words words words – Page 38

January 15, 2015January 16, 2015

terra nullius

I read and think
and admire
what others are willing to sink
into the blankness of the virtual page
like treasure chests
waiting to be opened
full of virtual word-gold
mined from the precious veins
of lives unknown
reams and reams of history
soundbites of the personal
notes on intimate spaces
all their own.

I read and think
and admire
but I know I do not know
how to lay my life on the written line
how to confess, confide
openly
aggressively at times
showing, telling
pursuing a presence that should be me
but what is ‘me’
in this sea of words and stories?

It is maybe not about not knowing
but more about not showing
not wanting to self-colonise
the wild, the life
the terra nullius inside
unknown only to others, outside.

For to present
it must be shaped,
to be told it
must be formed
– mapped –
turned from elements
earth, air, water, fire
to geography, weather, astronomy,
all things (wo)man aspires,
histories that can be traced
followed to the first word
explained to those
who do not know
the secrets hidden in holy waters
the powers whispered in sacred fires
the life living on unknown soils
that quiet, powerful magic
nascent in all
from arctic to jungle
from tundra to grasslands
together, all at once
landscapes galore
that place
unmapped, unwritten
spoken from mouth to ear
riddled in tales, held in rhythm
allowing those shifts of sight and sound
perception
obvious one day, intangible another
tumbling from skies above and below
swelling once, blooming twice
blossoming wide
showing what detail is possible
to the inner eye:
perfection.

It is not then, a not-knowing
but more the need for a closed garden
a pairidaēza,
a paradise
known so well to me, myself, and I
the firstborn trinity
that holy space
the home and solace
of what lives in blissful hiding
creating what is seen outside
an infinite space
one of the seven of the billion
in form, shape, and colour
that secret place within,
that which is my life.

January 14, 2015

wild weather

sunlight shimmering
hazy over darkness, grey
clouds gathering swift
to mountains high
almost black, broiling
skimming, skating
racing across the endless sky

whirling, swirling
tumbling, ecstatic
in muted light
pouring itself out
into innocent eyes
open wide, staring
past the window
lips clouding the pane
mother! mother!
look, there!

a muted flash, sharply soft
a warning, first
of more to come
a rumble of sound
like a beast of old
rolling, roaring, above the dark
so heavy, so close
looming so low
yet above, a glow
bright, thundering
the ancient gods
hurling bolts oncemore –

a crack, a flash
the ear-splitting break
of light electric
connecting the ancient
to ground unknown
a pillar of power
sudden, sharp
making the young innocent
gasp and jump

shocked to see
light untamed
so bright, so bold
look! did you see?
there! there!
more and more
violent lines
jagged blades
all at once, exploding
in deafening sound
jabbing, jarring
the whole horizon
until a world awake
falls silent in awe and wonder.

and the child watches
wide-eyed
the glass pane clouded
seeing, believing
knowing this is very much real
always present, for all to see
fantastic, sublime
a gift almost, but frightening?
a laugh, oh no:
incredible, unbelievable, divine.

January 10, 2015January 10, 2015

arrival

light spilling
onto an improvised desk
glowing, dimming
like beams, streaming
lighthouse-bright
turning, spinning
slow with flashes
warning, beckoning
the tired ship
braving the sea.

to land safely
at dock and shore
is the finished script
of sentence-senses written
composed, structured
compr(om)ised to a
comprehensible whole
the passengers
crowded, waiting

words delivered
past the storms of doubt
now anchored at the docks
of paper, screens
safe havens
from darkness, white

inky bows tumbling down
gangways, printed
into the open arms
of readers
embracing, holding, kissing
the whole crowd
with joyous glee

and solemn satisfaction
that all are present
ready to be read
entirely
safe and whole
on the page, written
free.

January 6, 2015February 9, 2015

one to another

to write about the touch
the moment
to write because you miss
a kiss
the warmth of a known body
the smoothness of once-touched skin

to know you
and yet i don’t
not entirely
but intimately
between yes and no
and unspoken words
like the swish of sheets
in between

we’ve met before
known each other
in a time
another place
long ago
days, weeks, months
and moments together
one to another

for a heart remembers
runs and jumps
at a long-lost sight
while that which cautions
worries
cries foul in the brightest light
sings itself to sleep

within the embrace
smooth like water
an unclenched fist
open wide
to memories, present
a quiet rejoicing
together,
no longer apart.

January 5, 2015January 11, 2015

before betty

Sitting snug, reading the classics
encore une fois Madame Bovary,
and her insufferable complacency
with the ridiculous romance of thin-paper novels.

And yet, I understand her need to be something else,
something more, to escape the quaint provincial life,
full of the foibles of the French bourgeoisie.

Sadly, you can see the end coming,
the flights of fancy building to catastrophe,
long before young Emma befuddles Monsieur Bovary.

Most disturbing however, is the gleeful sneering
of the narrator, peering
over my shoulder while reading,
a heartless voice, laughing with glee
at the – albeit predictable – calamity
that is poor Madame Bovary’s.

And yet I turn another page, if only
due to an understanding of her genuine suffering,
silly and selfish to narrator, parish and priest,
yet very real to poor Emma,
that feminine mystique resting darkly
in her desperate ennui.