never a fantasy
but always an illusion

the immigrants from
foreign lands cannot
accept the fallacy

but

I, not born but raised
on the lands they
now strive for,
feel little specialness for
this o' so special
place

I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.
 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.

Tree leaves shake, dancing for my eyes.
Many trees have come
before and will come
after
the most beautiful leaves have fallen
from the one in my kitchen window.

All the winters that have been and gone
taint nothing about
this particular
one
as it blows across the skylight
of my tiny, windowless room.

So why do I pine inside
to be special within
to be the only light
shining upon
your eyes
as they happen to focus on my body
tracing my face in the lamp's shade.

Like the winters, I have come
blowing across your dimmed sun
not the first
may not even be
the last
but I am here, now. With you.
in this room with too many small cupboards
and the smell of a growing familiarity.

I like purple. It’s as simple
    as that. Well, maybe not that simple.
         I’ve in love with purple. We are unified
through time and space
    forever until I die. Purple, being immortal,
        would mourn my death and find
one of its many followers to connect with.
    But for me, there will always be purple. If I had a choice
        in any expression of character design that had
my own personal preference of color, purple
    would be there somewhere. I would dye my
        hair purple if I could, but my mother
told me never to come home
    as long as my hair is dyed.
        I love her and believe her, so I
don’t dye my hair. I have a
    purple dress or two that I dress up in to express
         my beauty. I know
it sounds terrible thinking
    about it, I have to dress up to express
         beauty to others. However, the fact that
I’m complemented means something to me. The way
    I do my makeup and carry myself
         and choose to dress, it has an effect
on those that lays eyes upon me. I beam with pride,
    showing all my expressions of purple.  A homemade purple bow
         here,
a lavender wig there, a dress with the right touches of purple-
    maroon
         and a beaming mahogany woman, brimming with specialness. I am a purple girl,
    not the only one, but the most reflexive I can be.
         If I could color my soul, it would be purple sometimes.
Not every time, but a lot of the times.  Any kind of purple
     would do. The light purples
          like lilac and light lavender are sweet and fluffy.
They remind me of happy seventy-five degree weather
      days with a comforting breeze, and no pollen
          since I’m allergic and pollen is pretty much one of
those things I’d encounter in hell. Darker purples,
      like plum and grape, give a more mature
           vibe of elegance and sophistication. It reminds me
of a dark night, a woman in high heels and
      a dress with a slit so high that
           it makes men lose their religions and minds
for a taste of her tantalizing forbidden fruit,
       with a flawless expression of her body that gives
            those men wet dreams and fantasies. In my heart,
there is a purple stream that flows from the heart that starts to
        circle around my body and continues to float into the
             ground until it touches the core of the planet
and up in the air into space and beyond infinity.
        It always seems to be there, that purple
             stream of magic and imagination. I dance a purple dance,
leaving traces of purple steps in my wake.
        So I come back to the beginning. “I like purple.”
              With those words, I haven’t done my expression justice.
It’s true, but it is an understatement.

Oily flowers
Slap faces like an angel
Simply twain, simpler powers
Sit in the sun, like a smile for the devil

Agony, of an oily smile
Sit to once, upon nothing more...
Hap and adage, require you, of a while
Meaning no-where's step, for a curious war...

Anything, everywhere at once...
A promise to shed, a tear
Through and through, before life begun
The love and misery, is a magic, to fear?

Sated...?
And shown to chew the thought
Is a mystery, of reality, so fated?
When poor is such, aren't we a death sought?

Oily more...
We said the cope, of another world
Suggesting only, the question's we were
Given pride's notion, specialness's devotion; is a fears lover, ever early?

It really is odd, how we started out,
I had come from a relationship gone bad,
I really needed a friend.
In the most amazing coincidence, you saved my life,
You came to be my friend.

What happened next,
Our newly found friendship was so exciting,
How we made each other laugh,
And joked about smiling spleens,
Our friendship exploded with activity.

How you invited me over,
The night before your birthday just to hang out,
How we found each other locking lips, you in my lap,
How pure our feelings became in such a short time,
Oh, how our hearts were racing that night.

The next day was special,
It was magic, how we bonded,
The closeness between us, how cute everyone said we were,
How scared I was that day,
To ask you to be mine.

You said yes, and the next few months –
They were some of the best months of our lives,
We understood each other, poured our hearts and minds out,
It was so crazy how we just
Made each other happy.

Everybody saw it,
People gossiped about how cute we were and how perfect,
We really were so perfect, came together and became so invincible,
I still remember how,
How we fell in love.

The whole spring,
The amazing feelings every day, how wonderful things were,
We both found no ******, the love kept building and building,
Every look, every sound, every kiss,
We found true love.

But when we found true love,
Our love was everything, we began to see each other in the purest sense,
It became more than being carried away by infatuations and desires,
We found something special,
We weren't just a couple.


In all of that specialness,
I told myself I'd always love you, because I knew what I saw in you,
You were more than my girlfriend, you became the best friend I'd ever had,
Almost a sister to me, the peace of mind, the calm,
We found nirvana.

Then came June,
What started with a bang ended in such tragedy, I didn't foresee such horrible consequences,
Our love was so strong, but how quickly our advances became regressions,
I then regretted so much, I lost my calm, I became unsettled,
We became a train derailed.

Transitioning to July,
We never really got the train back up and running,
It was damaged from the derailment, it didn't want to move, we got so scared,
I became frantic, I became mean, cruel, cold-shoulder was almost my middle name,
How I'd forever be sorry.

I said hello to August,
When you were afraid of me because I'd become an animal,
When I saw it in your eyes it was almost too late,
You'd spent too many days crying, depressed, your parents began to hate me too,
I'd not been around for you.

Autumn began,
The leaves fell off the trees, and I tried so hard to please, but I couldn't,
Your eyes were so empty, your parents were fuming, I knew I let you down,
Oh, how hard I was kicking myself for being so awful to the love of my life,
Who didn't want to know me.

Today,

It took a little time after all of this for me to gather my brains.
You see, you were so much more to me than a lover, more than the love of my life.
You saved my life, from the beginning, and it's not my emotional justification but the truth.
You taught me how to be happy, made me forget how to hate myself.
You put so much color into my world, you sang me new songs.
The lengths to which I'd go to be the smile on your face again are far too great for my own good.

I wasn't in love with you. I loved you.
You as a person. Your brain, your soul, your will, your body.
You see, you'd become my soul mate, not my ****** partner.
You'd become someone I'd love forever, even if you didn't love me back, even if you were gone.
In a way, you became my sister, my freedom, my truth, my goal, my promise, and you grew on me.
You grew like the most beautiful gardens, you became what I lived for.

In the end, you were many wonderful things, but mainly one --
My trust.

Diva Trees

Aloneness gives a tree
An opportunity
To stand out
From the scene

She enters nature's stage
Like a many-armed diva
Receiving flowers
Awards
And much applause

She is painted and pictured
By people
As  her rings grow
Ever so slowly

Basking in her own glow
Of specialness
With no pretenders in sight
To steal her light

Her water transfused
From veins
Down below
Only for her, they flow

She says:
“I am here
And I will not be ignored
So feast your eyes
“Then feast some more”

Sean Hunt  Windermere  Feb 21 2016

Urges, we never said...
Were the time, the thoughts of open bother
Of a sleeping prophet, with silence to lead:
A care into the limelight, with heaven to hover

A brassier share, in the need of promises
Sent from guarded selves, a world which delves
Integrity is mine for a shall and a swallow of vices
That remembers you, when patience looked for life's health

Speaking of hell...
Strange invaders, strangers in the mystery of this yarn
Weal no more, than a crash of existence, we know so well
Letting mercy see my upset, a habit has me by the toe I shall learn...

Is it me, or did I just wake up?
City's of strength, and the embarrassment of delicate poise
Have opened their doors, to a solitude that has become a covenant
With the voice we add, is silent warnings of another's choice?

Tell me the story, comes my conscience
A hap of retribution in the same, the shadows of a scream
I have made, a promising God, a sign of the times to presence
That has looked, and seen our terror, the bitterness of a demon...

Save me from a stone of kinship, with a kiss...?
Proper shape to a wish alive, in sordid chance, a wind
Of guidance and justifying malevolence, that has stolen my wish
From the heart of me, a stare of pining finish to a lie to mind...

Pillows make fast friends, if shade is forever cool, intrepid...
Interest in a careful window, is many to fathom a liberty in shyness
Acts and paces of facts, run faster than all of the powers that are, hid
When children dance, the seed of specialness is a call to wisdom's bless...?

Care for another, victim of insincerity?
Long truth's and the tomorrow of interim
Has a rather chosen, possession of sardonic not, the charity
Of privilege run so far, for a wicked dream to lend...

Cough, cough; palpable
Anecdote to share a legend, no man has let live
Longer than a kiss in the heat of a kindness to ****...
Seeing is believing, even when our hope in a purpose above, a world in love with what we give...?