![]() I’ve been dreaming about poetry my whole life- the first girl’s kiss I ever stole was the responsibility of Ted Hughes! – ‘Song’. From his first collection. She loved the poem, and me speaking it. Sadly that childhood romance didn't blossom to anything, but my love of poetry has never left me. Nor will it, ever, like either a loved one, or a cancer you just can’t shift. I live in Eastbourne, right at the bottom of England. Next to the ocean. This is my first publication. An Alien Spring To be born anew we want to be born anew shake off this coil, remake our destiny far from... all space laid out, stars too far to tan skin, too far to care which dream is taken, which philosopher's school made fashion. I dream to be, yes! far away from the dozing masses, a rocket can take me into the dream the christian’s seek their god an alien who blessed some wine; an interstellar joke on our perpetual dependencies and made for himself a religion the exact inverse of what he meant, is so very easy to see, if you have eyes we travel worn roads of unforgiving, a merciless track where no friend traverse a deceit to mask a truth But… walk to the plains of Mars and find a face their gods shorn from rock, to Europa where beneath a crust of ice dolphins swim in perpetual circles, to Bernard's star where don't you know, Bradbury, Asimov and all the greats took their first baby steps, To Foundation… and brains that think in tanks of liquid, where a conscious robot dreams of being human, ruled by laws encoded in circuits by his gods, where ambassadors of shadows crawl among the stars to turn the epochs of the galaxy to their liking, where i have spent all my childhood days locked, and tumbling in weightless worlds freed from absurdities of earth's cooling heart, where lovers played with insectoid creations of minds like mine; trapped to be released from the tyranny of a society impenetrable, a literature failing in modern times, to make sense of any of us, how wondrous to face an alien spring, to touch and reach out, without shame or its corollary hate, and break the spell -- the rolling green hills of earth seen not as fat feed for the masses but a magicians’ beautiful playground -- Lift up your heads! you poor race of men, to the beckoning stars the eternal empty vacuum, so swelling with all kinds of life, reach out and dare, to touch those whom walked amongst the stars when we were all young, and by doing find some measure, any measure of what it is to be human after all. attempt at a narrative #10 Break this spell upon the ocean let it drift into the day break this spell upon the ocean let it drift unto this one day. Break gravity's spell or photons slow quantum wave speak: brown dwarfs' baying in full light's sheerest wake. Don't speak to me of madness not whisper in my ear, nor smooth my brow, nor kiss my lip, not hold my cheek from running tear. Or tell me there is any hoping left, for minding mercy kindness, from a world spun and bound to darkness to your opaqued one God’s holiest, divine. [i've read your papers skimmed a twitter feed watched the youtube videos captured all your sickness] i need no further evidence to pass a full sentence on your world: you are limited to a violent, violent chattel, that no one would ever... ever bother reaping. Any imperial alien species, haughty in their perspective, would leave you to wither wither, as thine will always do. A. Looking from the Hill Childhood fortress of dreams playing drivers with wireframe cars pulling on string and rubberwheels underneath the hot African sun. Planting dreams and winking at the camera, as the mother snapped shutter looking over the rainbow t-shirts of friends finished with their pitch black faces, returning home to the grey finite sky, rain all thru every season, roundfat face staring over neighbour fences, into muddy ground, foreigners' lives. To divine how the english live, so far from the roots that burrow the fat unformed of adult lives swirling down the toiletbowl with drunken fever, standing outside and looking in, where is the centre of a bastard race, fading photographs of a garden tendered by black-servant-gardeners who stole whiskey and frightened siblings to distraction, trying so hard to recall a life that's lost surrendered, to the dull leaden daze of an adulthood spinning, the focus gone the roots brittle in their amnesia, antinomian life, a consciousness at war with itself, its social peers. Do the cells of water know the course of the sea to divine the tides the moon's sway with the consciousness of a bubble rising to the surface, how does a child understand, what it means to be, a member of this or that race, to follow unwritable laws, and failing so offend the righteous to be struck dumb and blind, an outcast, befriended by nothing other than the moon, and spend one's whole life, repeating errors unmentionable, patterns unintelligible to reach the final understanding that never comes, of why, the unseen mark must so be painted on the forehead of hated alien, the interloper from foreign shore. And no matter how I hide with perfume, or pant airs of religious incense, the broods of righteous have the smell —the hair on the neck's back pricking-- the true smell will out, and no matter how my eyes dip to authority, or feign insouciant manner to buy support; I am lost before I am born. And the wake of magic rites stir no longer the fields and suns once prayed over, now reaped by imagination’s mechanism, tilled by steel hands and the coldest science; the maypole, the all-souls-night turned to quaint spectacle; no matter how far the fathers of mankind have travelled from hunter's spearing oxen washing their blood-hands in sanctified pools to the leering citadels of progress and science warring with itself in paradox -- The children of our time still turn, to the bitter consequence of the unnameable soul, troughing animal or mother of three, pale faced boy or liquid saint, pouring thru our callused hand, we all still tied to the tropic urge that i can not name that governs our breeding, as surly as the sun we worshipped, brings its night.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
ArchivesCategories
All
|