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David Champion May 2017
Standing inside my window,
I overlook the sea,
Its wild distant waves,
Are scattered with spray and rime
While rain squalls bluster,
Whip the coastal scrub,
And beat against the window,
Shaking it before me.

This is clarity,
Coldly far-sighted and real.
There is nothing to shield me
From the bleakness outside,
Of cold wind and rain,
But a shaking window pane.

And I am in and out,
Of a related,
Experience of my mind,
An inner clarity,
Of certain feelings,
Where my own inner landscape
Is just as cold and wild,
Where in great moments,
Long and expansive enough
For a lone eagle's flight,
Across a deep vast,
There opens the emptiness
Of an unremitting view
That expands forever,
Across a shadowless plain
Of unfeatured freedom,
Depriving my limbs
Of knowing where to take me,
For with such clarity,
Potency leaves me,
And everything approaches
An equalised tension,
Color dissolving,
In the unforgiving light
Into clear and starker,
Hues of black and white.

At such confronting moments
Of intensified light,
I want sfumato,
Where illusion emerges
And magical stillness
Of poetic dreams,
A satyr seems to appear,
From dark forest shadows,
Or was it a dream?
Just flickering light and shade?

In art's uncertainties,
My soul gains relief,
Softened by chiaroscuro,
From which deep shadow
Imagination rises to
Soften and obscure,
To blur the harsh edges
Of reality,
Removing the objective
Towards much safer realms
Of a personal
World of subjectivity,
Sensation becoming
Perception in which
The natural is surpassed,
Becomes the poetic,
The spiritual,
And so the everyday world
Then becomes enchanted,
Synonymous with
The illusionary world
Of art's poetic forms,
The colours of it,
All its singing harmonies,
All its sublime beauties,
That work together,
To form a poetic whole.

But behind this window pane,
I am bleak and dismal,
Stripped of the comfort
Of heart-warming illusion,
And bleakness clings to me
Like a cold wet shirt,
Exposing my nakedness,
The cruelly torn edges
Of a soul emptied
Of all joy and all beauty,
My soul, that part of me
Of which I was sure,
And was my certain refuge
From all the furrowed brows
Of the harried world
From which I come to this place.

Is this bleak journey my path?
The one that will lead me
Back to my own self?
That beautiful part of me
I somehow lost touch with
So long ago now.
Where can I hope to find it,
Along this stony path,
This lonely drear place?
Yet, am I truly alone?
For did you not promise
You would be with me,
My companion on this path?
That thought has sustained me,
But you are not here!
Was it just your faithless words?

And now, after this longing
For embracing shadows,
To comfort my soul,
The weather has closed right down,
And comes in gloomily,
Limiting visibility,
And now the light is poor,
And a swirling rain-storm
Makes the house shudder,
Lashing the window near me,
And flying off the roof,
In clouds of cold spray.

Thank you, Higher Beings all,
For your keen diligence
In sending to me
These clouds of cold spray and rime.
But, instead of the angst
And uncertainty
Of this cursed clarity,
Another squall of rain
Was not in my mind…

You knew what I had in mind.
David Champion May 2017
By day, the ocean obeys
The laws of nature,
Stays in its place,
Washing up on the sand
In regular and reliable waves,
It is predictable by day,
‘tho sea-salts would say otherwise.

But have you noticed the way
The ocean grows towards dusk,
If you stay alone on the beach
With your arms wrapped around you
Against the cold sea-wind,
Watching the glow of the sun recede?

At this time,
You will see the waves begin to pile higher,
Rising one above the other
Far above the beach.

This is the time of the greatest tide,
When the moon’s pull is exceeded
By other influences,
And the ocean begins to break through.

It rises over the shore,
Sweeps up over forests and fields,
Towns and villages,
Bursting through doors and windows.

It cannot be restrained by locks and catches.

In the evening,
The ocean will always come
Into your house.
Filling every room and corner.

You cannot escape the ocean,
At this time,
You cannot go back
And watch it from the beach.

At this time,
The ocean is all around you
And you are swimming in its depths,

At this time,
You have become the ocean.
David Champion May 2017
___________

As a child, there was a place that was
so deeply familiar to me
that I never had to think
about it, for it was simply there,
and in it I lived quite happily, alone,
but, as the long summer of my childhood
began to turn to a more turbulent season,
I somehow lost the way there, and
even the memory of that place
slowly faded from my mind
until no trace of it was left.

Many years passed, until as a man
at the cross-roads of his life, and feeling
a deep need to commune with nature,
and for the peace of solitude, and a need
to escape the narrow streets of the city,
I took to walking alone in the country-side.
Thus it was, as I was wandering, one day,
in a lonely forest, that I became lost
in a dark and unfamiliar place,
and, while searching for the way
through thick and tangled foliage,
I came across an overgrown path,
long unused, and followed it, in the hope
that it may lead me to where
I could recover my direction.
But the path led on, and on, and deeper in,
until I came to a place, that,
like the faintest waft of a long forgotten aroma,
a memory buried deeply in my soul was stirred.

There was a high wall overhung with branches, a place
that might easily have passed unnoticed, most of the wall
being lost to sight beneath a mass of vegetation
clinging to its stony cracks and ledges,
creeping, and twining, and flourishing there,
tendrils of new growth, ivy, and jasmine,
fragrant in the warmth of the sun,
reached out greenly above dead and tangled
undergrowth, such was the age of the wall,
and climbing roses, whose pink buds,
swayed weightlessly in a gentle breeze.

Noticing another detail, strangely familiar,
I pushing though the foliage towards it,
to find, half-hidden in the shadows, an ancient gate,
set back within two great stone pillars,  
atop each of which was an urn, cracked and old
and encrusted with lichen and wound round with ivy,
suggesting that this gateway had been lost
for centuries, and suggesting, also,
where the rusted bars reached up
becoming lovely twisted forms and leafy shapes
wrought by some long-forgotten artisan,
ancient craft and, more, a deep love of workmanship.

Deep and long-lost memories began to stir in me,
and grow, both with a rising sense of joy
and filled with wonder, yet, disbelief
that this could really be, which sharpened
further my senses, and I somehow,
managed to turn the rusted latch,
and though the heaviness of the gate
resisted me at first, put my weight against it firmly,
until it creaked slowly inwards on its stiff hinges,
and, as spellbound as a child, I stepped through
into the calm and peace of a place
I knew as deeply as myself,
a place that had remained unchanged,
these many years, like a once-loved part of myself,
so long neglected and found anew.

Inside this lovely place, there was a soft
silence broken only by occasional bird-calls,
ringing and sounding, and the murmur of the breeze.
Where once I had chased butterflies, wildly leaping,
I was now filled with stillness, and gazed
around in awe, with more reflective, yet no less
wondering eyes than a child would have,
into this lovely garden, and up into the
soft and leafy canopy crisply illuminated overhead
in greens and golds, and the deeply shadowed places,
below the trees, and the lawns and fragrant flower-beds,
flecked with colour and dappled with the sun,
and at the light itself, the clarity of which
seemed to expand my mind, leading to thoughts
of a greater grandeur existing in this place,
with all its forms of beauty so lovely
as to lighten the heart, which, burdened
by the cares of a demanding careless world
had so long cried out for peace and solitude.

I followed the path, which went inward,
and then sloped down to where wide stone steps
wound steeply down in places, and statues,
half-hidden in the shadowed bushes, of Pan,
and woodland nymphs, and a satyr,
green with moss and lichen, emerged
like old friends to greet me as I descended,
now beneath towering elms which formed a high vault,
through which the divinely lovely light
streamed down in rays, as from the transept windows
in a dimly-lit cathedral, and then
I stepped out of this semi-shadowed place
into the sunlight where wide lawns,
bordered by beds of lilies and purple irises,
sloped down to a mirrored lake.  

There, on a headland, stood
a small temple shining white in the sunlight,
the round Greek tholos, that I knew so well,
a place of coolness on a hot day, a place
of calm and perfect beauty, where,
as a child, sitting on its steps, I would
dangle my feet in the water, sending
ripples across the lake to fracture
the reflected colours of the willows
on the opposite bank, or feed the swans.
So, here I sat, once more, so many years hence,
a grown man, with all the reflections of the lake
around me, the greens, yellows, and russet browns,
with brilliant patches of sky blue moving between them,
and watched fish lazily sliding below
the water-lily pads at my feet, and the dragon-flies
hovering and sweeping above the mirrored surface.

The warmth of the sun,
the peaceful beauty of the place,
and the enchantment of finding it once again,
drew me into a state of deep repose and reflection,
in which my mind was filled with a sense
of mystery, and a sense of the vastness of time,
and a strange understanding came over me
that this lovely place had always been here,
close to me, but lying just beyond my perceptions,
simply waiting for me to remove the masks and veils
of mundane adult life, and regain once more
the child's wonder at the world and innocent ability
to see and accept it as it is, and thus
had been able to find the path once more.

And, on the distant edge of these deep reflections,
I heard a sound behind me, and
as I turned towards it, that lovely woman
I used to know so well, the woman
who used to come to me in my dreams,
whose smile is like sunshine and laughter like music,
and whose grey-eyed soulful gaze I could never escape,
sat gently down beside me and, without a word,
slipped her arm through mine,
my soul, my dear, dear soul, clad in a dark red gown,
that lovely being of the deepest sensibility,
that lover of goodness and tranquility,
she met me there and sat beside me silently.  

Such was the reverent and expansive feeling of her
presence, I was filled with awe
that I had found her once again, my beloved,
so long lost to me, and I was inspired with
the deepest gratitude that the ancient gate
had appeared before me, and had opened to my touch,
and I had been allowed to return once more
to this tranquil place, to be with her once again,
and to walk with her, arm in arm, in our garden.
David Champion May 2017
A door has opened and open stands
Beside the path where once a wall
Of stone had stood and no path led
But the known one stretching straight ahead.

My journey stopped I stand perplexed,
A door has opened and open stands,
Its invitation calling me
To explore a place of mystery.

I feel my breath come quickly now,
My heart is pounding in my chest,
A door has opened and open stands
And I know not what would be best.

For if it closes I would lose
This chance to wander verdant lands
Of beauty that inspires my soul…
A door has opened and open stands.
__________
In using the quatrain form, I was inspired by 'Where Fingers Bled' by Winn, a beautifully evocative poem.
David Champion Apr 2017
How you welcomed
The creak of my oars
In your silent waters!
You had waited so long,
For this first visitor.

You enticed me
Into the shadows
Of your black poplars
And tangled vines,
Where lay hidden
Your pristine temple.

By day and by night
You entertained me
At your altar,
And I, like a captive
Suppliant at your feet,
Attended your loneliness.

But I grew weary
Of your mysteries and rites,
And despite your tears
And pleading looks,
took to sitting alone
And gazing out to sea.

What years have I dreamt away
On your time-lost island?
But now, I am awakening,
The tide is changing,
And a rising breeze
Stirs my ship at her moorings.

I am leaving the stillness
Of your groves and caverns.
Your sanctuaries,
And your secrets,
Detain me no longer,
I yearn for home.

I am Ulysses,
Did you think to keep me
In your world of death forever?
David Champion Apr 2017
Approaching an island
Of unknown rocks
And rearing cliffs,
I am Ulysses,
Anticipating the next terror.

My ship cleaves
The running waves,
Dipping long and deep
Into foam at leeward,
While above me
Curves the white canvas.

It seems forever
That I have stood
Alone at the helm,
On this sloping deck,
Feeling the great, grey rollers
Slide below me,
And the cold wet wind at my back.

I watch the waves,
The ship,
The approach of the unknown shore,
No Sirens can distract me,
I am bound to this voyage.

— The End —