Ah, awkward contact, how have I missed thee? Let me number the ways...
Ian M
Posts: 123
These traps I keep baited with uncertainty
Europe tells a story of veiled lusts and paraded innocence
Through these eyes: deep setting of the east;
Risen shine of the West; secrets now –
My ancestry betrayed, but the mouth and tongue are mine
And watch! They move in twisted displays, in flagrant disregard –
The wellspring, a beauty with its darker side revealed – to beget their own children
Recline naked before the window at night
My truth may not be your truth,
But it is the truth nonetheless
My back arches in a sculpture of discomfort
A travelling span
At night the light reflects from the Inside
The window takes hold, projects the image, inverted, out.
Mist-grey sharpness of the eye; a crisp, bright portal
Witness, mediator, progenitor of the dialogue supreme
Sophie’s Tree
It is the season for dreaming;
For traditions written in blood and bone;
For the tales of lost loves, dangerous hopes
And epic journeys to be retold.
I look back in a beady-eyed study of awe
Over the rooftops, across the seas, through snow-capped mountain ranges
To be astonished for the first time
At the vast distances I have flown to find my resting place
High up in the slender boughs of Sophie’s tree;
Here it is that I shall build my nest;
Here it is that I shall perch at last to sing my song
And wait for her to come to me
21st – Leaving town with no music in my head, on a low stride with a
centring sense of gravity and an interest in the vivid Autumn faces
that mill around me in a flood I see contented (rather than for what
it is).
I can go, because she gave me leave. I can turn never to return
because like the dingo, I have been set free.
Now it's up to me.
Now the magic can pervade the air as it was used so indifferent to do.
Left with no constant song, but my own blissful sadness and an ancient
worry: on the train back home, back someplace without a valid ticket
Catherine, the heart beat of my dream
Tempted as you were from the temptor
Waiting for that bus which never came
Protected from the wind that swept your hair
In the crook of my shoulder:
How I regret; how am I glad
That I never knew you any better
Europe tells a story of veiled lusts and paraded innocence
Through these eyes: deep setting of the east;
Risen shine of the West; secrets now –
My ancestry betrayed, but the mouth and tongue are mine
And watch! They move in twisted displays, in flagrant disregard –
The wellspring, a beauty with its darker side revealed – to beget their own children
Recline naked before the window at night
My truth may not be your truth,
But it is the truth nonetheless
My back arches in a sculpture of discomfort
A travelling span
At night the light reflects from the Inside
The window takes hold, projects the image, inverted, out.
Mist-grey sharpness of the eye; a crisp, bright portal
Witness, mediator, progenitor of the dialogue supreme
Sophie’s Tree
It is the season for dreaming;
For traditions written in blood and bone;
For the tales of lost loves, dangerous hopes
And epic journeys to be retold.
I look back in a beady-eyed study of awe
Over the rooftops, across the seas, through snow-capped mountain ranges
To be astonished for the first time
At the vast distances I have flown to find my resting place
High up in the slender boughs of Sophie’s tree;
Here it is that I shall build my nest;
Here it is that I shall perch at last to sing my song
And wait for her to come to me
21st – Leaving town with no music in my head, on a low stride with a
centring sense of gravity and an interest in the vivid Autumn faces
that mill around me in a flood I see contented (rather than for what
it is).
I can go, because she gave me leave. I can turn never to return
because like the dingo, I have been set free.
Now it's up to me.
Now the magic can pervade the air as it was used so indifferent to do.
Left with no constant song, but my own blissful sadness and an ancient
worry: on the train back home, back someplace without a valid ticket
Catherine, the heart beat of my dream
Tempted as you were from the temptor
Waiting for that bus which never came
Protected from the wind that swept your hair
In the crook of my shoulder:
How I regret; how am I glad
That I never knew you any better
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Comments
"Catherine, the heart beat of my dream
Tempted as you were from the temptor
Waiting for that bus which never came
Protected from the wind that swept your hair
In the crook of my shoulder:
How I regret; how am I glad
That I never knew you any better"