change in my life.


Thank you


Brian Robb and Humphrey ( my brother ) for your help and consideration.




CONTENTS.


1) Wisteria.

2) When peace comes.

3) Psychotherapy.

4) Pub craw

20) Spring.

21) On going to her door.

22) Dhyana.

23) Room.

24) Give me a light.

25) Street life I.

26) Street life II.

27) Mother.

28) Wind.

29) Tree.

3o) As Nora.

31) Wind II.

32) Threads of truth ( or declarations of a serpent ).

33) He.

34) The painful birth of a reluctant word.

35) Without a backward thought.

36) Silence.

37) In memory of Ithica Argos ( scholar ).

38) Feeling.

39) Less than half an hour.

40) Jazz.

41) Finished poem.

42) Trees in splendour.

43) Through the open window.

44) Two planes and a hole.

45) The divine nectar of the fullness of life manifests itself.

46) Dawn.

47) Birthday party.

48) When the love of God shines down.

49) Ten past eleven.



        Written in Littlebourne.


WISTERIA


The leaves outside my window hang and flutter

like green coins on a waterfall,

green and luxuriant discs

dogtags and jewellery finely pointed.


Pointing the way back to the mother earth

from where they are first weaned.

A gust gives a vigorous shake

a spasm through the tendons,

but they remain.


For all their lives they hang and twitch shudder and shake,

giant mobiles on stalks only upside down

dancing to the sibilance of its own fandango.

While the voluminous violet wisteria blooms stand

Christmas tree like

aloof.


It could be a swine at times,

dashing the light from my life, but not for long.

The time came

and I armed like a samurai cleaved a path

through its virgin tender green growth

and now for my pains I've a bleak window full of glaring light

friendless and relentless

discolouring my books and dehydrating my pens.

 

This was my first attempt at writing a poem and I was very

pleased that it came to me so easily and effortlessly.



WHEN PEACE COMES


Peace comes when the mind is still.

The ravages of tormenting thought hurl and banter

diverting attention to well meant confusion

A sentence, a sound, a colour, a call,

lolling on a bus stop sign post laughing at the serious

horror of the unsaid things we lock away.


Peace comes when the mind is still.

Moonglow and afrighted orbs wheel and dance a jigger and snigger.

Zoological bullshit and meaningless muck,

tramlines and boatsails clatter and rustle causing a hollow echo scaring my wits.

The diphanous sensation falls and the quietness calls

  " Know thyself .... " fades and EIectra's bloody face appears

haloed in gold bands of golden bondage.


Peace comes when the mind is still.

Random effervesence breaks down as thematic order performs a correlation.

Convoluted barriers itch and tickle

while quantum qualities coordinate correction..

Brahma steps easily from mind to matter

from earth to shore from stem to seed.

So bliss pervades the ragged remnants of long lost God forsaken beings

and misplaced memories.

The dance of life turns Latin to Greek into jazz moderne

at the sound of silent percussion

calling a rhythm.


Peace comes when the mind is still.

Stop ...

And flowers are handed round to every one

The flower is a sign that shows the way

through the darkening gloom and the vales of tears

and the quickening impasse of endless fears.

The white cloaked bard with staff in hand will herald the course

and change the events for better things to come.

 

This poem was a reflection of how I was feeling after the spiritual

experience that came to me after learning Transcendental Meditation.  



PSYCHOTHERAPY


In Jungian terms I strove to find

the proper phrase to form a rhyme,

but divergent opinions and misconstrued obsessions

forced my hand and caused it thus:


She loved it while the wild eyed and eager boys

were sitting upon her pinning her arms to the ground.

Her excited eyes and her fiery golden hair told me all

as she struggled playfully enjoying the game.


Now she's alone,

no boys in sight,

her rich golden hair shouts her inner feelings but no one hears.

They've all gone home.

He wouldn't have been much help either

for all his jargon. Loneliness is loneliness

whether it's conscious or sub conscious the dilemma's still there.



PUB CRAWL


Evening falls and mist curls up off the marsh,

as would be revellers shut their doors

and wives behind and trek off

to the spangled pubs.

Time is caught in a whirl by the scruff

of its neck, given a shake, wound up

and set down again.


Opinions become resolute as worker

shirker and apprentice trot off to

their nearest.

Jive and sass falls and flows.

their meaningful words deteriorate caught up

in liquid jargon slang and hang them all.

The philosophy of life and putting to rights

comes thick and fast, tripping off the hundred

lips of earnest faces.



EMERGENCE


You don't know what you're worth,

you just don't know what you're worth

until you've shaken down your " doubtful sugar of verities ",

seen the seeds and lovingly brought them out

from the black ignorance of your physical self.


You don't know how much your worth,

you just don't know, 'till you've seen the sparkle

in a wise mans eyes that tell you   I know and it can be done –

Until you've held the heart of mankind within your own,

Until you can say


At last

I'm home.



INCIDENT IN A DREAMHOME


He looked at her and conflict flared.

With ball and chain with steel and web

a raging battle 'sued. A flashing bolt

from cranium bit to densely packaged

vein. She countered with a snarl from

eyebrow more furious than a bed of thorns,

a   Stop this if you can   and flew without

remorse. The electric air was smokey charged

with blue and tattered rags of memories and

best held hopes were hung about while clangour

fell on toothless stumps of twisted charcoal trees.


These are yours my dear   He hissed

and tossed a fold of photographs, just to judge

her face.

She, calm by now though numb within, a wreckage shell

or stone. Felt lovingly

and held the package fast.


She felt   I've seen this all before,

it comes and goes in every home on every silver screen

I've read it with an unbelieving eye in all

the glossy mags.

And here am I a hollow reed watching my secret hopes

all being torn to rags, but it's all quite sordid really

it isn't gay or fun.

There's no one to applaud or cry except this

demon husband licking his lips as if they were my bones  .


Wide eyed terror the stricken game is crushed.

Her once free and lively energies all spent.

His eager face flushed with Mans pure greed,

granite visage, hewn rocklike spectre gaping at his work.

  I did this. I made her thus, I squashed her like a Jew.

I sqeezed out every ounce of me that she kept locked within  .

His blue temples bulged

his muscles squirmed and his nails dug right through.

He waited,

silence.

He turned her over in his hand like a dead bird

fearful in case he'd gone too far.

She, mute,

averting his eyes

summoned her strength

and like a shakey colt walked out.

While he, in disbelief,

never saw her again.

 

This came to me after listening to Roxy Music's 'In Every Dreamhome 

There Is a Heartache' 



INSPIRATION


It's happening again just like I hoped it would,

And they're quite right really It's just like a Demon or a Fox of inspiration

lurking deep and glowing darkly within.


It isn't really a part of me, at least the me I thought I knew,

It's a deeper purer crystal thing, A bit of Self trying to come through.


It's a chirping bird,

a chemical substance catching and sparking off life

in the timeless clay bottom of an ocean bed.

I've the ability to move walls or paint on them,

Erect spires or hurl them down without moving my finger.


Christ, am I frightened? I dont really know,

I just know it's meant to be and it is, it is.

Others don't complain so why should I ?

But still I'm amazed,

I'm looking through a glass at an ordnance map

... My road is here, my road is there and there and there

I'm not frightened, I'm amazed.


I see the lines, the contours of red and green,

thin lines etched shaping the fold of hill and hump,

scoring the road, the path, the trampled lane,

the cries cross railway line, the stile, the dale,

the unmarked way.

My eyes water like pools from the intensity of concentration demanded.


But I sit back,

refocus, take a sigh of relief and repeat inwardly

  How lucky I am   I don't need maps or a compass,


I just get up and go.

Whistling down winding farmyard lanes,

an impregnable bubble, a boundless explorer,

a humming bird gorging myself with the fullness of the riches

of all that is free and lovely.



CYCLAMEN


Cyclamen have long tubular brown stems

with the delicate she petals of the flowers

blown upwards like can can girls pink frothy petticoats.

Inside out. In swirls.


The pink miasma leaves the blooms and glows about halo like,

it's more than just confined to the edges of its petals,

it's infused in the air of the room.


The flowers have stopped dancing

caught, camera caught. Suspended in time with the music stopped

and the laughter and gaiety silenced, many years ago.

All that is left is the scent of leather dancing shoes,

chorus girls hair and absinthe.



UNTITLED


Don't run your fingers through my hair

it's the only stuff I've got, your nails are

much too sharp and hurt


and I'm not like others, who like that kind of thing.


My hair's thin and falling out, so don't make matters worse

and dandruff doesn't impress the girls I'm told

  So don't.


Don't touch me as if you were sorry, a tentative twig reaching out.

Be firm, I'm almost stone and much waking is needed

to make me turn and realise that it's really you.


Don't look at me like a liar or a masters dog,

your brown eyes are bold so talk with them to me assertively,

with authority,

I'll not feel weak for it.

In fact I need it and it comforts me.



      PHONE ME PHILIPPA


        Phone me Philippa, phone me and say,

        What colour is the sky tonight?

  •          Let's go out and see  .


We'll walk along the deserted beach and watch the sea catch fire,

walking up to the edge to jump over the waves

as they roll in up to our rolled up trousers and

scream when they catch us unaware.

We'll leapfrog over the groynes and laugh at the silly things most lovers do.

Then the time will come and you'll turn to me and say,


I've got to go now and this all didn't really happen, forget it all,

it could never be. Mine is the life of the mystic,

but yours is to be gay and free,

go with boys and look elegant in public places.


Phone me Philippa, phone me and say,


I'm bored and longing to talk to someone I know

I can trust.

So we'll talk and play scrabble by the

old log fire and count the glow worms that burn

in the cinders and watch the smoke drift listlessly

up and up and up.

The sweet safe smell of the old logs burning I will

always remember, the library books shimmering

and you long legged before me.


Phone me Philippa, phone me and say


Let's go out in the ra­in –.



DRAGON


I have a dragon emblazoned in gold

upon a tin lid.

A broken tin lid.

Fiery writhing dragon curling about

devilishly amidst his own glittering

flames.

A forest dragon wrestling in the foliage.

Mouth agape,

Moustache flowing, whipping like a strap.

Chinese dragon, wild, untameable, locked in

the metal of the guilded tin lid.

Flailing tendrils and savage fang screaming

out fire in the pitch dark night.


Scaley dragon, do you exist ?

Are you real monster or do you only adorn the cover of my little tin lid ?

Does your fire really burn the air to cinders ?

Can you devour men and trees with one puff

and can your fangs easily disembowel a pig

or have you got lost up the rugged stairway of evolution ?


Your long large reptilian skull was likely crushed into shards

in a tunnelled timeless cave, never again to quicken the hearts of those

who mortally feared you.

I gaze rapturously at the horrific power engraved on my golden tin lid,

instantly hurled, floating back aeons to your time.



APOCALYPSE


Christ looked around to see how the Churchmen had fared

He did not like what he saw.

He crushed the holy spires and temples in his palms.


  But we've kept the faith in its purity.

The wide eyed Churchmen screamed.

And He stuffed its waste down their pious throats.


Christ looked at the wise books

and wept

while he burnt them,

thinking,

The time has come to see how wisely Man

has used his talents.

The time has come to see how carefully

he has sewn his seed.

The time has come to see whether his existence

is worth continuing –.

And Christ looked for signs of orderliness

within the maelstrom of despair Man

called life.

He studied his calculus,

He threw his dice,

He measured with infinitesimal precision

and decided

  Next time I'll start without religion  




CRIPPEN


I've seen him strutting by, that scissor sharp insurance man,

parasol in hand and a fixed determined air

stepping out.

With every step

a harsh down payment of money earnt.






SUMMER 76


The long hot hazy summer weather's gone,

The languid, lazy lolling weather.

The blackberry picking

air, the tea on the lawn, the hammock swinging

and the playing in the golden corn.

Our ice cold drinks

and sea side salads have now all

given way to hot pot pies, Thai chicken curry

and other red hot things.


This sultry atmosphere, the droning bees and oppressive scent of pollen flowers.

Long stately hollyhocks, hiding girls in gingham frocks.

The bare sun bats down and bakes the land for miles around.

Then in the afternoon it's down in the Daimler to Mcfarlanes for foliage shrubs,

piled in the boot and on the back seats,

the rich scent was hollow sweet and heady as we glided round the winding roads.


Call to God and hope this hellish hot weather will continue,

praying quietly as I mowed the lawns, clipped the beds,

moved about and divined the mysteries of this old world garden.

  Yes the fig tree stands for ... While the artichoke would be so and so.

Ah yes. And that seedling peony tree I planted, I must keep an eye on that.



LOTUS SEED


Here I am, locked, clapped and bolted

in this brittle seed.

Lying, waiting, latent force of vital

growth.

     Locked and hammered into an anvil black,

granite veined seed.

Seed of life, seed of Nature.

Lying.

Waiting.

Concentrated power of creative necessity.

All my functions that I will possibly have

cause to use

are set and compacted into hard flesh,

dormant flesh, within me, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for just a single luminous

bud of clear white water.


Who would believe that such a

dehydrated withered pip or husk like I

could break forth with crashing life

and shower the air about with

the deafening noise of natures colour ?


Here I have lain for three thousand

years in this stone pyramid grave,

reverently placed in a golden beaker

at the foot of my countrys' Pharoah.

Lying.

Waiting.

Waiting for the time, the time when water comes,

the water that I will thirstily infuse into

my system, my dormant vital system,

Water, my life blood, my sustenance.

My Being.




MURREN.




Brother sister can you hear me ?

Looking through my half closed eyelids.

My ticket's used and my pockets empty,

I sent my telegram for haste,

to call

and let the stars and moon know that

I am here.

My socks are wet and my hair's on end,

I had to steal a comfortable chair

to make my head feel soft and to let

my thoughts feel more

at home.



MICHAEL AND KIRSTEN.


She shook her thick brown rusty hair

and with full clean face and open intent

thought, as she looked at the handsome

sunburnt Australian boy.


I like the look of him,

I like his well groomed hair,

I like his supple body


and if I look long enough he too will see


that he likes me,

he likes my thick red hair

and my full and wholesome graceful body.

He will like me till he aches

and his muscles plead inside, just as

I do for him.

He will have no resistance, just as I have none for him.


He will not be able to

hold his eyes from me.


Just as I cannot from him.

Our eyes lock together back to back,


caressing the other with our palms and heels

together,

as our salty tears fall and stream on

our skin,

together -.

I break the reverie and put my glass of tea

down on the hard round table.

Having eaten too much I feel obscenely full.




Interlaken




MY LAND


The hills of my blanket scene appeal

and soothe the eye as colours course

and bath the mind, this alpine land is

mine all mine.

The echo of the whipped white snowline

shakes the ponderous image and life

takes a grip.

A foothold in the land means a vibrant

existence for years to come.

The very moss that clings to a shattered rock

can gasp and breathe full life spirit.

this Spirit is all of lifes desire, an omnipotent

veil throughout what is and all that ever

will be.

My land this is.

It's part of me and when I see all this as

one with me I know I've found my

home.







A LACK OF INSPIRATION


A lack of inspiration ? Call up the muse,

bring on the demon, let him have his play.

Burst a few magnesium flares, excite the limbs.

It's not through a lack of ideas, it's just what

has colour and what doesn't. Drop some bunting

from the rooves, a ticker tape effulgence

is what is really needed.

Hurl a few atoms about and dice with the cosmos

at will. Eventually the thread will break and

the dams will flow. But don't be recalcitrant

or apathetic or the storm will catch you unawares

and toss you off your feet.

Wear your eye thus and catch the meaning so

as it gallops at you full face,

like a nightmare rider from the sky

dappled with the fire of the sickle

burning moon.

Open up the drawers shake out the dust,

give your head a good airing, how have

you stood is so long ? Breathless musty

and dark. You should be ashamed.



SPRING


The clouds are clearing.

The weather in retrospect throws off her

sluggish shroud.

Dons a crown and collar,

clears the affidavits and notarisations

with an elbow. Settles down to work

renewed.

Exegis of power, blots down the lazy turf

tuft by bladed tuft.

The sun unsheathe her blade and

scythes the dead and dying from the dormant

plain with an energetic sweep.


The journey was hard and cold on our cheeks

but we made it, blustering through like

young lambs quick and wet from a

mothers smooth tongue.





ON GOING TO HER DOOR


On going to her door my hand froze

upon the lock.

On putting my head to hers my heart

seized on the beat.

On the shelf of heart and spice

her trinkets and perfumes.

On the hand the iron will of fleshes

time for play.

On the air a scented boon of damask

husk and flower.

On her tongue the rolling low long

growl scattering my resolution

to the corners of the room.

On her eye a continent of heavy

tropical fullness drawing all to

her sands for more and more.


On that reflection is cast back to taste

what and how it was and shrug the slow disintegration

as angels take it piece by piece

to cast it to the sleeping fishermen in the hot somberoed air.





Seelisberg.



                  DHYANA


The Aztec carpet slides and shudders across the floor,

upturning my image of continuity.

Its reds blues and greens stick jigsaw patterned in the ether.


The room contracts and expands breathlike

causing the walls to flutter like coloured birds,

with a rythm at my back, talking, fluting.

Softly now. loudly now.

Quivering.

Hissing.

Bamboo and sand, palm and garlands.

A gourd. A rattle.

Now a plaintive call from the forest

singing of life, of love, of now.

Happy and soft.


I'm flying now,

rising and falling with two leaves printed to my palms,

my hair is flattened and my cheeks glow.

The world is set out below in a celestial pattern of green brown and misty blue.


High, up over the trees, gliding with the crow,

as I wheel and dive on the warm currents of velvet air

pushing, pushing me, up and up.






ROOM.


The four warm walls are gluey cream, patchey here and there,

but still quite warm.

Enfolding me from the riotous crisscross noise outside

which sometimes pushes through the slit in my window,

There.

The banging bell with its cracked wooden message

calling the holy to come and pray,

or if not Then just to remember who they are,

what they are and who made them thus,


The twittering bird running like a sweet river

surpasses all that my imagination can hold.


The room again and my eye rests on the tartan red green rug

that I've lived with since I was so young,

a bit frayed and getting thin

but its life is still wholesome and meaningful.

Guru Dev frowns down as always, with unbelievable power

through the yellow cloud of buttercups in a glass

 Buttercups that I picked in a daze, a bit self consciously,


Images and thoughts bounce like balls

as the eye comes to light on every object,

those soft warm slippers,

that letter ( I'm not quite settled about that one,

I put it down after reading it, feeling; I'd heard <

it all before ). Those books of mine,

poetry, novels. Some lying near to hand,spread out at a special page.







GIVE ME LIGHT


Give me light O blessed lords, give me the eyes

to see.

Give me the strength to walk upright and do

what you command.

Let me step on your threshold and feel your

warmth.

Let me come inside and feel your heat.

O let me know where to put my feet,

O let me know which step to take.







STREET LIFE I


Elongated protaplasm night life. Hot

tarmac street. Lamp lit street. Seething

night life. Gold glow. Kentucky paved

streets. Synthetic building. Special smells.

Harbour side. prow and bows.

Sizing up.

Checkin' it out. Cigarettes. coffee. sweaty tables.

Martini signs.

Warm blondes. Tight skirts.

Hooped sweaters. loose. Defiant. Willing. Soft.

Watching with absorbed eyes.

Cranes stitched black the harbour skyline.

Hawser crossed newly sewn scar.

Frying tonite. Lucky chance. Golden wheel.

Come in and get laid.

Real girls. Loves old sweet song goes on and on and

so does the greenback.

Round and round.

Johnnie B. Goode. Indian summer nights.

A man dressed in a blanket and a feather with an

immovable silence printed on his face paces the sidewalk.

The immortal Edison light bulb searches out and banishes

the dark alleys, corners, backyards, dusty tenements.

Parking lots.

Drive ins flash colours to a hundred silent cars that

sit throbbing. Watching.

Newman.

Reynolds.

Poitier.

Striesand.

Gods to whom we turn off our car lights and sit

in silence.

Bars. Rinky tinky juke box music. Beers. Cools.

Budweiser. Colts. Soda pop and the fat bellied sassy

barman cleans a spot off the counter as you ease yourself

onto a stool.





STREET LIFE II


Oblong shafts of light. Streak. Slice. Penetrate dark

Cars flash and hoot. Scream past in a flurry of metal.

Stars pierce the sky. Velvet. Soft sky. Galaxies survey the scene.


The steel pavement rings like a bell.

Feet Clatter, Ice cold wind lifts up old forgotten newspapers

Flacking them against shop fronts.


This is a time we are most alert. Hunters.

With every cord of sense picked up.

Walk with penetrating purpose and immoveable

determination.

A look that would make a cop baulk.

And think   That guy knows where he's going, you

know what I mean. It's written on his face  .


The city cries its own loud inherited song,

vibrating into the night. A raging hyena.

Hackles roughed up. Restless,

waiting with primitive patience, pulling like a devil on a leash.






MOTHER.


My mothers milk was still on my lips

and I learnt to cry and talk,

but I wouldn't know the meaning of this

as I struggled on my hands and knees

pushing back the horizons of my experience

under the safe closeness of my mothers eye.


She, to me then was tall and handsome.

A lady, someone you would't expect

to have reared a family.

Her immaculate suits and dresses

her red lips and thick brown hair

were filled with an authoratative beauty.


She would push the pram up the long hill

home with my brother and myself sitting in

it until she told us it was too heavy and

one of us would have to get Out and walk

holding on to the side.







WIND.


The wind howls and hollers round the

house creaking the windows,

flapping the shutters.

Out on the lawn the Lime trees bend

and sway under the hand of the

invisible wind.


But the trees are supple and bend softly

with the anger, twisting first this way

then that unharmed.

This is their defence, they bend and sway

like grass,


How I wish I could be tall and green and

pliant like a beautiful tree,

twisting this way then that. An immaculate tree

with silky leaves as soft as cheeks.


But I am stiff and rigid, I do not bend when

I should. I am hard and brittle and this

is my weakness. Being hard and strong

I am weak and ready to topple and fall

into the bottomless river of green grass

that rushes rippling about my feet.


To sway and flow would give me safety

from the heady torrent that crashes like a

city upon my senses stinging my nose, my ears,

my eyes and my fingers.

I retract and withdraw from these harsh feelings.

This is my weakness and timidity. I shake

and tremble at loud noises like a soft green leaf.







TREE.


The soft leafy tree sways,

its green leaves shake profusely

flashing green and yellow greenness,

its tender fleshy leaves heave

and breathe.

Life flows through its green

its pale green leaves, turning the

yellow light into deep emerald

green.

Each collective leaf describes a

huge pulsating greenness which breathes

and glows a suffuse hazy green.

A deep and irridescent breathtaking

green which you've never seen anywhere

except in a tree.








AS NORA.


Chinese lady. Butterfly at

your throat. thick painted red lips

on an egg white face.

Bare shoulders, a brazen embrace.

Deep black eyes, flashing magnets

here and there.

A shoguns lover on a definite painted

black bold strike sheet of bamboo leaves,

waterfalls and

mountain scenes.

Your cultural backdrop of silk screen

privacy.

Your dolls house.







WIND II.


The wind keeps blowing and whacking,

threatening to do some damage,

maybe uproot the countryside

or turn the land into a dusty desert.

It might flatten the mountains and make

a blanket of Mount Shiva.


The wind doesn't start right here,

it comes from Italy or Spain, so it's said.

And rushing across the borders like

a pack of clowns  it kicks around

this peaceful delicate land of

New age Inaugurations where the

angels and the Gods are being

born again today.


It'll blow itself out like a tired and

drunken man, an over  excited child,

and fall into oblivious sleep with one

last, wasted puff of breath, to empty its

heavy lungs and cheeks.







THREADS OF TRUTH

( OR DECLARATIONS OF A SERPENT ).


You thought your arms and legs and rings

would protect you from the seething eyes,

A violet scarf about your head

would claim an emminence that was not yours


A painted nail a silver clasp ( little intricacies

of detail that we would not notice

unless a list was made ) would give

authority to your words as they

tinkled off your pretty lips



But how you wore your straw.

determines whether you rise of fall

to that sewage level you detested most

and would not bat an eye to put your gentle foot upon its neck.


So when your skirt fell about your feet

or your will resided to a warm and

lasting nothingness and feeling his lips

upon your neck:

It was for a very different reason,

it was something else again,

an action you could not quite relate, but

sure and hotly convinced

that it was  

Not what everyone else thought it was.







HE.


Dive suryasahusrasya

bhvad yugapad utthita

yadi blah asdrsi sa syad

bhasas tasya mahatmanah.

( 12 - 11 ) Gita.


With burning streaming eyes

my body turned a deep metallic gold

and calling out His name, the name

of He, resounded about the world

which I could clearly see

and feel and taste and touch

as my body slowly expanded to the

infinite size of He.

He, to whom I called with tears

in my eyes and a colossal

bliss throughout my

new born Being.

I was. I was.

And the planets and galaxies

responding, confirmed that

this was true.

A golden arc of purple expansion

slid through me like a

sheet as time roared by,

making time a slightly

inconsequential thing,

while the unbelieveable immensity

of the sheer effulgence of

His prescence, burning sun upon sun,

turning gold

into a shimmering white

hot ever burning clear bright

radiance.

Gold upon gold.

This untenable almighty strength

which was He

propelled me nearer

toward its raging core.

Closer and closer

I rushed with its raging

wind behind me.

My body was seared to a quick

ashen nothingness

and 'I' stepped out feeling

clean and whole

as I came toward this

almighty conflagration,

close until the fire and I

were one

merged

insolubly.





THE PAINFUL BIRTH OF A RELUCTANT WORD


Slide on and wriggle across the paper

you tricky grease scaled pregnant

little word.

Slip off the oily nib of my pen and

sprawl, scatter, tumble like a

broken bird.

Dance and jerk your fettled grey

green body, shiver like a bursting

running fire.

I know just what shape I want

you to take,but your rubber jelly

coated arms and legs thrash and beat

an epileptic madness with anger

pouring out Of every pore.

Your screaming pains my heart and

I must turn my head aside as I

inscribe you this or that.

Everlastingly.


Written.


There. I've done it, the job is

done and I now feel quite weak

and of course  

Guilty.






WITHOUT A BACKWARD THOUGHT.


Without a backward thought

I'd plant my foot into the seat

and tickle the flashing skies of

my golden memory, for time

is a sluggish bearded breed

of goat. And soaring headed,

casting out the winds of my

fathers, a e tiff headed wood

locked process in the brain,

bear a soul, a burning coin

up to a cloud.


Without an inward eye

all stuttering would seize

a stop, placing angry palms

deafeningly down to say

  No more  . All matchlocked

tin time cross polished

infatuation, flimsy sheep  eyed

willy nilly love thrown torn

upon a hard backed bone of sea whitened

sands.


Without a down beaten sound

would a fern leaf loined savage

shout down

this outraced breath breaking,

sheet flapped dirge of coloured

countries to my sun.

Washed through the oblong river

green wilderness where a sage scented

leather boiled river man, thigh soaked

up to his cracking cloak,

shall call me silent from a thin

red tongue.







SILENCE.


Silence rushes in upon my ears

and makes me sit or walk or stand,

deftly shapes all actions

into well rounded achievements.

Silence creates the towering

chestnut tree that hovers

and sprays a waterfall of

leaf and colour.

Silence gives birth to the single

word that rules a nation or

gives hope and direction

to the hungry, cold and poor.


Silence bubbles within silence

to give meaning to our every

thought, dancing on its way

through eternal bliss

to more and more.


Silence. Silence, Silence

is full of pure unbounded

latent energy, fat and glowing

just ready to burst forth in

an explosion of coloured

confetti.







IN MEMORY OF ITHICA ARGOS ( SCHOLAR ).


Ithica Argos platonic platitudes

perused by bankers of the

Venetian life

divine the career of all young

scholars who, having enough

of the cellular cortex to veneer

extra mural palatine boudoirs

but not enough of the hard

corporeal silver coloured collateral

commercial coinage, would otherwise

fall, platitudes and all

to tubercular ramblings amidst the

vernacular shylockings of rotund

Marseilles bar club owners.


Irretrievably lost to the dead

flesh embrace of a spawning

silver fish slither woman

in a coagulate velveteen seersuck

chemise, bulging in fetid

foetal condition.

Thus caught, ostensibly

in the Marseilles nausea

of birth, rebirth germination

and death.


The scholar breathes, defiles the

air with the posthumous dedication,

a publication, avowaI

and high appreciation

to Florentias school

of the first epoch

of the blue demise.

To Ithica Argos platonic platidudes

we fall, genuflect ingratiate

the scholar deify.

And hurriedly celebrate

inaugural reposession of chimeral

rightful throne as critics pay

homage and austerity for criminal

misrepresentation of the misunderstood

artist, now in sweet angelic repose

in Christs ethereal chamber.





FEELING.


Feeling my way around my room my

hand rested on the smooth hard roundness

of a bentwood whicker chair;


The cold wood-cold smoothness

tingled softly beneath my fingers

then I touched the cold shiny flatness

of an old photograph. I touched

the warm white rougness of the

papered walls and pressed my

cheek to the soft towel hanging

on my heater.


But most exhilerating was the

cool cold electric shock of

the clean white sheets on my

bed when I climb in to that blissful

sheer oblivion. My head and

body sinks back a hundred miles

of white foam and blue ecstatic sea

to rest gently at the bottom

of the ocean bed, rocked gently

by the tides of sleep

as the blue and silver effervescence

flickers above and wave

breaks silently upon wave.


Feeling is now very much

a total and absolute thing,

and inexplicable fullness.






LESS THAN HALF AN HOUR.


Now it's quiet, only the traffic thrumming

by in the road.

The air is still and so are the trees.

The blackbird sits on the telegraph wire.

The sun reflects golden off the twinkling

beech trees.

Indoors Irmgaard leaves her office talking

to a friend in German, then softly walks down

the old wooden stairs.

Then all is quiet again.

A dragging train roars like iron on its angry way

across the valley at the foot of the mountain on

the other side of the lake

I stretch and yawn wondering what to do with half

an hour.

Footsteps come and go.

Quietness creeps about through the open windows

down the walls and across the grass to slip into

the trees.

Quietness in the soft wind stirs the curtain,

just a faint hint to let me know it's still there

holding up the air, holding up something,

very powerful and all embracing.

Something very important.

Vital.

But quite prepared to wait out its

time.

Now the quietness and the activity have merged

into one. I can sense both at once;

The hollow soft quiet

and the long low rumbling of a jet far away in

the sky.

The quietness feels very powerful now

it throbs and echoes throughout the air.

Now my words lose their power of meaning

and fail to convey what I feel.

Words are left at the doorway while

pure experience takes over and

rejoices in a deep and glorious

joy.







JAZZ.


Jazz is kinda nice in the afternoon

it lays cool notes upon your hot

forehead and plays like river

water about your feet.


Jazz is lazy when you are too,

it soothe out your weary bones

and runs all down your waiting

skin. Yeah, jazz is kinda nice

at a time like this.



Jazz is sorta good on yer fuddled

head, if things aint going too well

and you feel yer in a rut

it’s kinda welcome to lay right

back and hear jazz.


Ah, jazz yer so cool and sweet

to taste, yer slow and soft and mellow

when my tongue is dry

and when my eyes are strained

yer smooth and subtle.

Ah yeah

That's jazz!





FINISHED POEM.


An inner freedom blossoming,

expanded clarity

through the mind

and joyful purpose.


The full page beams up at

me and it is done. Carved,

finely chiselled and roundly

polished.

Sharp flat whiteness echoing

with scrawling sepia script,decisive.

Flowing in full leaden torrent.

Swirling. Heady.

Stirring the mud soft

river bed as emotion after

emotion is drawn forth.






TREES IN SPLENDOUR.


The heavy calloused trees

stretch their bristling

trunks up to the sky,

up to the sun.

They splay out their airy

branches.

Out to the light

and pattern the ground

below,

as the leaves yawn

outrageously,

greenly.

Pushed and stretched up

by the trunk

up to the spindling

sky.

The bole creaks and sighs

its deep

wooden

pleasure

as it thinks

of the clouds

and the soft

blue sky.





THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW.


Through the open window

where the flowered incense stick

stands burning,

I hear a young girls thin sweet voice

singing, alone and content.

Singing to her heart so

content.

A thin high piping. A story in

a song.

Her singing is to me a sign of

her absolute contentment,

her peace in the room and

world of her thoughts,

deep deep down in her

silent settled heart.

Yet in its unmelodious

unaccomplished way it still

sounds sweet and soothing as

a running stream or a wild

bird in song.

A freedom and a purity

that pleases and

engulfs like the thin sharp

curls of wisping smoke

billowing headily in the

crisp morning air,

Through the open window.





TWO PLANES AND A HOLE.


Two planes and a hole

come together on white grey flatness

across the desolate waste of timeless tarmac

soiled eternity.

The little amount of vegetation that was there

had now been chewed up by the endless wheels.

Wheels of all kinds and size, mostly rubber,

scorching their great thick black smears along the land.

Wheels of every kind of machine

hanging down out of the clear blue sky

All varieties of naked undercarriage

whizzing through the air

rending the quiet.


But the holes remain intact between the planes

stretching as far as the eye,

shining up to the clear white space of the stillness above.


And still to this very day the tyres are screaming

and still

the holes are intact

and still the naked blueness

of the sky is

shot at by

the incredible birds






THE DIVINE NECTAR OF THE FULLNESS

OF LIFE MANIFESTS ITSELF.


Every filament within

glows an effervescent gold,

the excited eyes gleam and radiate

a shooting silver sparkle,

as Being creates within

itself its very own

Being.

Under sea nerve end

flowers wave to and fro

delicately, tenderly,

tentatively

touching.


Warm roots dive down

into the soft brown earth of

clay bed reality

rejoicing in

a sweet

enriching

glory.







DAWN.


At its darkest in the early morning

the mountain cannot even be seen

from across the valley. When slowly,

you feel confused. You feel a change

as you strain your eyes to discern

what is happening.

A timeless moment has crept up

upon you and you are caught

within a web of comprehension.

you feel it in your bodyA change

in the moment, from something that

was to something that is.

The whole world is changing !

Yes that's it.

A change is definitely taking place,

you feel a warmth as the once

hard cold night turns a softer blackness

which is diffused at the edges,

an aura pervades each blackness

as time slowly gives shape to the

world.

The mountain merges into the darkness

from nowhere like a rising monster coming

out of a underground pool.

There is a slow shake of light in the

horizon of creation as you feel

warmth change to beauty and each

flower of darkness blips unfolded into

a grey gold valley scene.

The trees, the hedges, the gleaming silver

lake and then the black etched houses.

The shimmering continues to unpeel

the darkness from the outlayed vista

until the panorama takes a colour,

firstly greens and browns and then

the red tiled roofs.

The thin silver line on the horizon

bursts forth in an explosion of

pink then lurid red as

the whole sky catches fire

and gets redder and redder

until an absolute purity of

gold whiteness blinds your

eyes and the world heaves and

breathes again after a long long

sleep.










BIRTHDAY PARTY.


Happy faces in the afternoon sun.

Ice cream.

Laughing chatter, tea cups clatter.

Hot tea.

Large red umbrella castes a gentle shade.

Children chuckle.

Mother cuts the candied cake.

Young eyes gleam.

Rosy cheeks, daring fingers touch the cream.

Happy birthday.

The pretty girl in the yellow frock is a queen.







WHEN THE LOVE OF GOD SHINES DOWN.


When the love of God shines down

upon my upturned face to glaze

my battered and scene of torrid

dreams ill-swept desert-ward

to fleeting pasture lands.


When the love of God shines down

onto my ringing silver soul

to shine my surface bright and

flash out the crooked knots

unspiralled in the sky.


When the love of God shines down

to warm my fluttering impish hands

to slowly fill this hollow-stemmed body

with a gay power of bliss vibration

giving strength from head to toe.








TEN PAST ELEVEN.


Ten past eleven and the shutters are

drawn.

There’s the rumble and bump of

people getting into bed,

slowly,

one by one.

The soft silk black night creeps

round the house and furs up

the edges of the trees outside.




END.








 



 These poems are copyright and the sole property of Julian Lees. julian.lees @googlemail.com


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