Poetry is another passion of mine. Here is a small sample of some of the numerous poems I have written.
Holding Men
We arrived in dribs and drabs
From various corners of the earth
Apprehensively, ready to bare all,
Despite the cold Spanish wind.
Initially we wrap ourselves in bravado
And gentle humour,
Gentle mind, not cutting.
We edge closer hour by hour.
12 men, like disciples ready to follow our
Gentle master - far too graceful to be a master;
A graceful guide, more like.
Early morning we show our shivering, shrivelling selves.
We bend our bodies and our souls.
With each day we step closer, closer still,
further away from the chains of masculinity,
Which challenge and mar our daily lives.
Any unknowing, mistrusting eyes
Would dismiss, diminish our endeavours
To be better men, better gay men.
Unknowing eyes would be blinded by our nakedness,
Would revel in what we reveal
Thereby missing, utterly, the essence
Of what we create, celebrate.
And yes we are sexual and sensual,
Embracing ourselves and each other.
But more than that we are
Contorting bodies, supporting souls.
We welcome the pleasures of touch,
Going far beyond the skin, deep within.
Or at least as far as we are able,
Which is oh so far from our daily lives.
Naked yoga in the rain,
A new experience which in its persistence
has us scrambling for shelter
And melting/shivering in a survival hug.
On the complimentary side-lines
There is Alvaro
Working his magic with his hands
One by one we wander down the steps,
Seeking solace,
Returning renewed, singing his praise.
And amidst all this: the play, the yoga, the nudity, the massage
There's an attention seeking cat, aptly named Conchita,
From whom we can all learn,
For we too deserve attention
In the form of loving strokes.
If only we would dare to ask.
Did I mention there was laughter,
Loving laughter? Lingam, too.
Holding men, isn't that what we do?
And Holding men cry, as well.
For here amidst the mountains
We share words, bare wounds
Become loving gay brethren in the sunset
And far beyond.
We arrived in dribs and drabs
From various corners of the earth
Apprehensively, ready to bare all,
Despite the cold Spanish wind.
Initially we wrap ourselves in bravado
And gentle humour,
Gentle mind, not cutting.
We edge closer hour by hour.
12 men, like disciples ready to follow our
Gentle master - far too graceful to be a master;
A graceful guide, more like.
Early morning we show our shivering, shrivelling selves.
We bend our bodies and our souls.
With each day we step closer, closer still,
further away from the chains of masculinity,
Which challenge and mar our daily lives.
Any unknowing, mistrusting eyes
Would dismiss, diminish our endeavours
To be better men, better gay men.
Unknowing eyes would be blinded by our nakedness,
Would revel in what we reveal
Thereby missing, utterly, the essence
Of what we create, celebrate.
And yes we are sexual and sensual,
Embracing ourselves and each other.
But more than that we are
Contorting bodies, supporting souls.
We welcome the pleasures of touch,
Going far beyond the skin, deep within.
Or at least as far as we are able,
Which is oh so far from our daily lives.
Naked yoga in the rain,
A new experience which in its persistence
has us scrambling for shelter
And melting/shivering in a survival hug.
On the complimentary side-lines
There is Alvaro
Working his magic with his hands
One by one we wander down the steps,
Seeking solace,
Returning renewed, singing his praise.
And amidst all this: the play, the yoga, the nudity, the massage
There's an attention seeking cat, aptly named Conchita,
From whom we can all learn,
For we too deserve attention
In the form of loving strokes.
If only we would dare to ask.
Did I mention there was laughter,
Loving laughter? Lingam, too.
Holding men, isn't that what we do?
And Holding men cry, as well.
For here amidst the mountains
We share words, bare wounds
Become loving gay brethren in the sunset
And far beyond.
Follow the Stars to Freedom (for Yeonmi Park and the less fortunate remaining)
one crying girl against the mammoth dictator
in her silk sewn grace she says
follow the stars.
what if those stars are owned?
what if you are told those stars don’t exist,
the stars you see before you?
what if you dare not breathe the word stars?
there is a mammoth dictator in this world
Killing
Innocent
Men
and women, and children, and dreams, and beliefs.
living under the shadow of this man, this family
is unimaginable – thankfully – in the free world.
power and pollution of mind and spirit
forms the breeding ground of the narcissist
t/he/y feed/s on terror and power
paranoia
pounding the us out of trust.
one little man standing tall
with bombs beneath his fingertips
and whips beneath his tongue,
holds a nation firmly in his grip.
yet this little girl
with visions of rape and murder
trailing behind her
like death scratching at her soul
still with hope and determination
reflected only in the stars above
shares words of wisdom
beyond his dreams.
and with each step she takes
she says no, no, no
you will not break me
you will not rule me
you are so, so, so wrong.
and she is braver than the world
with its press, its media, its politicians
who watch on and say,
bad man.
one crying girl against the mammoth dictator
in her silk sewn grace she says
follow the stars.
what if those stars are owned?
what if you are told those stars don’t exist,
the stars you see before you?
what if you dare not breathe the word stars?
there is a mammoth dictator in this world
Killing
Innocent
Men
and women, and children, and dreams, and beliefs.
living under the shadow of this man, this family
is unimaginable – thankfully – in the free world.
power and pollution of mind and spirit
forms the breeding ground of the narcissist
t/he/y feed/s on terror and power
paranoia
pounding the us out of trust.
one little man standing tall
with bombs beneath his fingertips
and whips beneath his tongue,
holds a nation firmly in his grip.
yet this little girl
with visions of rape and murder
trailing behind her
like death scratching at her soul
still with hope and determination
reflected only in the stars above
shares words of wisdom
beyond his dreams.
and with each step she takes
she says no, no, no
you will not break me
you will not rule me
you are so, so, so wrong.
and she is braver than the world
with its press, its media, its politicians
who watch on and say,
bad man.
Blind Spots
Spinning on heels faster and faster
Hoping for a glimpse
Relieved maybe when nothing is visible.
Sometimes thinking the faintest blur of a shadow
Is momentarily visible
But in the whisp of a moment
That maybe doesn’t exist anyway
It’s gone.
Spinning on heels faster and faster
Hoping for a glimpse
Relieved maybe when nothing is visible.
Sometimes thinking the faintest blur of a shadow
Is momentarily visible
But in the whisp of a moment
That maybe doesn’t exist anyway
It’s gone.
Gone?
I let it go without knowing.
And became aware only by its blissful absence.
Gone?
In its absence a seeping calm moved in.
So soothing
And still
I doubt its absence having held it so dearly for so so long
Like an inherited deathly duty which says
Don’t you dare let go! You're life depends upon it.
I suspect its shivering return .
The proverbial bad penny waiting to seat itself by me.
Within.
Simultaneously I toy with the notion of
Possible prolonged absence.
And what if it were true?
Oh joy, the hours would acquire a new hue.
The mind of madness freed to play at will,
Wallowing in carefree words
Images free to paint pleasured scenes,
Or simply while away the seconds, minutes, hours.
I laugh spontaneously, in this state
Even Time could learn to dance.
Dreams would wander unshackled
Finding undisturbed depths and wandering heights.
No more the watchful sentinel, robbing me of sleep.
So long my dark companion
I know thee too well.
-Aged words to suit your infinite age-
These words I would willingly utter.
And I would call your name in remembrance .
Farewell?
Fear.
I let it go without knowing.
And became aware only by its blissful absence.
Gone?
In its absence a seeping calm moved in.
So soothing
And still
I doubt its absence having held it so dearly for so so long
Like an inherited deathly duty which says
Don’t you dare let go! You're life depends upon it.
I suspect its shivering return .
The proverbial bad penny waiting to seat itself by me.
Within.
Simultaneously I toy with the notion of
Possible prolonged absence.
And what if it were true?
Oh joy, the hours would acquire a new hue.
The mind of madness freed to play at will,
Wallowing in carefree words
Images free to paint pleasured scenes,
Or simply while away the seconds, minutes, hours.
I laugh spontaneously, in this state
Even Time could learn to dance.
Dreams would wander unshackled
Finding undisturbed depths and wandering heights.
No more the watchful sentinel, robbing me of sleep.
So long my dark companion
I know thee too well.
-Aged words to suit your infinite age-
These words I would willingly utter.
And I would call your name in remembrance .
Farewell?
Fear.
Peaceful Ghosts
Peaceful ghosts live within and without.
Battling ghosts too.
If peaceful ghosts stand idly by in this world
Destruction ensues.
How to fight peacefully, I wonder.
Pitching words against bullets and bombs
And bastions of narcissistic power seekers
Is seldom enough.
The vast majority of souls carry peaceful lights,
Yet we give our power so readily to those who would - too eagerly -
Extinguish hope in favour of power dressed as purpose.
Are we so desperate for the ruling papa?
Or is this basic nursery school evolution –
The strong shall rule?
I hold on to the song,
Nothing Really Matters.
Love is all we need.
Without this belief, peaceful ghosts start fighting.
And then where shall we be?
Peaceful ghosts live within and without.
Battling ghosts too.
If peaceful ghosts stand idly by in this world
Destruction ensues.
How to fight peacefully, I wonder.
Pitching words against bullets and bombs
And bastions of narcissistic power seekers
Is seldom enough.
The vast majority of souls carry peaceful lights,
Yet we give our power so readily to those who would - too eagerly -
Extinguish hope in favour of power dressed as purpose.
Are we so desperate for the ruling papa?
Or is this basic nursery school evolution –
The strong shall rule?
I hold on to the song,
Nothing Really Matters.
Love is all we need.
Without this belief, peaceful ghosts start fighting.
And then where shall we be?
There's Blood on your Plate
Ripflesh on a plate,
Well it tastes good, doesn't it?
And bacon is irresistible.
So you like a bit of salt on your pig!
Caged ignorance called fine dining.
Or just a fast, torturous life for your fast food.
Meat me at the abattoir and look this life in the eyes
As s/he faces a violent death
Ending a violent life
To line your stomach for an hour or two.
I'm an animal lover the carnivore says
I suppose you fight for peace, too, I think.
It's a very slow wake up call to see that this is not sustainable.
Oh, did I mention inhumane, too.
With luck we may wake up before the world dies.
And in the meantime animal souls line our plates
One, two, three times a day.
And animal rights activists are called terrorists
By profit-fat politicians or ignorant judges.
No! Terror is written deep in the eyes of an animal
As she walks the blood strewn floor,
Knowing the fate she is about to meat just
To feed your pleasure.
Well, Guten Appetit!
Ripflesh on a plate,
Well it tastes good, doesn't it?
And bacon is irresistible.
So you like a bit of salt on your pig!
Caged ignorance called fine dining.
Or just a fast, torturous life for your fast food.
Meat me at the abattoir and look this life in the eyes
As s/he faces a violent death
Ending a violent life
To line your stomach for an hour or two.
I'm an animal lover the carnivore says
I suppose you fight for peace, too, I think.
It's a very slow wake up call to see that this is not sustainable.
Oh, did I mention inhumane, too.
With luck we may wake up before the world dies.
And in the meantime animal souls line our plates
One, two, three times a day.
And animal rights activists are called terrorists
By profit-fat politicians or ignorant judges.
No! Terror is written deep in the eyes of an animal
As she walks the blood strewn floor,
Knowing the fate she is about to meat just
To feed your pleasure.
Well, Guten Appetit!
Siblings in Orlando and Beyond
20.06.2016
691,200 seconds and counting 8 days and 49 deaths And the world moves on with throw-away newsAnd with these secondsthese deaths threaten to move into an Uncaring shadejust me and a million plus siblings can’t, Won’t let go. Young faces with frozen lifesOlder faces resisting loneliness, Seeking connectiononadancefloor.Seeking sanctuaryhustlingtogetherfrom a distrusting world.A dance beat turns to
g u n f i r e.Dancing in defiance they are mercilessly gunned down.And a line of words cannot recount the horror. I can only throw these words into a
p
i
l
e and leave you to find structure&sense, which may be ZEro existent.Familiesreal and Chosendistraught.Siblings the world over crave news, detailsacknowledgement. Acknowledgement!
Because they were us, because youwereareus.
I listen to my siblings mourn.Watch postings, which post mortem search for An impossible sense.Anderson Cooper fights tears unsuccessfully Through the siblings list of names.Owen Jones walks off set,His regular rationale ruled out by this event And I SO know why.
There is no number to count the
Endless homophobic happenings in this world
Every unchallenged word adds a miniscule of metal
To the bullets fired in Orlando-
Adds a fibre to the hanging ropes in Iran-
Adds a chemical to the overdose of the unseen suffering sibling.
8 days and counting
Normality returns to obliviate our siblings
Into just another massacre.
And I hate it , and I hate that I hate.
We’d like to hand the torch over to
Our straight brethren in power(yes, they are men and that’s way over 1/2 of the problem)
But they’re not taking.
Instead they move on to the next news event.
And me and my siblings go on counting the seconds
Go on dodging bullets in our daily lives.
20.06.2016
691,200 seconds and counting 8 days and 49 deaths And the world moves on with throw-away newsAnd with these secondsthese deaths threaten to move into an Uncaring shadejust me and a million plus siblings can’t, Won’t let go. Young faces with frozen lifesOlder faces resisting loneliness, Seeking connectiononadancefloor.Seeking sanctuaryhustlingtogetherfrom a distrusting world.A dance beat turns to
g u n f i r e.Dancing in defiance they are mercilessly gunned down.And a line of words cannot recount the horror. I can only throw these words into a
p
i
l
e and leave you to find structure&sense, which may be ZEro existent.Familiesreal and Chosendistraught.Siblings the world over crave news, detailsacknowledgement. Acknowledgement!
Because they were us, because youwereareus.
I listen to my siblings mourn.Watch postings, which post mortem search for An impossible sense.Anderson Cooper fights tears unsuccessfully Through the siblings list of names.Owen Jones walks off set,His regular rationale ruled out by this event And I SO know why.
There is no number to count the
Endless homophobic happenings in this world
Every unchallenged word adds a miniscule of metal
To the bullets fired in Orlando-
Adds a fibre to the hanging ropes in Iran-
Adds a chemical to the overdose of the unseen suffering sibling.
8 days and counting
Normality returns to obliviate our siblings
Into just another massacre.
And I hate it , and I hate that I hate.
We’d like to hand the torch over to
Our straight brethren in power(yes, they are men and that’s way over 1/2 of the problem)
But they’re not taking.
Instead they move on to the next news event.
And me and my siblings go on counting the seconds
Go on dodging bullets in our daily lives.
Blackstar Day - All at Sea - For David Bowie
12.01.2016
Wake up the world is screaming
But I don’t hear a sound.
Oh no, don’t say it’s true!
Look up here, I’m in heaven.
But I don’t believe you. How could I?
I've been chewing words in my mourning head
All day or is it night?
But with a thousand lines and a million words
I could never capture the essence of you.
Thus this thin white fluke fails you.
Adieu.
Who else could fall wanking to the floor
In Time, which now stands still, darkly?
And the drama baby, I'll miss the drama of the none rockstar.
What’s happening with you, cuts through
And I've lost you to oblivion.
If you're not up there can I download you again
Let’s start somewhere in London
Go high, through US
Before coming down Low in Berlin
A city so inexplicably cold tonight
Still I would have the waves carry me there
A breath closer to you.
Oh no, don’t say it’s True.
The world screams and I hear nothing.
I lean into the beat of Blackstar
In the dark, of course
The irony of it, the first track is silence.
I need to reload.
Still...
The light flashes on my Bluetooth headphones
Recharge
My watch paints blue stripey stars in the black night
And I can’t help but think, you’d like that.
Still in the flashing dark I hate the big note of C
Which took you, though not without leaving a legacy
And here there is no full stop
Not if the dark world retains an ounce of sanity
For a lad insane…
12.01.2016
Wake up the world is screaming
But I don’t hear a sound.
Oh no, don’t say it’s true!
Look up here, I’m in heaven.
But I don’t believe you. How could I?
I've been chewing words in my mourning head
All day or is it night?
But with a thousand lines and a million words
I could never capture the essence of you.
Thus this thin white fluke fails you.
Adieu.
Who else could fall wanking to the floor
In Time, which now stands still, darkly?
And the drama baby, I'll miss the drama of the none rockstar.
What’s happening with you, cuts through
And I've lost you to oblivion.
If you're not up there can I download you again
Let’s start somewhere in London
Go high, through US
Before coming down Low in Berlin
A city so inexplicably cold tonight
Still I would have the waves carry me there
A breath closer to you.
Oh no, don’t say it’s True.
The world screams and I hear nothing.
I lean into the beat of Blackstar
In the dark, of course
The irony of it, the first track is silence.
I need to reload.
Still...
The light flashes on my Bluetooth headphones
Recharge
My watch paints blue stripey stars in the black night
And I can’t help but think, you’d like that.
Still in the flashing dark I hate the big note of C
Which took you, though not without leaving a legacy
And here there is no full stop
Not if the dark world retains an ounce of sanity
For a lad insane…
The Love Letter
Somewhere in the delicate pages of your heart
there is a love letter.
The letter is
i,
It is an italic letter
Not bold in a typographical sense
But still as bold as any letter could ever be.
The folds of these pages have been battered, wind-torn.
But you, it seems, have survived, almost unscathed.
You stand defiant.
Your tiny head a period of grace and gentle determination.
If you were to be given voice, you would not shout.
No need, the brash, for you.
Rather you would state, clearly
i
And who could fail to listen?
Only the dumb or the dreary.
The meaningless few
In the great scheme of things
That is i.
You would resonate
Reverberate.
Turning i into we or us.
For you are like a gift that requires no effort beyond listening.
Somewhere in the delicate pages of your heart
there is a love letter.
The letter is
i,
It is an italic letter
Not bold in a typographical sense
But still as bold as any letter could ever be.
The folds of these pages have been battered, wind-torn.
But you, it seems, have survived, almost unscathed.
You stand defiant.
Your tiny head a period of grace and gentle determination.
If you were to be given voice, you would not shout.
No need, the brash, for you.
Rather you would state, clearly
i
And who could fail to listen?
Only the dumb or the dreary.
The meaningless few
In the great scheme of things
That is i.
You would resonate
Reverberate.
Turning i into we or us.
For you are like a gift that requires no effort beyond listening.
Because The Night
And now what? Sleep?
Apparently not.
I've visited, surfed, tidied, organised, prepared
Done crosswords - okay attempted to do.
Chrissie Hynde wooed me with wise words
From Stockholm, In a Miracle
Etcetera
I dipped in and out of the blue pages
Listlessly, languid, lust-less.
I called
Only to be rejected by an answering machine.
Football finished early
Leaving a long, yawning evening.
I resisted alcohol
Which would only mock and take me to
God-Knows-Where land.
- I've been there too often for comfort.
I read and cast Ted Hughes aside.
- Don't take it personally.
For long is the lonesome night.
But fear not,
This is not a fist-in-the stomach loneliness
This is more a left-alone-with-Myself restlessness.
And now what? Sleep?
And now what? Sleep?
Apparently not.
I've visited, surfed, tidied, organised, prepared
Done crosswords - okay attempted to do.
Chrissie Hynde wooed me with wise words
From Stockholm, In a Miracle
Etcetera
I dipped in and out of the blue pages
Listlessly, languid, lust-less.
I called
Only to be rejected by an answering machine.
Football finished early
Leaving a long, yawning evening.
I resisted alcohol
Which would only mock and take me to
God-Knows-Where land.
- I've been there too often for comfort.
I read and cast Ted Hughes aside.
- Don't take it personally.
For long is the lonesome night.
But fear not,
This is not a fist-in-the stomach loneliness
This is more a left-alone-with-Myself restlessness.
And now what? Sleep?
The Absence of Sons
In the Absence of Sons
Am I unaccountable?
There's some relief in your absence
You will not be there to judge me.
You will never ever be hindered by my mishaps -
As I may conveniently name my foolish behaviour -
You will not be scarred
Or marred by my imperfections
Or rejections of your challenging views,
Screwing up your future
As you struggle with your own beliefs.
Relief that I can live unscathed
And you my unborn son unbathed
Within my shame.
You must not struggle with the same
Foolish doubts, questions inane,
Plaguing informed thoughts and scorn
Of failing Fathers
I spare you rather
Loss of sons unborn.
I wonder what you look like
Striking a resemblance
A semblance of the Father who was not.
Forgot, is that the bane of your disdain
Or is it mine, the same?
I hear your voice
Making it difficult to rejoice
In your absence,
Which is a blessing
In no one's eyes.
And then I hear your uncalled cries
And the absence I despise.
In the Absence of Sons
Am I unaccountable?
There's some relief in your absence
You will not be there to judge me.
You will never ever be hindered by my mishaps -
As I may conveniently name my foolish behaviour -
You will not be scarred
Or marred by my imperfections
Or rejections of your challenging views,
Screwing up your future
As you struggle with your own beliefs.
Relief that I can live unscathed
And you my unborn son unbathed
Within my shame.
You must not struggle with the same
Foolish doubts, questions inane,
Plaguing informed thoughts and scorn
Of failing Fathers
I spare you rather
Loss of sons unborn.
I wonder what you look like
Striking a resemblance
A semblance of the Father who was not.
Forgot, is that the bane of your disdain
Or is it mine, the same?
I hear your voice
Making it difficult to rejoice
In your absence,
Which is a blessing
In no one's eyes.
And then I hear your uncalled cries
And the absence I despise.
A moment in the Southbank (After Auschwitz)
Souls spinning in a darkened void.
Forever waiting to be found by the willing watcher.
I am blasted by this triptych vision.
The world disturbs this moment:
A Nineties’ sound masquerading as Forties music
filters through.
Screeching Violins.
A Beating Bass.
People chatter,
drinking afternoon tea.
Filling the air with intense inanity.
Dead voices interspersed with occasional laughter.
In the midst of this I fight a war of words and tears.
As ever, words win.
The essence of this moment,
the core,
is a trio of acrylic, skeletal, spectres.
A vision of Auschwitz.
Death called Art.
Sometimes I’d like to step into
that pit-black, acrylic void.
Suspended there
the body of a sweet and peaceful
shell of a naked man.
I have an urge to kiss your death’s head.
To inject it with life.
Insert some red into your pale pink/grey skin.
But I should not wake you from death’s sleep.
So I walk away,
and take with me this moment.
Souls spinning in a darkened void.
Forever waiting to be found by the willing watcher.
I am blasted by this triptych vision.
The world disturbs this moment:
A Nineties’ sound masquerading as Forties music
filters through.
Screeching Violins.
A Beating Bass.
People chatter,
drinking afternoon tea.
Filling the air with intense inanity.
Dead voices interspersed with occasional laughter.
In the midst of this I fight a war of words and tears.
As ever, words win.
The essence of this moment,
the core,
is a trio of acrylic, skeletal, spectres.
A vision of Auschwitz.
Death called Art.
Sometimes I’d like to step into
that pit-black, acrylic void.
Suspended there
the body of a sweet and peaceful
shell of a naked man.
I have an urge to kiss your death’s head.
To inject it with life.
Insert some red into your pale pink/grey skin.
But I should not wake you from death’s sleep.
So I walk away,
and take with me this moment.
Tempting Fate
With a circle on a calendar
am I tempting fate?
Without pen and ink
would I forget the date?
Can I leave to memory
a night of bliss?
or should I seal it
with a kiss?
Kiss and tell
for all to see
that for a moment
you were special to me.
Can I leave it to fade
without a trace?
or should I etch in words
your loving face?
Should I reveal the truth
and give your name,
leaving myself
susceptible to blame?
Would I then be guilty
of trivialising love
with words which are not inspired
by the above?
Is it suffice
to leave in time
the spoken words
we leave behind?
Or should I leave
in metric rhyme
insufficient words
which are confined
by the conformity
of poetic law
which belies the love
that we explore?
Who would care
but you and I?
What reason more
to justify
the need in me
to kiss and tell.
It’s done now
so what the hell.
Now, if I never
see you again,
the memory will
here remain.
So here I’ve committed,
by the pen,
the memory of
two loving men.
With a circle on a calendar
am I tempting fate?
Without pen and ink
would I forget the date?
Can I leave to memory
a night of bliss?
or should I seal it
with a kiss?
Kiss and tell
for all to see
that for a moment
you were special to me.
Can I leave it to fade
without a trace?
or should I etch in words
your loving face?
Should I reveal the truth
and give your name,
leaving myself
susceptible to blame?
Would I then be guilty
of trivialising love
with words which are not inspired
by the above?
Is it suffice
to leave in time
the spoken words
we leave behind?
Or should I leave
in metric rhyme
insufficient words
which are confined
by the conformity
of poetic law
which belies the love
that we explore?
Who would care
but you and I?
What reason more
to justify
the need in me
to kiss and tell.
It’s done now
so what the hell.
Now, if I never
see you again,
the memory will
here remain.
So here I’ve committed,
by the pen,
the memory of
two loving men.
Body Words
Imagine
each part of the body
a separate entity.
If each limb, each organ
were to make a single life statement
what would it be?
What would the foot say
to have walked a million miles?
What the ear
to have filtered so much noise,
witnessed so much?
An eyelid
what would it say?
The protecting viel
resting in slumber.
The lips
giving expression
to a houseful of words.
What would be their single life statement?
The heart to have pumped
a sea of blood,
borne the myth of emotions.
The mind?
An incomprehensible network
of a lifetime's trivias and traumas.
Genitalia?
To have excelled
and expelled.
To be the focus
of so much attention.
The finger?
To have touched, explored
tentatively, passionately.
If each segment of the body
were to make a single life statement
what a page of bodywords they would make.
Imagine
each part of the body
a separate entity.
If each limb, each organ
were to make a single life statement
what would it be?
What would the foot say
to have walked a million miles?
What the ear
to have filtered so much noise,
witnessed so much?
An eyelid
what would it say?
The protecting viel
resting in slumber.
The lips
giving expression
to a houseful of words.
What would be their single life statement?
The heart to have pumped
a sea of blood,
borne the myth of emotions.
The mind?
An incomprehensible network
of a lifetime's trivias and traumas.
Genitalia?
To have excelled
and expelled.
To be the focus
of so much attention.
The finger?
To have touched, explored
tentatively, passionately.
If each segment of the body
were to make a single life statement
what a page of bodywords they would make.
Instinctive Knowing
I look up into the stars, like there's an answer waiting there for me.
I look out at the ocean, as if it will wash it up at my feet.
The trees around me reach high, as if they hold on to an eternal belief that they can capture the answer if they just stretch far enough.
The jungle sings a promising, night-time melody, as indecipherable as the message in the stars.
Inside he lays in bed. White sheets trailing behind him like a waiting bride.
I join him, walking away from or towards the answer.
I look up into the stars, like there's an answer waiting there for me.
I look out at the ocean, as if it will wash it up at my feet.
The trees around me reach high, as if they hold on to an eternal belief that they can capture the answer if they just stretch far enough.
The jungle sings a promising, night-time melody, as indecipherable as the message in the stars.
Inside he lays in bed. White sheets trailing behind him like a waiting bride.
I join him, walking away from or towards the answer.
In 2012 I went to New York to visit a good friend. I've been to New York before and I find it to be an exhilerating and exciting city. It's a city of contrasts that never fails to entertain. This time, during my trip, I read Patti Smith's Just Kids, the perfect book for New York. This poem was inspired by the book and my time in New York and Fire Island.
Patti Smith in the Hi and Buy city of New York 22.09.2012
Consumer hell in the stop and go city of New York.
Warhol overshadowed by those who follow -
Roberts, Gober and Maplethorpe.
Or is it the other way around?
Yes if Patti Smith follows, as she does.
Creativity in the Hi and Bye city of New York.
Walking on escalator pavements
Buzz, buzz, business.
How do real people,
The nuts and bolts people of the city survive here?
They do, as they did.
Just Kids leads into a world of yesterday.
The now Berlin of then.
Yesterday seems shinier in its grime
From the vantage point of today.
Over to Fire Island.
"You'll love it."
Do I?
The Belvedere.
Nobody stays here,
"but I've been there!" They all say.
Resplendent in its sleaze.
No service here,
But you will be served.
Unashamedly pretentious.
Patti accompanies me, inspires me
In sunshine
With a bad porn soundtrack
To remind me who i am,
Where i am.
Downstairs the pool is adorned by the waiting.
The poet, the painter and the former black Adonis
Retreat to the rooftop.
Occasionally, the doorbell chimes
Loud, brash - southern Belle style
And Patti introduces Slim/Sam.
I go down
Chasing words in this crazy backdrop
Of then, now.
Or is it now and then?
Maybe both if Patti's here.
Patti Smith in the Hi and Buy city of New York 22.09.2012
Consumer hell in the stop and go city of New York.
Warhol overshadowed by those who follow -
Roberts, Gober and Maplethorpe.
Or is it the other way around?
Yes if Patti Smith follows, as she does.
Creativity in the Hi and Bye city of New York.
Walking on escalator pavements
Buzz, buzz, business.
How do real people,
The nuts and bolts people of the city survive here?
They do, as they did.
Just Kids leads into a world of yesterday.
The now Berlin of then.
Yesterday seems shinier in its grime
From the vantage point of today.
Over to Fire Island.
"You'll love it."
Do I?
The Belvedere.
Nobody stays here,
"but I've been there!" They all say.
Resplendent in its sleaze.
No service here,
But you will be served.
Unashamedly pretentious.
Patti accompanies me, inspires me
In sunshine
With a bad porn soundtrack
To remind me who i am,
Where i am.
Downstairs the pool is adorned by the waiting.
The poet, the painter and the former black Adonis
Retreat to the rooftop.
Occasionally, the doorbell chimes
Loud, brash - southern Belle style
And Patti introduces Slim/Sam.
I go down
Chasing words in this crazy backdrop
Of then, now.
Or is it now and then?
Maybe both if Patti's here.
Some years ago I was honoured to spend some time with a man facing death in the final stages of AIDS. These were my thoughts at the time. Oh, by the way, for the faint-hearted, there are profanities in the poem. Read on, or pass this one by.
Talk of Life and Death
You talk to me of death
calmly
matter of fact.
He is your constant companion today.
Tomorrow?
He (death) sits at the
foot of your bed
as you sleep.
When you wake he smiles
benignly.
He's in no rush.
He knows
that eventually
you will fall into his waiting arms.
I sit and listen
interject
matter of fact,
occasionally.
I am here to accept
your words
your fears
your taboos.
Later, alone
I look at Jarman's Garden
and know that I too
wanted to fuck
viciously,
passionately,
when faced
with the too-close thought
of death.
I think of you again
with a time bomb
sitting inside your head.
Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
Every second another loss.
I think of the taboos we chase away
with words,
the currency of souls
and 'the vampires of finance'
would have us stay silent.
Mammon makes a cold
and lonely bedfellow.
Better sleep with death.
We talk of funerals, religion
Death - process and reality.
The enigma of.
I see your greatest suffering
is the lingering pain of loss and grief,
which is yet to fall upon your loved ones.
I see your attempts at acceptance
I hear your rejections
your hopes/denials
your fears.
And I leave you
As the clock demands
Tick Tock.
But you stay with me.
A trace of you
An essence of your energy
which sits somewhat heavily.
Like death at the foot of your bed.
And I want to fuck
violently
passionately
to know that I'm alive.
FUCKING: the giver of life.
or: an invitation to death.
Talk of Life and Death
You talk to me of death
calmly
matter of fact.
He is your constant companion today.
Tomorrow?
He (death) sits at the
foot of your bed
as you sleep.
When you wake he smiles
benignly.
He's in no rush.
He knows
that eventually
you will fall into his waiting arms.
I sit and listen
interject
matter of fact,
occasionally.
I am here to accept
your words
your fears
your taboos.
Later, alone
I look at Jarman's Garden
and know that I too
wanted to fuck
viciously,
passionately,
when faced
with the too-close thought
of death.
I think of you again
with a time bomb
sitting inside your head.
Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
Every second another loss.
I think of the taboos we chase away
with words,
the currency of souls
and 'the vampires of finance'
would have us stay silent.
Mammon makes a cold
and lonely bedfellow.
Better sleep with death.
We talk of funerals, religion
Death - process and reality.
The enigma of.
I see your greatest suffering
is the lingering pain of loss and grief,
which is yet to fall upon your loved ones.
I see your attempts at acceptance
I hear your rejections
your hopes/denials
your fears.
And I leave you
As the clock demands
Tick Tock.
But you stay with me.
A trace of you
An essence of your energy
which sits somewhat heavily.
Like death at the foot of your bed.
And I want to fuck
violently
passionately
to know that I'm alive.
FUCKING: the giver of life.
or: an invitation to death.
This work by David Barnes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.