Unreliable Narrator

This master-work of yours,

This magnum opus,

This poiema,

Is sat in his underpants

In a neglected and untidy flat,

Typing on a laptop he bought with some of his redundancy money.

His youth: behind him

And an early grave ahead

And all his aspirations

Have become expirations.

And the divine light came to him one day

not so long ago,

As he questioned your artistry,

As he judged the fruit of your work,

'What the hell kind of poem is this?'

A masterpiece? Seriously?

And the light whispered to him,

Breathing illumination

Into his stopped up ear,

"It's more than a poem"

It's a story, and it is not over yet.

Moreover, it is a story, You are a story,

That I want to read.

As an author, you can appreciate that.

And I promise you,

Though you may never see it,

There's one Almighty twist,

That spins all on it's head.

I'll let you tell it from here

Anvil

 Anvil 

An unconventional use

And gravity

And force travelling

And least resistance

And other natural flaws

And super-natural laws

And an anvil is formed

From my tragedy

And my grief is your hammer

As you break me open

This hard, calloused shell

Your attack from the air,

And the soft meat of me now exposed,

Hidden no more

Crush me not,

Consume me Lord,

In brokenness

That at last we be

One

(matthew2144)

Sahara Stones

Sahara Stones 

You bought me beauty 

From the wasteland 

From the ashes of stars

Star-born

Carbon dates,

And destinations,

Deserted locations,

Millennia of waiting

In enduring night

Until seen:

The joy of the mourning.

Mirage-like they shone in your eyes

Glinting with light

Brimming with colours

A Jewel in denial

A pebble to please a king.

This thing, that you saw

and collected to bring,

And somehow thought of me.

Handing me the treasure, sometime later,

Somewhat apologetically,
You describe these plain grey pebbles

In the parameters of your original vision,

And although I didn't see them then,
And although I was grateful for the attempt,

It is the beauty of the attempt,

The gem of the gift,

That I was considered,

That you saw this

And wanted me to see,

And these plain pebbles

Shine to me still
Whenever I look at them. 

In fact, in their transfigured state,
They could not have been more beautiful to me

Than they are now.

These plain stones

From The wasteland

Tears are for Turning

As children we learn

Though the principle pain is palpable,

Though the salt trails that mark our cheeks,

long after the streams have dried, come from genuine mines of emotions,

That the water works well,

That the comfort it brings from others, 

can cascade into a river all its own,

That the display of the pain of regret,

Will bring the better part yet.

That the repentance is sweeter than never having sinned.

And so we let flow 

Occasionally more than we need.

And as an adult

I learn 

That my tears over sin,

Even If I am genuine

Are a sweet place to stay,

And to return, like a dog, to the vomit of sorrow.

And I learn

That tears are for learning 

That tears are no good 

To me or God 

If tears 

Do not lead

Into turning.

And though he indulges me

He would rather see me free. 

New Born Blues

 

One day, I said, to the Lord,

A whispered prayer, over my shoulder,

One day I will know.

One day you will show me,

What it is in me,

That resonates so deeply

With the melancholic tone in this song,

To the extent that I told my Sister, 

To ensure that amongst all the hymns I'd selected,

She play it at my funeral,

Because this song, I said, is me.

If you could sum up my soul in music,

This would be it.

"With light in my head

And you in my arms"*


And instantly the whisper returned

My ear tingled

The neck hairs bristled

It is longing.

It is yearning.


And in my ignorance, I asked myself,

Like I would know,

If that wasn't contradicting the nature of my rebirth,

This inner being effused with His spirit,

That I should characterise myself solely with this one bittersweet emotion.

I am Longing.

I am yearning.

But my yearning is for home

For that fine and fateful day

And the new birth should not put me off,

For every baby

Is born screaming

For a comfort they can't yet comprehend.

They have needs they have no knowledge of,

And they feel the need still,

The melancholy speaks of hope

Like pain speaks of healing

And what was begun,

Will one day end.

And the crying will fall silent,

And I will suckle at the teat of eternity

"For I Know I will be loosened

From bonds that hold me fast

That the chains all hung around me

Will fall away at last"*

* Fisherman's Blues- The Waterboys

Surrender

I surrender to you

Like I was bound to do

Not with hands held high

Nor did I 

Abdicate my throne of emotions:

It's courts abandoned,

There are no white flags,

No terms or treaties,

I surrender

Not in willingness

Nor because resistance is worn away

(By the lapping tide of perpetual love)

I have not come to the end of my resource to fight you off,

But I surrender

As a falling man

Surrenders to the concrete below

As the flaming building he has left

Smolders,

He plunges for

Propelled towards

Terror which is firmer

Than the collapsing ruin that previously supported,

Even though

He started the fire.

I surrender to the approaching ground

And the mercy of God.

The channels

I find the cool channels

between buildings 

where the wind finds flow, 

This breeze block, asphalt, concrete complex,

Where the radiance of the sun

is battery farmed.

Where humidity is increased in one room,

And conditioned into ice-dry climate in another,

And i walk unseen among the scientists,

clustered in their honey burrows,

I'm dripping sweat on their sterile floors

Dragging plastic through their corridors 

wearing their lab coats

but the dark ring of perspiration

is around my colar

And I cannot be with them,

So

I seek the channels

between the buildings

where the monster casts its shadow

And sucks the cool air through