"timetables" poems
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
14.2k
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
13.9k
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye,
Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly.
The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird,
Mom preparing stuff for breakfast,
And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast.
I stare at my room window and take a glimpse
Of people rushing their cars past the traffic.
Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific!
The birds chirping daily without any holidays
And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings.
The gardener has arrived, the maid had come
In almost each person’s home.
People terminated their morning walk
And grabbed the car.
I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily-
The merchants and vendors shouting noisily.
All the work is turning on without distraction,
Everyone at their workplace in attention.
After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm
The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face.
This assures me that everyone left their houses
And reached their respective places.
I take my eyes off the window and sit-back.
No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works,
And timetables on the calendar looks.
No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus
No more books and things at mess.
I see the clock-it’s only eight
Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight.
Spotting everyone at their routine work-
I feel so much desolate and forlorn.
And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work.
At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom
And ask myself-“What have I done today?”
The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!”
I see the calendar-Two more months for school:
Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle
Two more months to shut the windows
Two more months to mess my table
Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble
I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Under the dead beat sky
Collaborations tie us all together
Our ideas cross and human gazes overlap
Streams flow into tiny veins that cover a certain surface area.
Red lights shine on profiled faces in the evening side of the night
Trainers shuffle along the uneven ground around town where signs are broken.
Cigarette smoke pours out of each corner of this run down station
Wrinkled looks despair over the dated flourescent timetables
Just waiting for the next train out of town
Just waiting for the next train out of town
Shove past my nearest man to get to the furthest conception
The long path to the nearest understanding of human nature
Is muddied with distasteful stories that couldnt hold any kind of weight Among us.
Jeremiah in the window of the salon, he puts his makeup on slowly
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Each day the light slips
into the murky shadows
of the bedroom-morning-depression
Cars swish by
in the rush hour of work
and school
routines, timetables and teabreaks
weekday working
full of purpose.
On the edge, outside the frame
margin people wait
silenced and destination free
unmapped, unseen
locked tight
in a circle
cruising
their perimeter
only hoping for a break.
© M.L.Emmett
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
Podium
That’s me on the totem pole,
with the face paints and cigarettes.
The smoke burns your eyes.
That’s me on the pedestal,
ears to ground and eyes in the clouds.
The rain soaked your skin.
That’s me on the platform,
with the rucksack and treasured artefacts,
The timetables melted your mind.
That’s me on the podium,
soaked in sweat, medal around my neck.
The track broke your heart.
That’s me at the finish line baby,
maybe,
we could go back to the start.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
I can't keep writing about the same things
Like a broken record played over and over again
Just so the lonely can hear something sing
It's all her emerald eyes and silent goodbyes
And all the times I've lost my mind
A memory lasts a lifetime,
As long as you have the evidence that that time
Truly existed
Maybe we missed it,
The last train to our future together
Maybe the timetables were wrong and
We were too busy watching our scars heal to
Make it to the station on time.
I've torn apart so many books and
Burnt so much fabric
In the hopes of forgetting people who
Discarded me entirely
And I will never see that word the same again,
Because when you've become inconvenient,
You will be dispensed, replaced,
Discarded.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
i stared at the milky way
through the keyhole of your front door
my nose itched
at the linger of stardust on the floor
needless of a space suit
i stepped right through
waving goodbye to the earth
and entering this room
where exists no calendars nor timetables
where we’re made of constellations
no need for labels
realized the earth was a ghost town
at your existence's sight,
no city has a better skyline
than your body laying down
and while the clock on earth swallows up time
chasing the sun as it hides
i am floating with you now
in a heavenly ride
through our celestial silence
so eyes closed
blinded by your cosmic light
i read your skin like braille
most absorbing story anyone could write
i fell for your stars too far down
to be fearful of your night
so i confessed i was your satellite
i will follow wherever you guide
in a supernova you created me
didn't need to give me adjectives
and as your blue and my green collided
a new earth for us was provided
the end of the universe will come
the night your eyelids don't close beside me
the cosmos is curled up inside of us
it's the chaotic beauty of galaxies colliding
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
A small nest in a large sea,
the beat of the blades keeps
time for those still alive,
whose desperate waves
defy tide timetables.
The camera zooms in on
anguished faces and still ones.
We lean forward screened from pain,
listening to the death count,
time and time and time again.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
That dullard Percival Crane
he's boring into my brain
he's talking train
timetables and grain
sizes and portfolios
and shares
**** he's assaulting my ears
Next time when I spy his magnified eyes
I'll say, see you Percy, my how time flies
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
I don't have a playbook for this love.
In every other relationship I have or had, there is a decoding:
• If he does this, it means...
• When this situation happens, the correct response is...
• When he says this, it indicates...
There are timetables and destinations
stages that must occur in sequence
things that have to happen before certain conversations can be had
milestones
goals
And here I am
I have no expectations
I have no game plan
There is no strategy
I am
I love
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
There's a cacophony of attributable timetables
on silver rail roads,
there's a surfeit of wisdom
peering through a thoughtless tunnel
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
i am on the platform at the railway station.
Most days I board a train.
On the other days I just look at the brochures and the timetables.
At night I sleep in the waiting room.
My partner sleeps there too.
In the morning he goes down to the village
Where the folk have settled
Like sediment.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
I had a dream of travelling; just that - travelling, not leaving, not staying ; travelling.
At the station
Faces look out from the bus, familiar faces, continuing on their journey.
Their journey. Not my journey.
No going back, or even looking back, I can't see the road behind, only glimpses
Of what it may have been.
I'll stay here a while in no- man's land. Or stay forever
Sit in the shelter at the roadside and pretend.
Tell all the people in the queue, ' No. Not my bus. I have a while to wait, a while to wile.' I say.
Scan timetables and adverts idly,
Then sit and sit , then sit some more
And wait until a bus comes rolling down the hill with cheery driver and with all the windows lit.
Jump on and go with it.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
Pick me up in the passing Winter.
Snow threatened, train timetables
bidding for curtailment.
The past shone resolute
Health and Safety was a by-line
but today's invidious un-motivation
has its own Cellophane steering wheel
to pace our growing passivity.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Don't be a local.
Don't deny yourself the wonder.
Don't forego the sunlight,
the movement of the sky
the dance of the water
Don't be a local.
Don't focus on timetables.
Don't get lost in ferry dramas.
Lift your head into the wind
and take in the glacial.
Dec 6, 2022
Dec 6, 2022 at 7:12 AM UTC
We need to organise a meeting
So we can discuss the previous meeting
Concerning the timetables of meetings
So we can begin this year’s diaries of meeting in full!
But should we have a meeting to decide all
these meetings before we begin deciding at all?
Said the council official who was avoiding the issue
dreaming up ways to fill his diary for the year.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
4:
i am fed with alphabet soup,
and i am made to sing this song that sounds catchy.
this seems rather fun.
9:
3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24
my teacher says that we have to recite our timetables whenever we come into class.
i like seeing my brain grow from day to day.
16:
floating from room to room,
just to have my mind rearranged,
and "YOU HAVE EXAMS. GET YOUR **** TOGETHER" being shoved down your throat.
learning is no longer useful,
for all that matter is that grade in red.
A, B, C, D or E? it defines your life.
all that i feel like doing is burning my textbooks, notes and my school.
i am only 16, but i am so worn out.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
For though we might,
We cannot fight the wind;
Try as we may,
The mist eludes our grasp;
Shadows defy our clutches,
Rainclouds form,
The sun and moon rise and set
Despite our will;
Controlling nothing,
Still we do not see,
And frame our lives with an order
That is illusion,
Timetables and inventories
Of ignorance;
Labels and times and convenience
We set in stone that crumbles
Like sand before the winds
Of Impermanence;
Change is the symphony,
And fluid the score
Of this dharmakayic waltz,
And though we dance
We fancy ourselves but
Onlookers to the show;
That when the crashing finale
Resounds -- as it must --
We stop our ears and wail;
Not seeing, deaf to the choir
That has but turned the page
To sing a new song;
Our own melody ended,
We fade only to be played anew
From the string of another bow;
The song goes on, rising, falling,
And Bliss is the one
Who follows as the Piper leads
With Namu Amida Butsu.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
you shun me in our heat
you turn, don’t laugh.
smiles crease your lids,
trying to hide it.
but on the fireside i see
the flames freckle
your moonlit face.
glanced eyes break when they meet.
timetables and time souring
my glower-grace.
and then walking away,
you’ve pulled that card again.
does the neglect keep you honest,
when the early hours
made you cheat.
the fear blossoms in crimson
and you laid hands,
***** sinner.
do try to repent—
it doesn’t make it go away.
i’ve lessened in height
since December,
climbing the ladders
asking for heaven in dreams.
(you are heaven to me.)
unreachable.
a siren in flames,
voice not sweet but piercing
i will sing to you
until the ships come in dismantled
and burning board by board
i want to destroy you
devour your living soul
call me fate in dust
industrial war,
or spectral spirit to haunt you,
a plague there’s no antibiotics for.
you’ll deny me to your master
but can’t can’t shake it off
i see your eyes in the fire
creased with your smile
try to shake it try.
you shun me in our heat
but i’ll still know you in the embers
love you from a distance
keep my place in the shadows.
just as the future calls for me,
it calls for you
whether hell or heaven
you’ll beg for me again,
and i will make you answer,
suffer for your sins.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
You'll depart when you feel like it:
goddesses do not adhere to timetables.
Your body is so lovely
it scares away sharks.
Why should it fear time?
Your grace comes from deep caverns.
The tocks of clocks mean nothing more
to you than the creaking on weary stairs.
You leave no footprints as you glide the beach.
Millennia would not allow
half enough moments to describe
the tiny eternity
of your arms around me.
You arrived in a dream and
you'll depart when you feel like it.
- mce
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
bells and whistles
the hands of a clock
chiming the hours
timetables captured children
running to catch up
late again
detention looms
the hour has struck
born to be on the run
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
Anxious
Getting ready for a trip,
our traveling papers
take on importance.
Like Schindler’s list,
if we drop one
we could end up lost
or stranded
in some out of the way airport
far from the crowd,
or wandering about
looking for ticket counters somewhere
to get our reservations confirmed.
I call to make sure we are on track
with the planes and cars
homes and roads and timetables,
but the recording says:
our arrangement for a sedan is invalid.
So I wait on the phone for hours.
Finally,
I think maybe my sister can get us out of this jam.
One well-placed call
and she had us on the way.
So nice for an old man,
to still have a big sister.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
We’d dallied with bright shining dreams, of course;
Gatsby-esque timetables and solemn pacts
Made with ourselves, come undone with brute force.
A bitter brew to quaff, but facts are facts;
We’re those workaday cogs we once foreswore
(Of no note at all save in mothers’ hearts)
Doomed to lurch forward while being no more
Than the shabby sum of commonplace parts.
Let us shelve tattered remnants of our ghosts,
And deign not to dwell on what could have been,
At last shaken free of our fathers’ boasts
(Praise God, no longer promising young men.)
Unshackled from that, then we can begin
To embrace the joy of just sleeping in.
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC