Unable:
"Her sea-blue eyes were wild"
That wildness which speaks of calm disordered,
Great vision disordered.
She's had something stolen from her, rooted out of trust,
Innocence.
Someone saw how much she had, and eviscerated her for it.
All she's seen and skitters from now,
Core and canker of her memory,
(Always) in her eyes.
And she works to force it back
Into the undone, the never known,
The not-tasted, the full, unwasted,
But that is not... it is not...
What has been cannot be made not,
It surfaces, minnow now, leviathan in the next,
A mere spattering, a drowning wave,
Acid spot, watery deluge,
Both to the same effect, indelible marking,
Sudden gut-gaping gasps, abrasions on her knees and forehead,
Half-moon gouges in her palms,
Multiplied stigmata criss-cross scarred flesh.
Her eyes have seen... and know it will return (always),
No matter where she looks to, where she lays her sight,
Upon which balm she gazes, in frantic hope to find
An anaesthetic that will salve longer than the last:
That is the look she places on you, but already,
Her sea-blue eyes are wild, deep but rising, inexorably:
And you will prove unable, too.
Quoted first line from “To Juan at the Winter Solstice” by Robert Graves
At The Exact Instant:
At the exact instant you must decide,
The car powering at you, no brakes on Earth capable
Of bringing that tonne of metal and plastic to a halt -
"Forward or back?" - What will you do?
Your knees have turned to jelly, just like in books,
And you've raised your palms as if you might push the car away,
Or hold it off.
The gesture is pathetic, very human,
But it uses up time that would have been better spent
Deciding, "forward or back", re-sinewing your knees,
Electric signals blasting through shock and paralysing fear
To make you move, shift yourself.
It's not always a car,
And you aren't forever in the middle of the road with nowhere to go,
But the crisis that freezes you
Except for that all too human, hopeful gesture,
Arms raised, palms out, free of threat, empty of challenge,
Is always just around the next corner, on you in a breath,
A leering jack out of a most unlikely box,
And you are made again pre-sentient,
'Black and white', 'yes or no', 'fight or flight':
Thought doesn't figure, there isn't time for reason,
It is instinct, all instinct, either/or.
Some protagonists of extravagant physical skills,
Dons of schools of philosophy,
Blesseds of religious sects,
Argue that we, you and I,
Are nothing until we are sorely tested
Beyond everything we thought made us individual and unique,
And that we are only made by being unmade
(And then, of course, in a very human gesture,
Ideally re-made to their preferred model.)
"Re-make yourself to no previous template."
Has a ring about it, doesn't it?
At the risk of starting a fresh school of dickering thought,
Another sect of religious observation,
And with no particular talents at dance or with a sword,
Following upon the inevitable crises
That you will swear have broken you, it's all I can suggest.
But, the car bearing down on you,
At this exact instant, what will you do?
Yeah, you!
The one who's about to chew my bonnet.