Princess of Perjah

My Iranian Bride

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your caramel complexion toughened by time
Moonlight smiled on dreams and cast you from the garden
Provided hope and work as harsh as the fruitless desert summers

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your almond eyes painted with ochre and olive
The roots of happiness buried deep within our memories
Those long flowing garments a wedding gown crowning history

Where are you now my Iranian bride?
Your softened belly weak with multiple births
A cousin’s hand that stole you from my evening shadow
Gave you children rich as the earth we ploughed in the morning

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Mother of pearl shimmer in your ancient smile

Knowledge forbidden like the restless nights we sweated

Erasing traces of shared lives as sand washed by ocean currents

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Locks as dark as the treacle in your sweets

Your perfumed flesh intoxicating incense to my lively senses

Praying secret thoughts of years past together shaping destiny

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Feet softened with pumice from the dusty trail

Jasmine and lavender oil betraying your heritage to the west

Veiled emotions captured forever in visions wide as an Arabian sky

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Lips puckered and outlined with hazelnut henna

Gentle fingers that eased my burdens from those heavy days

Reflections of the future in your ancestral culture taught me wisdom

Where are you now my Iranian bride?

Skin tingling with a burning of the afternoon sun

Offering bread to strangers from the oasis of your heart

Returning to the land of your childhood to walk proud among men

* * *

For Samina .. with the eternal love that can only exist when time and nature conspire to separate beauty from life too soon .. may your dreams be ever peaceful.

Sundance Mountain

Shorter Days

High on Sundance Mountain:
above the tree line, into tundra, glacial;
looking out across the Mummy Range
watched by raven eyes
translucent, purple, passive.

Under mushroom capped boulders,
I dreamt of hunting and gathering.

Eagle feathers,
teeth, bones, wampum shell
pearl glint off cue ball smooth pebble
sacred;
ancient scarred land
ocean breeze history
of sundown states, sets flags a’wavin’.

The Painted Desert
reflects a bleached sand message,
on the palm
of the hand, too busy
raising wheat, and children,
to catch the news;
new wars –
monumental errors, hardware software,
gangster mob wars, police brutalities,
heroin heroes die, people on streets,
victimless crimes.

White-boy rednecks throw back Coors lite,
swear by th’almighty,
spit into the wind and cuss,
the Jews, the blacks, the commies, the fags
they’re common, enemies.

The polished political dome, all magnificence,
looks out across the harvest
bangs the gavel on empty silos.

Copper tarnishes green on golden flames,
Ellis island-landing immigrants seeking fame,
investment, investiture, multi-national disease.

Wall Street drops,
red lines trace innocent blood
a thousand miles from ..
long, warm, summer evenings
under weepin’ willow branches
at Dead Horse Creek,
suckin’ on agaves, and sarsaparilla.

Humid thoughts
of thirteen year old memories;
tree house dreams of
Hardy Boys adventures
Dennis the Menace comics
and young girls’ budding breasts,
not stopping to think
of shorter days
ahead.

Hame, At Last

A poetic composite of snapshot episodes exploring my discovery of and harsh entry into another side of life. As this piece, written in West Scottish dialect explains, I was an innocent and naive child encountering a depressingly dreary existence only a short bus ride away from the massive lawns, swimming pools and towering castles of my pre-teen years. Although I had made earlier less successful attempts, I wrote this after reading Alison Dermott and Hugh McDiarmid and other poets who often write in this vernacular speech pattern style. I do hope it rings true.

Hame

Ah kin onli be Scoatish when ahm naw there.
Ah wuz born in Ingeland
so they toald me
aw the time.
But ah’d never bin there.
Ah moved tay Jurminy when ah wuz wee
and hud a nanny there
who tawt me tay say ya fer yes
an ma parents sed aye.

Ah hud tay get aw these jabs tay go tay Amerika,
an so ah thawt
mebbe it wuz in a jungle.
An when ah got there
ev’rybudy asked me whit haggis wuz like,
an did we come o’er on the bridj,
an ah didnae no whit a haggis wuz
an there wuznae a bridj.


Anyway, ah wuz aboot eleven uhr twelve, ah think,
An ah wuz back in Scoatland an it wuz in the Awtum
cuz it wuz gettin dark urly
much erlier than ah’d ever rememburd,
cuz ahd bin growin up oot in the States
whur the awtum drifted intay twylite,
naw lived in it aw the year roon,
an ah wuz ridin this bus
fay wan part ay Grenuck intay the toon sentuhr,
an ah mustuhv got on the rang bus,
cuz ah ended up goin the lang way roon,
up thru the Stroahn an aw awfy places like that,
whit always lookt aw dark.

Noo here ah wuz, a wee’un fay Amerika (whur ah hud a red bike, an only e’er took a bus when goin tay skool-a big yella wan-ye musta seen thum on the telly), aw frekels
an shag harecut,
denim jaykit on like a wee hardman …
ecology sine sewed on wan shulder an a pease patch on the uther ..

(mah furst gang fite, wuzne like in the komix or oan the telly or nuthin at aw:
ah’d asked whit time the qwahry boys wuhr comin up the hill and whit the battle plans wuhr,
an this uther fella that mah cuzin had her eye on, toald me,
“jist pick up a hawf brick an throw it doon at thim.”
Ah wuz awfy disappointed as ye kin imajin) …

An ah wuz thinking aboot it,
wi this bus lumberin
its way up n doon
these rubbish tips
whit lookt like roads
had been
carved thru thum
an aroon these grey shells
whit lookt like
bombed oot warehooses,
but whur coonsil flats
whit hid peepel livin in thum.
An thay aw hud dark closes
that seemed tay swally ye if ye went intae thum.

It lookt like wurld war too wuz still goin oan
but nayb’dy hud toald these peepel it wiznae.
An auld wuhmen sat oan durty steps
smokin fags rolt up fay dowts,
uther wuhmen wuz hangin oot clays
jist below chimneys wut wur spewin oot soot.
And thur wuz wee’uns runnin aboot
wi nay clays on
oot in the street,
an thur hare wuz aw stickin oot like it wiznae e’er washt,
an mucky wee faces wi big sad eyes
wuz lookin up at me
sittin oan tap o’ the bus.

An Italyun ice van came up fay doon the burn
ontay the street as it wuz
playin this happy wee tinkly sound
Way whit wuz suppoz tay be like muzik
tay make ye wantay buy an ice lolly,
but really jist made me wantay be sumwhere else.
Ah wuznae shur if ah shuld greet,
as mah eyes whur aw wellin up wi salty tastin tears
but ah didnae no who tay cry fer
just then the conductress came up and sed,
“nay worries son, Ah kin see your house fay here”
an ah thawt, “och well, its naw so bad, ah’ll be hame soon.”
Then ah realized, ah didnae hae a hame,
just a place tay live.

* * *

Migration + Memory = Identity

Memory Man (memories of migration)

Travelling here
Arriving there
An airport the docks
Or train station
Driving in circles to
A new destination

The market square
Distribution dissemination
Amalgamation of the human population

Economic rivalry A political survival to be free
Dig up the old roots Plant a fresh seed

Memories of love And all the things that we gain
Memories of heartache Those memories bring pain

I’m your memory man:
I remember for our future
Daughters and sons
Another simple human
With no alternative plan
Like yesterday morning
I’m trapped in the past
I can recall the world’s things
That don’t ever last


***

Digging for the human memory
Excavating in the soil for the soul of history
Discover a past to provide us a contemporary identity
Carbon dating swamp life diamond light Reveal to us eternal mystery

Fossilised fragments Of evolution In the dirt
From those days When dinosaurs Roamed the earth
Fire and ice Moving continents Across the great Divide
Meteor showers Shifting sands Rising tides Oceans that Stretched far and Wide

Cave man Neanderthal Mammoth and sabre tooth tiger

Sticks and stones spears and shields Stories 'round a campfire

We’re writing a book
And burning literature for heat in the funeral pyre

The oracles and poets Predict an ancient Grecian sage
Tragedies’ comic performers On antiquity’s Elizabethan stage
These are some of the things
Tomorrow’s child May consign to history’s page

***

From the pyramids of Egypt I gained second vision
In Mayan temples of stone I committed sins of submission
Building cathedrals with arches I rejected old gods through omission
As an industrial magnate I grew rich Introducing new forms of toxic pollution

Painters and sculptors Who brought us a Renaissance
Byzantine plots in the palace A sultan’s whirwind romance
These things had their moment And missed their lost chance

A cycle of centuries Millennia returning again
The sword truly is mightier Than the quill and the pen
As the same mistakes keep occurring What we call progress yet never learn


I’m your memory man:
I remember for they
Who have come and gone
Another simple human
With no ulterior plan
Lost in time
I’m chained to the past
The future is coming
But those days won’t last

***

Destiny repeats
And repetition is a fait au Complete
Victories earned through blood
And machinery’s heartbeat
To gain a few acres of fallow earth
Turn healthy agriculture to meat

You can see the fruits of time’s passage In the palm of my hand
Witness the seeds of hard labour Through the scars on the land
Watch nightly broadcasts As oil tankers dump their waste on the sand

Jitterbug jive and the twist That taught us to dance
For love of a fair maiden
Knights would joust with a lance
Events that unravelled
In each period’s particular Circumstance

Those fedora hats we wore Through the jazz age
Flappers’ dresses feathers and boas Were all the rage
These are some of the things
Consigned now to history’s page

***

New paradigms of thought Are a sensational notion
Inventions change living Setting wheels into motion
Discoveries made creations uncovered
Above the moon’s surface Rocket ships hovered

Secret air flights to foreign lands
Are the means and the ways
Fingernails chewed down
As the sentenced mark out the days
Special jurisprudence
Internment of hostages is the new craze

Gears and springs other winding things
The ticking of clocks buzzing of watches
A prisoner of conscience alone in a cell
Staring blindly at walls covered in notches

I’m your memory man:
I remember the wars battle weapons and guns
Another simple human with no alternative plan
Out of real time I’m chased by my past
Blown in the wind hearing a siren
As I am tied to the mast

***

The book has been written on tablets of stone
We translated the script from our own flesh and bone
A narrative forever missing the last page
No past and no history a freethinking new age

Continuous migration
A change of the season
A past full of memory
A future unknown
Spring always brings hope
Autumn leaves us
With memories alone

I’m your memory man:

I remember the end
When all is said and done

Another simple human

With no alternative plan

Nature’s struggle

Survive to be free

Put down strong roots

Grow a new family tree

* * *

I approached the Memory & Migration piece in much the same way I usually write for themed poetry projects .. research into my subject, notes of various phrases and thoughts that occur as I read and look, the beginnings of an outline, basic rhythm/rhyme structure, syntactical and syllabic edit, read through, edit again, review the subject, expand the structure to develop the cycle – consider repetition as device – a continuity that links aspects of the piece (it’s a masculine thing), reinforce ‘classical’ and historical references and study the parody, edit and write, look for the fun stuff in it – rhyme and word juggling .. edit and read ..

Sure, this method could become restrictive, locked in a loop of creative exclusion, but I enjoy operating in this matrix of function and find it extremely liberating ..

I don’t find it ‘sporting’ or fair to my subject to write in a personal, intuitive expose' type of manner when working to brief – and yet I generally enjoy ‘the finished product’ of these poems more (although all language is subject to change and re-interpretation) .. I reveal myself to all and their exes through this blog, yet I can shield my self behind a veil of universality and “fictionalised accounts” of the occasional happenings in and around my life while still engaging an intimate and honest expression of my own feelings .. it’s a freedom I assure you .. however, every word of the story is true - according to history, and memory ..

The Memory & Migration exhibition including visual art from the Cruiser international art collective showed at Deda, Derby, through 27th March 2010 ..

* * *

She Left Me

She Left Me

She left me
In a howling wind
By a steaming train
On a misty morning
Alone
Beside the rusting rails
In the damp drizzle
Of the Derby dales

 

The destination list
In my hand
Telling me
Every departure
Is heading
Due south
Out of town
And I’m standing
Under an overhang
In a shadow
Eyeing the snapshot
Memory
Of forgotten promises
Reminding me
Of dharma bums
And Hobo days

It’s always easier
For the one who goes
Than for the one who stays ..

I strolled along the tarmac
Detouring
Edged back
Onto the endless platform

Stretching like a highway
From yesterdays hollow dream
Into a never-ending tomorrow
Of sorrow

Pulling me toward it
Pushing me away

Crashing into my life
Like a runaway
Locomotive
Careering out of control
Onto the sidelines
Of my misaligned
Monotonous
Daily grind

 

You came in like a thief
You stole the moment
Like a movie star
Shedding a past love
In the sequel to
Last summer’s blockbuster
Affair
Cooling
In the discovery of
New roles
To play
In the limelight
Of red carpet fantasies
That populate
These fleeting instants

Shared glances

Like flashbulbs igniting

A glimpse of your cloudy soul

You flew into

My threadbare existence

On your magic carpet

Pulled the worn rug

From under my faltering ankles

Yanking

The last fraying

Strings of sanity

Linking me to the reality

Supporting the foundation

Of crumbling bricks

I’d built my shaky house

On the rocks ..

So pour me one too
And we’ll
Skim the surface
Of the slippery slope
And slide
Into the future
Like a baby
Into
A waiting
Midwife’s arms
You arrived
As a carpetbagger
Hawking your wares in public
Selling me
Every trick in the book
Pulling a rabbit from every hat
Every last drop of my blood
That was sucked from my veins
Went down the drain
With the rest of the waste
And all the heartbreak
Into the sewer pipe
Of an aching sigh
That rumbled and purred
In your throat

Gargling a mimic
Of the sounds of
True love

Sacred
Spontaneous emotion
That captured my heart
Snared in forbidden passion
The few remaining seconds
Shared in a life worth living

I took a breath
And held it
Thinking
How long can I hold this

Thought?

Breath I thought
Breath
Exhale I thought
Breath exhale
Don’t breath
Play along
Don’t play

Play at Love
Play Be Real
Play Dead
Why?
Play

Why Play
With Love?

***

As I cast my sail to the wind of change, turning away from the rocky shores where many have lost their hearts swimming against the tide of time, I offer this fragment of a tale ..

With passion, regret, longing, anger, fear and all the other confused and altered memories that accompany a separation of soul mates, I've tried to present a personal yet fictionalised account of that emotive sense of lost love as it manifests itself in the early stages ..

As an artist I try to open myself to all the potentialities life presents – I believe that dreams require effort and risk and taking chances is essential to growth .. and this piece is but another examination of the wanderings of a poet through the encounters that create those opportunities for experience ..

Trade Passages

A couple years ago I was invited (after several auditions, interviews and a ten year hiatus from performing) to write and perform a piece of poetry to commemorate the bi-centenary of the abolition of the slave trade in Britain ..

The ‘Freedom Showcase’ was presented at the Phoenix Arts Centre in Leicester.


Ten ‘emerging poets’, two mentors, a director, a video editor and a composer, and a host of arts organisations and live literature-managing agencies were commissioned to produce and stage a performance of epic proportions (for the poetry scene, man) ..

Scheduled for performance in July, we had only a few months to pull this original performance poetry event into shape and present the Midlands with an exciting and challenging show ..

So, we spent a lot of time preparing: writing, workshops, rehearsing, writing, recording, travelling, memorising and of course, writing ..

I approached my piece attempting to capture the perspective of the people I knew when I lived in the Southern region of the United States .. back when I was hanging at the Golden Rose after-hours members-only jazz club in the lowland swamps of South Carolina ..

I took on the role of a composite character developed from the various groups I associated with at that time, and throwing myself into the dialect and costume of the dramatis personae of the piece I tried to bring to life the history and culture of the people ..

The poem is divided into 3 separate narratives: the first offers the tragic personal story of two young lovers taken from Africa to America to serve on the plantation .. the second part is a time-skipping story that takes us on a winding route through the South from the days of abolition to the New Orleans flood ..

The final act is a contemporary reading of capitalism and it’s slave roots; the way trade, multinational corporate financial exchange, whether traffic in people, electronics, food or weapons, is gradually eroding freedom through consumer gentrification and using the ultimate cataclysm of terror as threat ..

The 3 sections were accompanied by music and large screen video. The music moved from simple drumming to a syncopated rhythm reminiscent of early 20th century bands to the electronic hum of rockets and radios. The video began as a huge projected stone circle reminiscent of Stonehenge, which through the piece transformed into mirrored skyscrapers. For the first segment I sat cross-legged on the stage enveloped in the aura of an orange light, for what is the campfire but the stage around which the narrative of life has been played out through eternity? The tale is told and we listen and participate in the story. Through the second section I rambled across the stage as a traveller seeking identity within the newly achieved freedom to roam. In the final act I was still and contemplative in anger as one seeking justice, an active agent employed in the inter-relation of progress and devastation of identity through cultural and social disintegration. I enjoyed being the creative behind the selection of images and composition .. though naturally I'd like to thank Thomas Hall for the video art and Mark Melville for the audio.

I titled my contribution ..

Trade Passages

Living in the past

Or the present day

Time is but a narrative of trade

Travelling hand in hand and eye to eye

Chained one to each other

A history shared also collides

*

Uhuru was a youthful poet, African princely born

A tall dark warrior, His true name it means freedom

Torkwase was his bride, a life about to start

She sailed with Uhuru from an oasis in the desert

They were on a slave ship going to the new world

Taken from their rightful kingdom

About them the mighty grey Atlantic swirled

They were just commodity

Another man’s immoral income

Red white and blue flags on the ship unfurled

The slave trade and their emblem

Every day in fear their lives imperilled

Hoping on a slow train

Coming for their freedom

Uhuru ran from the plantation

Liberty deep within his soul

Legacy of his free will

Laying low and makin’ north

He lay behind a chicken coop

After three days in deep mud

His feet thickly blistered

His eyes red with blood

Torkwase had been living

Under a master’s dirty ways

Her fingers still remember sand

Her eye recalls Uhuru’s gaze

A memory of her tribute a shamanic presence gave

She walks amongst the shadows, servant to the slaves

Night fell as Uhuru scratched notches in the wood

Tonight he’d kill a chicken, the waiting needed food

With baptised tears Torkwase crept toward the shed

In a sacred dance round midnight the cockerel would be bled

A fateful chance encounter as the full moon shone

Torkwase screamed so loudly others heard it too

Recognising within Uhuru’s eyes the passion of remembrance

A separation by the slave ship crew

They held each other tightly with distant hound dogs barking

Uhuru and Torkwase reunited caring not for all lost time

In minutes it was over everyone had come

But in the night the hangmen committed a dark crime

"Your people they were free, your father was a king"

Torkwase to the newborn babe, one day she would sing

It takes two to tango

Two make a narrative of trade

Travelling hand in hand and eye to eye

From the cradle to the grave

*

Moors to Maroons Morocco or Mali

Black or white Latvian Asian or Mexicali

Put out your hand

The road to freedom

Is through another’s land

The Underground Railway still exists

In my mind

Passages of lives

And the ties that bind

History following the tracks of my tears

Lazy Southern river flows all through the years

Leads to the levee that bartered the town

Barbeque sauce and banjos till dawn

Ain’t no one caring

Now the hurricane is gone

Spit roasted swine skewered and soaked in lime

Carrying the memories of Creole and slaves, that lost time

Flood done come to Orleans down Louisiana way

Coloured man does suffer, women bear the pain

Ain’t gonna be no harvest this year

Ain’t gonna do nothin’ but rain

Poor child barefoot in the old town

Family washed away

The wind it is a howlin' wolf at the door

House of sticks and straw

Sun won’t shine here no more

He’s the black and tan minstrel

Roamin’ from town to town

Ain’t no white man’s burden

Gonna weigh him down

Dropped him in the river

Rolled away the stone

Plays guitar like lickin’ fat

From a chicken bone

Music be the devil

Gonna make the kingdom come

Sing no more of misery

Take him back down home

"Gonna head on up to Memphis

Seek some shelter from the state

Leave the lowland bayou humid night

Ride the freedom train .."

Makin’ merry and livin’ mirth

Like young men do

Gonna follow that old river

Flowing water of his birth

Strollin’ under a yellow moon beneath the Southern skies

Climb aboard and ring dem bells, "headin’ North," he cries:

“I wanna sing about tomorrow’s world

‘til I got a place to call my own

A little piece o’ somethin’

Without oppression and the rain

Ain’t nobody give me nothin’

No space to lay my head

I guess I’ll keep on ramblin’ man

Freight train of freedom

Be my only friend

“I wanna sing to you

Songs of hope and freedom, no more ‘bout the cane

I wanna bang the tribal beats

No more sufferin’ whips and someone else’s chain

I wanna sing to you of soul baby, not about the bruise

Sing no more of heartache

‘Cause we’re all black .. and blue"

*

Nowadays ..

Bitter tears of ecstasy

As freedom comes our way

Pinkies extended mocking class without a care

Lip service afforded by the leisure of the day

Sitting sipping fair trade free trade

Cappuccino in the square

Listening to conversations

Watched by cameras everywhere

Express yourself!

And your freedom if you dare

Lock me up or lock me down

Freedom!

And coffee

Instant status for all

Ashes to ashes

Soil to soil

Cotton and molasses and pepper

Bubbling troublesome oil

Refineries of industries manufacturing dignity

Liberation and libation an abolition of emancipation

Another manumission of the social institution

A slave ship of integrity battling the waves of history

Batten down the hatches!

Board up all the doors

The hurricane is blowing

There’s no such thing as Civil wars

Civil liberty heresy and piracy

China to Brasil

People won’t stand still

Jealousy conspiracy

How about a little humility?

Boston beans and Indian rights

Peasant blood mixes sugar, Honey

And Champagne fizz!

The pursuit of happiness

For this privileged homecoming

On shores tainted with conquest

And cotton and sugar and maize

Slap on molasses

And gimme those old time religion ways!

Toast the victors! Toast and jam

I’m going down amongst the squalor

Beans on toast! Beans ground roast

Cash crop indulgence to the privileged

Great white wave

To mine a golden harvest of that sugar cane

Sweating through shafts of sunlight and fear

For colas and cocoa and beer!?

The dam burst through the eye of the storm

The slave ship sailed to the land of the free

With oil and napalm and power of spice

And a few phony CDs

If this here train leaves the track

I swear I’m never goin’ back

To the land of my father

To hear the plantation whip crack!

Traded!

For the disease of deceit

The weary wreath of commerce

Flyin’ like a union flag over a confederate grey sea

The first to pledge allegiance will divide the nation

A copper tinge of blood mingled with remembrance

Everything we buy is paid for in the currency of migration

So sing your song and take your stance

For children baptised by Christian arms

For the silence of freedom chimes

For flooding waters in which to bathe

The heathen hymns. The evil whims.

The blackened sins of everyday things

Crimes justified

Inhumanity

A cruel reality

Of ..

Import and Export ..

The Twin Truths of Trade.

*     *     *

Kevin Wallace 20-06-2007 Freedom Showcase

*

Many of us involved with the showcase have moved on to other things and developed beyond our night in the lights of the Phoenix, yet we stay in touch and meet up and work together on various projects .. and I know we were all happy to receive the opportunities associated with this successful production ..

Where poets gather ..

Metaphors, and the art of lost love ..

I’ve chosen to introduce my new Blog with a trilogy of poems sharing a leitmotif .. Lost Love and the Art of Metaphor .. okay, it may seem rather obvious - a common theme, but I like to think I've added my own spin to these three poetically just and completely true stories of romantic attraction and the heartbreak of parting ..

Let's start in the tiny village of Little Dunmow (yep, there’s a big Dunmow too ..) It's in Essex, and in the grove there is a priory where Eleanora Lovaine Douglas and her Crusader knight, William le Hardi are buried .. local legend also claims the buried remains of Maid Marian, she of Robin Hood fame .. I wrote this after visiting there with a friend ..

This poem is not solely or entirely about Robin and Marian though (uh, metaphor -get it?) .. it represents the passing of a relationship, a changing of status, a shifting of the heart’s season – like an autumn day, as trees are releasing their leaves to be carried off by the wind .. a reconciliation of hope at the pearly gates of an eternally lost love ..

In Little Dunmow Church


In Little Dunmow Church
Weeds grow in the paving
But, deep within the vaults
Where true hearts are never betrayed

It is there sweet Maid Marian lays waiting

Yet, a beauty in her tower
A gilded cage of her design
A passionless tomb should
Pride and vanity win out.

The roguish Robin
Battles truth with a fine art
His arrows are but blunted words
The fool who struggles searches brambles

The point is buried deep within his heart

Torn flesh finds a silent stone
Hiding low in the greenbrier
His endless rage a tragedy
Quelled only by love’s desire.
For what purpose serve a rose
If freedom becomes her prison
Spoken words her love betraying?
A sacred peaceful place
Wrapped in protective thorns
A romantic heart that is still aching

All brave souls her cries do tempt
His sorrow from time not exempt

A crusader in this lover’s foolish endeavour

Our valiant squire
Sheds his noble blood
That today might last forever.

In Little Dunmow Church
Under foundation stones
Beneath the legend of history
A hush is on the gathering congregation

A wilting faded feathered plume
Plucked from the wing of an angel
Droops in faded glory over tainted ruby petals

Sweet wine upon her lips
Softly whispered words speak
Time’s last hopeful breath releases a sigh
Of life together in eternal perfect grace

There within imagination
I’ll be your love someday.


*     *     *

I first performed this next poem in London some years ago - but most recently on a hot summer night with canal boat residing poetry reciting Jo Bell ..

The piece explores the theme of Lost Love in more depth - as our protaganists decide that "a clean break means a messy break" .. with travel, a funeral and the crashing surf as background, this tale is one of love's desires screaming into the wind and finding the silence of distance echoing back across the great divide ..


Bitter Sweet

I’ve just returned from San Francisco
Where on New Year’s Day in ‘08
I buried a special lover

It was a lavish affair, all violins and stars,
Tears in our eyes and promises
Of nothing, again

The first to throw dirt, and flowers.
I, victim of rumour and envy

The other woman, who was at home
Wondering who was leaving whom
She cried, as I did, six thousand miles away
In Chinatown, where love was being redesigned
As miscommunication, to ease the separation

We tore and clawed the wealth of love
Which once held our hearts

Like those fake Roman coins
We bought for a pack of cigarettes
In El Djem

Or those lucky blue charms
Bartered from Turkish street stalls
To protect us from the evil eye

Tossed blindly, intentionally
At the wounds we had opened
With loving precision

Awaiting salt the incision lay bare
Stripped of flesh like petals dropping from
The chocolate roses that melted her heart


We drove out to the Cliff House and walked through the Pacific mist
Rusted tramp steamers huddled on rocks, shattered
An ancient mariner’s toys clinging to remnants of life
Reminding us of forgotten dreams

The ocean breeze blew sand through our hair
To settle dust in the lies
She conceived

I was relieved; I was revived
Coming back to the old town
A span across the Golden Gate, a shortcut to rainbow land
A city all hills, ups and down
Enough clear water to drown

Sorrows in liquor, and laughter too real
Like the humanity of pain

Too many unsaid words, too much recalled
Now, finally, laid to rest

In the dry baked clay where once we dug for gold
Amongst the bones
The brass ring of a lover’s final embrace
Completes the circle of life
And death

At the corner of Lombard, looking out across the bay to Alcatraz
I hopped on a streetcar
And like the morning mist
In California sunshine
Faded into memories
Now, Bitter Sweet.

*     *     *

The final piece in the trilogy takes us out of the human form - whether sci-fi or children's anamorphic animistic tales, detective novels or comic books, historical romance or contemporary thriller, metaphorical narratives are simply another way of trying to offer an entertaining explanation of the human condition at any given point .. and this little experiment has it's own twist ..

So we end with a double criss-cross betrayal of love ..


Spider and Fly

I, the spider, dangled metaphors
for she, the fly in my web
sweet harmonic convergence as rippling waves of crystal
light shimmer along my spandex nerve endings
reciting a song of deceit, a prayer of love
She had walked this tightrope before
the teasing rhythm of her subtle dance
touching heartstrings, chords, as I wove
my spiral dream of sticky obsession
cooly, calmly, passively, eagerly
she stroked innermost strands in visible betrayal
fluttered and soothed
the shrill cry of a nearby dying butterfly
Sensing immanent torture
awaiting the final love bite
she, the fly, called me on with a hundred reflections
of my own beauty
stealthily savouring the ultimate conquest
I placed leg after leg after legs across
the barbed wire fortress of feasts
her spongy tongue slipped over shiny
lips in gnarled envy at my elastic palace
I closed in consumption
consummation of hungry anger
sensous and sublime desire
hope fulfilled blood lust
a trembling buzz of opaque gossamer wings
the fly turned slowly lifted from the dew drop
honey moistened quilted spider bed
she, the fly, spat a gesture of passion
onto my tightly stretched lattice-welded
bridge of fear
breaking bonds, severing arteries
releasing tension
and I, as the spider
tumbled towards
the fly’s
nest.

*     *     *