Ulysses - Hello Poetry

You are so ready to help others Escape their dark labyrinths, Only to be abandoned On a lonely island, Where you wait To fall into the arms Of yet another drunken sot. Daughter of a cruel king, High Priestess Caressed by sacred snakes, You gave all this away To follow a man Who promised you everything, Then used you heartlessly. Now another approaches, Will he give you what you want? No! You must recover your lost snakes, Your mysteries and power, Begin to believe again In your sacred rites, Re-build your temple On your solitary island. It may seem bleak, But it is yours. Do not give it away yet again.

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May 24, 2020

May 24, 2020 at 4:05 AM UTC

Ariadne

You are so ready to help others Escape their dark labyrinths, Only to be abandoned On a lonely island, Where you wait To fall into the arms Of yet another drunken sot. Daughter of a cruel king, High Priestess Caressed by sacred snakes, You gave all this away To follow a man Who promised you everything, Then used you heartlessly. Now another approaches, Will he give you what you want? No! You must recover your lost snakes, Your mysteries and power, Begin to believe again In your sacred rites, Re-build your temple On your solitary island. It may seem bleak, But it is yours. Do not give it away yet again.

25

Have you ever tried to sail against the tides? Heeled into the stiff wind, with the jib straining, the rigging humming, the bow cleaving the waves and spray cascading over the fore-deck, you seem to be making great headway. But a glance back to the shore confirms the truth. Something about that island you are trying to leave seems to be holding your ship in its thrall, as if an invisible rope stretches back to the shore. But it is not the island's gods preventing your escape. It is nothing more than the tides. You have started your voyage at the wrong time. You must give up this vain attempt, furl your sails, drop your anchor, and go below. You must sit this out and wait for the tide to turn.

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Apr 11, 2018

Apr 11, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC

The Tides

Have you ever tried to sail against the tides? Heeled into the stiff wind, with the jib straining, the rigging humming, the bow cleaving the waves and spray cascading over the fore-deck, you seem to be making great headway. But a glance back to the shore confirms the truth. Something about that island you are trying to leave seems to be holding your ship in its thrall, as if an invisible rope stretches back to the shore. But it is not the island's gods preventing your escape. It is nothing more than the tides. You have started your voyage at the wrong time. You must give up this vain attempt, furl your sails, drop your anchor, and go below. You must sit this out and wait for the tide to turn.

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When you said the awful words, What I thought was real, That beautiful sky Which seemed to stretch away forever Into distant poetic and dreamy landscapes, Began to crack, And the Abyss, The dreaded pit of nothingness, Broke open with a terrifying shriek, And as it gaped A wind rose up, And all that was beautiful, All that was joyful, All that was lovely to the soul And delightful to the eye, Was swept into the hellish maw Leaving only dark despair behind. When you said the awful words, What I thought was real Was revealed as nothing But a beautifully painted surface Covering the too grim truth Of emptiness.

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Mar 25, 2018

Mar 25, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC

The Awful Words

When you said the awful words, What I thought was real, That beautiful sky Which seemed to stretch away forever Into distant poetic and dreamy landscapes, Began to crack, And the Abyss, The dreaded pit of nothingness, Broke open with a terrifying shriek, And as it gaped A wind rose up, And all that was beautiful, All that was joyful, All that was lovely to the soul And delightful to the eye, Was swept into the hellish maw Leaving only dark despair behind. When you said the awful words, What I thought was real Was revealed as nothing But a beautifully painted surface Covering the too grim truth Of emptiness.

23

If only, I could find a crack in that canvas, Pry it apart Peer through, And see the other painting I know must be there, The painting that has to be more real Than the one in the gallery, The one you painted, That deft piece of forgery, The painting that everyone passes by. If only I could find a crack In that canvas On which you painted my portrait, Maybe someone would stop and take notice.

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Mar 17, 2018

Mar 17, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC

My Portrait

If only, I could find a crack in that canvas, Pry it apart Peer through, And see the other painting I know must be there, The painting that has to be more real Than the one in the gallery, The one you painted, That deft piece of forgery, The painting that everyone passes by. If only I could find a crack In that canvas On which you painted my portrait, Maybe someone would stop and take notice.

16

The danger of writing...  allow a single word  to appear on your blank screen  and it will call up its associates,   many of which will not be your friends,   and like mobsters,   may take you on a journey   you would rather not be having.    The danger of writing...  especially at certain times,  times of vulnerability,  when a particular image,  like this image that now confronts my mind   - that of an empty double seat overlooking a river - might evoke a provocative word.   I know where this is going...   Do not allow a single word to appear!   Keep staring bleakly  at the empty screen.   But the word appears  on the screen of my mind,  impossible to avoid  at five o’clock in the afternoon,  the winter sun descending,   the biting edge of cold dusk  settling into my soul.   Emptiness...   Life passing relentlessly,   second by second,  a river that never stops.    The curse of consciousness...   its inescapable loneliness.    The river...  painful past to the left,   anxious future to the right,   the present  moment drowning in its cold swirling waters.   The emptiness of another evening  of another empty day...  the comfort of a drink,   and then another.    Mindless chattering of TV voices...  voices of ghosts,   illusions,  disconnected  from the warmth of a body.   The warmth of a body...  the empty double seat.    A passing car...  silence.   The cat...   padding across bare floorboards  wanting food.   Wanting...  the empty double seat,   needing the warmth of a couple.    Needs...  harshly exposed,   like a line of naked corpses   waiting on dissecting tables.   Longing...  for a woman to sit beside me,   to contemplate a shared river.    The empty double seat...  The river flowing away as relentlessly  as a poem of desolation  started by a single word.

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Oct 28, 2017

Oct 28, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC

The Danger of Writing

The danger of writing...  allow a single word  to appear on your blank screen  and it will call up its associates,   many of which will not be your friends,   and like mobsters,   may take you on a journey   you would rather not be having.    The danger of writing...  especially at certain times,  times of vulnerability,  when a particular image,  like this image that now confronts my mind   - that of an empty double seat overlooking a river - might evoke a provocative word.   I know where this is going...   Do not allow a single word to appear!   Keep staring bleakly  at the empty screen.   But the word appears  on the screen of my mind,  impossible to avoid  at five o’clock in the afternoon,  the winter sun descending,   the biting edge of cold dusk  settling into my soul.   Emptiness...   Life passing relentlessly,   second by second,  a river that never stops.    The curse of consciousness...   its inescapable loneliness.    The river...  painful past to the left,   anxious future to the right,   the present  moment drowning in its cold swirling waters.   The emptiness of another evening  of another empty day...  the comfort of a drink,   and then another.    Mindless chattering of TV voices...  voices of ghosts,   illusions,  disconnected  from the warmth of a body.   The warmth of a body...  the empty double seat.    A passing car...  silence.   The cat...   padding across bare floorboards  wanting food.   Wanting...  the empty double seat,   needing the warmth of a couple.    Needs...  harshly exposed,   like a line of naked corpses   waiting on dissecting tables.   Longing...  for a woman to sit beside me,   to contemplate a shared river.    The empty double seat...  The river flowing away as relentlessly  as a poem of desolation  started by a single word.

65

Our books are mingled, Hers and mine, Messed up Between each other, Some never opened, Their pages still pristine, Some dog-eared and ***** My biography of Plath, My Byron, My poetry and art, Are hard to find Between her ****** fictions And coffee-table tabloids In lurid colours. Her crimes and her romances, Lying evidence Pushed hurriedly Out of sight Between the covers, On which is inscribed The name of the one She nominates To take the rap, As if 'She' Had never authored anything. And these left Lying around the house For me to pick up And put back In the same place. One day I'll bin the lot!

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Oct 27, 2017

Oct 27, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC

The Books of Marriage

Our books are mingled, Hers and mine, Messed up Between each other, Some never opened, Their pages still pristine, Some dog-eared and ***** My biography of Plath, My Byron, My poetry and art, Are hard to find Between her ****** fictions And coffee-table tabloids In lurid colours. Her crimes and her romances, Lying evidence Pushed hurriedly Out of sight Between the covers, On which is inscribed The name of the one She nominates To take the rap, As if 'She' Had never authored anything. And these left Lying around the house For me to pick up And put back In the same place. One day I'll bin the lot!

31

On a windswept beach Someone has been tied to a stake, Abandoned to the sea and the elements. His eyes are squinting Against the harsh light. He has been stripped naked And his skin is burnt and raw. His lashings are biting into his flesh As his body is battered by the ocean winds. Scourged by flying sand and salt, Every gale blows something of him away. Every day, there is less of him... Soon, there will be nothing left But the stake and a tattered skeleton.

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Oct 21, 2017

Oct 21, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC

Ageing

On a windswept beach Someone has been tied to a stake, Abandoned to the sea and the elements. His eyes are squinting Against the harsh light. He has been stripped naked And his skin is burnt and raw. His lashings are biting into his flesh As his body is battered by the ocean winds. Scourged by flying sand and salt, Every gale blows something of him away. Every day, there is less of him... Soon, there will be nothing left But the stake and a tattered skeleton.

14

When the lights dim into darkness, Then sneaks in on shifty legs the Puppet-Master. Curtains drawn the show commences, On strings our limbs begin to **** To the pull of unseen forces. We become Punch or Judy, Unlovable and unloved, Unmoved to love another. For when our souls Are draped in darkness, Love’s wisdom is lost. Only when we wake once more Are we able to remember The remedy for this malady… To open our wounded hearts, For the Puppet-Master shrinks away From the light of an open heart.

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Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC

Love's Remedy

When the lights dim into darkness, Then sneaks in on shifty legs the Puppet-Master. Curtains drawn the show commences, On strings our limbs begin to **** To the pull of unseen forces. We become Punch or Judy, Unlovable and unloved, Unmoved to love another. For when our souls Are draped in darkness, Love’s wisdom is lost. Only when we wake once more Are we able to remember The remedy for this malady… To open our wounded hearts, For the Puppet-Master shrinks away From the light of an open heart.

18

The least-loved actor on the stage, She is as beautiful as the moon ... and just as pale. She stands alone in the spotlight, Surrounded by darkness ... with the courage to feel. She is real, honest and truthful, In this theatre of shadows and lies ... her tears are no act.

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Oct 18, 2017

Oct 18, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC

Sadness

The least-loved actor on the stage, She is as beautiful as the moon ... and just as pale. She stands alone in the spotlight, Surrounded by darkness ... with the courage to feel. She is real, honest and truthful, In this theatre of shadows and lies ... her tears are no act.

9

Driving in the dark, Headlights on the road ahead, Black night lies beyond. My world is the car, In the warmth of the cabin, The instrument's glow. The headlight's beam shows The road streaming by smoothly In endless long lines. A tunnel of light, Hypnotic pairs of cats-eyes Curving towards me Resonating with The engine's harmonic drone, Mesmerising me. Night in the mirror, And ahead beyond the light, The unknown darkness. Existence draws in, To the road in the light's beam, And inside the car. The present moment, Of the car and the lit road, Is all that exists. Driving in the dark, Our cars never leave the light, Stay in the present. The rest is darkness, There is no past or future, Just imaginings. Everyone exists In the light of the present, Driving in the dark.

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Oct 8, 2017

Oct 8, 2017 at 6:08 AM UTC

Driving in the Dark

Driving in the dark, Headlights on the road ahead, Black night lies beyond. My world is the car, In the warmth of the cabin, The instrument's glow. The headlight's beam shows The road streaming by smoothly In endless long lines. A tunnel of light, Hypnotic pairs of cats-eyes Curving towards me Resonating with The engine's harmonic drone, Mesmerising me. Night in the mirror, And ahead beyond the light, The unknown darkness. Existence draws in, To the road in the light's beam, And inside the car. The present moment, Of the car and the lit road, Is all that exists. Driving in the dark, Our cars never leave the light, Stay in the present. The rest is darkness, There is no past or future, Just imaginings. Everyone exists In the light of the present, Driving in the dark.

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