Arise, the poet sings

Post date: 30-Nov-2020 13:40:09

Arise, the poet sings

Words not mine

But John Martin’s

Of Hampstead nights

And Witches wings

Of golden girls

One thousand things

Of silver parties

And bronze earrings

Hot cast friendships

Iridium rememberings

Rustless knights

On precious metallings

Roads to heaven

Via hell’s meanderings

Paul Ernest

(A poor, hasty introduction to John Martin's Poems celbrating Hampstead and the Witches)

John Martin Poems 2020

HAMPSTEAD NIGHTS

Between the Moon and Sixpence sprang up flowers

no Witch's Cauldron could disseminate

into those million rainbow-coloured bombs

which still kaleidoscope inside my head

once all those parties, with their partners, fled.

They burst upon that more than midnight scene

between the White Bear and each cold North Star

which paved the way for later sexier trends

because such scenes were 'cool', but not so cool

as that Cruel Sea (which proved a bit too cruel) ...

It was that sea of sad humanity

beating upon the shore of adult life

in all its various guises and disguises,

sometimes so calm, sometimes so full of strife

it dared not meet those far from abstract norms

mere 'Holiness' would coldly thrust upon them

as if such were their duty, and no gift

more priceless than this one they had already

of dancing to the music of a beat

so fine it filled them with a different heat,

in which you also drowned. (And ever since

have wondered where the ensuing silence came from.)

- It came from all those empty streets left out

beneath the plane trees and the not-so-plain

to take the gloss off every other shame.

THE PARTY

Soon all that lively adolescent flesh

disposed about the room in loving couples

unmesmerised my insight, and explained

(in rhyming couplets) what a feast love was

for sore eyes … (Yet foresaw a deeper Winter

and then a wider Summer than most guessed.)

O children! Children! Let the music roar,

the penis soar, the quim grow yet more limpid

but never soggy! Let the music seem

the very heart of each orgasmic dream,

the eyes grow wilder, wider, and yet more

enthusiastic than they were before …

(But then complete all with a silent scream.)

O 'idealism'! O 'romantic hopes'

whenever will you get to know the ropes?

- Too soon it seems! Oh what a heartless drag

when every lit-up face begins to sag

and daylight dawns without delight … (My theme

to document it all, and then convene

a meeting with the most concerned … Or pass

a law or two to make love possible

once more, outside the prison of love's scheme.)

- But then that sad trip back to adulthood,

to parents and to teachers - and that Mean

the Golden advertise … But rarely grasp.

WITCH'S CAULDRON

He had a different girl for every mood.

She had a different boy for every mode.

So when their moods and modes no longer clashed

they were enthusiastic - if abashed.

He rang her up. She ran him down. There was

a music in that melody … (Else frown.)

I climbed up to the top of every tower

so I could plumb their inner depths, and yawn.

I wanted them to coalesce, and come

to some arrangement that would see them through …

(These are the dainty years, and difficult

to reconnoitre, and, at last, resolve

into a pattern that can satisfy

each ego's deepest urges. Yet absolve.)