Living by ideology must be comforting.
The freedom of constraint, the security of single-mindedness.

It gives one a sense of position; rooted
Behind battle-lines, clear division.

I always thought Marxists naive,
But not in the way you might think -
I was impressed by the notion that the ruling classes
Knew what they were doing.
Subjugation is at least part of a plan.

Humanism simply baffles me:
One might as well believe in
The primacy and potential of pigshit.

Even nihilism is ideology; its comforting
Sense of community: "We believe in one Nothing."

Ideological blinkers preserve order
By blocking out the surrounding chaos.

Perhaps I should find something to cling to
Before the rising tide sweeps me away.

(Not poetry.
I've tried that;
Too unstable.)

I have all my best ideas
In the shower.
Perhaps I should just stay there
All day long.

I am both pilgrim and detective -
A kind of penitent Poirot -
Sifting through muddy reality
In search of a woman - THE woman.

She appears to me from time to time;
Glimpses abound in those around me.
A riddle unsolved, a question unasked;
In love with what I cannot see.

We may even have met already.
Something missed at the time may grow
And consume - a glance, a polite word;
Some hidden gem revealed by time.

Her nature, like her face, eludes me.
Is she some noirish Nemesis,
With omnipresent cigarette haze
And the knell of doom in her heel-clack?

Or the timid nerd of the high school,
Revealed as a radiant beauty
Sans horn-rims, ponytail and books
(On reflection, that's probably me).

Shall we be tragic starstruck lovers,
Cut off in the peak and prime of love
To become a cliché for journalists
And poets immune to irony?

Or perhaps she is all of these things
Arrayed in sublime splendour,
Shifting dreamlike through modes of being
Which illuminate each other.

Besides, I am surely mistaken.
It is a poet's weakness in me:
Reducing his imagined beloved
To convenient literary types.

Just as well: moulds are tedious
No-one worth knowing fits into one
(My apologies to moulded readers -
You are probably happier than I).

Yet, without knowledge, I know her
Even as I search tirelessly.
For I know everything about her
(Save only her identity).

I haven't yet realised the ease
With which the poet allows intimacies
To slip away into the welcoming
Embrace of the reader.

I am no wild Byron, sowing my seed
On all grounds, stony and fertile alike
(Though perhaps that is just as well
For posterity).

I have no cause, no plan, no scheme,
Nothing to fight for or even espouse:
A true postmodern product of a time
Lacking imagination.

A constant running commentary
On myself - a work which does the jobs
Of critics and academics alike -
They must surely be grateful.

So I sit and write myself a letter:
"Solipsism and self-absorbtion
Are a circular labyrinth
With no exit.

"Look outside.
- Sincerely, C. Treacy."

I
The longer I stare at your picture on the screen
The closer I imagine us to be.
Pixels arranged in your shape
Form a convincing illusion:
Ersatz love.

II
That little (1), that yearned for harbinger -
Words of love, of friendship
Are imminent, a mere click away.
Breathless, I make the leap
And learn all about the exciting new program of the Minnesota Orchestra.

III
I pressed my lips against my message to you.
The screen was warm against my lips.
I inhaled the fragrance of your reply.
It smelt of warm plastic.

IV
I waited all day by the radio for my request:
The one portion of influence I could exert
Over fluid swirling chaos.
They never played it.

V
You didn't reply to my final text of the conversation,
As if you'd walked away and left me talking to myself.
It was then that the pettiness of my complaints
Truly struck me.

The more poetry I read,
The more I feel sorry
For consumer culture
And middle-class smugness.

They take such a kicking -
Yet they struggle on.

Misanthropy is too easy;
An abdication of moral
Responsibility to those
Less enlightened and inspired
Than one's own glorious self;

The response of a certain hero
Who faces down the dragon,
Then casts down his sword, deciding
It's not such a bad sort after all,
And lives in harmony with it.

It lacks the passion of pure hate,
The serenity of compassion.
A sputtering, poorly-fed flame,
Basking in its own lukewarm glow,
That heats nothing, burns even less,
Exists in a self-perpetuating
Lonely winter.

(dedicated to Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827)

The inexpressible expressed
In the indefinable.

A reach undimmed by time, soaring,
Falling, twisting, rolling, tugging.
One moment skimming lightly, poised
In fragile marble, shattered by
Mere observation; then standing
Tall atop the world, imperious
Like the hero who betrayed you -
A monument to yourself.

Giving your life to the very
Joy in which you could not share.
The music that entered your head
In your youth never left it,
Reverberating through silence.

Your legacy is victory,
Only enriched by tragedy.
Your struggle echoes across time,
Connecting you with me, and all
Who seek to know and feel, through the
Universal language of the heart,
What it is to be truly human.

The decision point is reached:
Only one path ahead to tread
With single-minded purpose.

A decision finally made;
No more sleepless nights
Or distracted days.

There is no turning back;
No second chances;
No place for "luck".

The cards are dealt, die cast.
Chance has been renounced,
Possible futures lost.

It is done.
The choice was mine.
The end mine too.

Flap after flap, muscles straining,
Any headway immediately counteracted
By a fresh gust.
Every valiant effort proves fruitless;
Fixed firmly in place despite the strain
And frustration.
'Til at last, shifting slightly to the left,
You fly away, unimpeded,
To a new destination.