I am sick of beauty that soaks the soul to saturation point ,
drags me under and suffocates my eyes and mind ,
turns me into a madman.
The boy has suffering etched in scars on a face
older than it has any right to be,
screwed up against the light of architecture and sculpted white marble.
Meanwhile, like the Lady of Shallot, I weave and watch,
watch and weave the shadows as life passes in mirror images
I cannot touch.
My breath comes in saltskin yearnings , coffee ,
somewhere under the froth,
burns the words from my lips.
The world of men carries fresh baguettes erect and warm. I salivate,
imagine how the yellow butter will melt , insinuate
itself into the soft airiness beneath the hard exterior.
Tired of shadows, tired of a life that does not belong to me ,
is not my own;
I shout at the forest, shout into the corridors,
shout into the vacuum left by the beauty.
There can be no beauty that lives.
The man, who has turned the suffering of the boy into a beauty
beyond the barrier of death,
beaten the frontier guards of the abyss into some sort of temporary submission,
smiles an enigma and leads me up the creaky boarding house back stairs.
Three o’clock : the time all clocks and watches stop,
life and death served with tea and honey on petit morts
At three o’clock on the dot the fountains burst,
throw cascades of rainbows at the sky, sunlight sneaks
through closed shutters
to ride the rococo river of rumpled white sheets.
Author notes
re-post
What did you think
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
-
Little scarred boy lost and shrouded, peeking out he feels, and found again as man he comes delighted.
This was a real word romp, to me. It had flavours of everything, so visual and mortal and sensual and uh...
is what a poem should be!
I am so glad you found this and reposted it. I would be bereft not ever to have been able to read it, even if unknowingly so, which it most certainly would be! As things exist it is grand to be made aware and bask in their being.
I loved this and felt somewhat voyeur witnessing...and you know what? You really made me hunger for that baguette!
I adored this, absolutely adored it!
-
-
Hey Errant- people have been missing you.
hehehe. Yes. The baguette.
-
-
I love this poem, or perhaps it is the imagery that I find so appealing. I am reminded of gallery curators who sit, observe and protect the exhibits in the room in which they sit. I have even found myself envying the guards in the National Gallery who can sit and look at the Monets all day. When in fact, what do they care? When the smell of warm bread can easily distract them. While I fall into a pond of lilies, this chap is fantasizing about melting butter (brilliant stanza) Paintings, sculptures capture a moment and create a beauty, one which probably never even existed, but we still go and admire it, dead works in museums, while outside is life and colour and b-e-a-u-t-y! Talking of which, your last line is just, wow!
I am less able to critique poems rather just say something about how I respond to them. I hope that that is OK.
-
-
Absolutely fine Andrew- I prefer people to tell me that they got something from the experience of reading, (or not). Alhtough that is not to say I am not open to technical suggestion if that is how people want to comment.
Thanks for your fantastic comment. I am glad I found this poem I wrote a bit back as it was one of my favourites and I thought it lost forever when my hard drive crashed.
-
-
Irritating how persistent these feelings are, isn't it? You only have to exist in a standard life to get caught here, but it takes mountains moving to get you out. Bloody hell.
Another piece by you I obviously feel keenly. Especially that Lady of Shallot reference, I think about her all the time!I see it's a repost...maybe you've found away to break that mirror and jump out of the tower...
Thanks for something to roll about in and get all personally involved with! Lovely work
-
-
Thank you for your wonderful comment. The Lady of Shallott does get under one's skin, doesn't she, once encountered.
It is, I think, a kind of freedom in itself...once accepted.
-
-
yes, I agree. It really is. surely this conclusion we have reached bodes well for us lolol
-
-
-
Sounds like someone who actually wishes love did feel this way but perhaps didn't end as a little death when a relationship ends. We are fatally human most of us, enjoy the wild swing from heady happiness to the basest sadness where we wallow, yet the heart appears to be the machine that keeps us afloat even when we wish to drown. Sometimes I think we should stay submerged but heads and hearts just fight too much to do anything sensible like that lol so we live and love and live and fail and one day if we are lucky we get one or the other right lol never both at the same time,I think that's what makes us unique!
C
-
-
Thank you CF- the 'petit mort ' is also an expression for climax. Of course, love is never quite how we imagine it is going to be, neither is beauty, but you are right, we have to keep faith I think ultimately, when we look back, we see that it was exactly that- like a safety valve kicks in or something.
-
Adding your comment:
1 - 9 of 9
