I don't look for meanings, hidden or otherwise.
These liquid pearls in my eyes are merely a chaffed iris, stripped by the sting of the sea.
The songs and the words and the rise and the fall of the secret chords have no meaning.
The looks and the laughter and the promises of ever after have no meaning.
I have no reason to hope or to reach or to stretch or to be.
I don't look for meanings; they never meant enough to me.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Any Which Way
I was stranded by the roadside, trying to hitch a ride west. I had had a half-baked notion about following the sun. And the east was beginning to sting my soul.
He stopped and spoke to me; his voice was plausive, calm, persuasive. His smile was gentle and his eyes were kind.
It didn’t matter that the seats of the car were faded, or that the radio played a melody which jarred my heart. It didn’t matter that he was travelling south and the puppet master’s strings were pulling me west.
He offered me a way out.
And I took it.
He stopped and spoke to me; his voice was plausive, calm, persuasive. His smile was gentle and his eyes were kind.
It didn’t matter that the seats of the car were faded, or that the radio played a melody which jarred my heart. It didn’t matter that he was travelling south and the puppet master’s strings were pulling me west.
He offered me a way out.
And I took it.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
The Ship Has Sailed
I saw that ship sail away.
I was almost certain I had a ticket. Perhaps I lost it, around the time I lost everything else that mattered. Perhaps I put it somewhere ‘safe’ and, in the ebullient rush to ready myself, forgot where that safe place was, forgot, even, that I required a ticket.
Whatever the reason, I stood upon the docks as the sun began to set and watched that ship sail away.
There were no more ships that day, that week, that month, that year. My luggage is Havisham dust covered and my failing eyes scan distant horizons for funnel smoke.
Worse still, I turn around and look behind me; it is with slight horror that I notice the lands on which I stand beginning to sink into the sea.
I was almost certain I had a ticket. Perhaps I lost it, around the time I lost everything else that mattered. Perhaps I put it somewhere ‘safe’ and, in the ebullient rush to ready myself, forgot where that safe place was, forgot, even, that I required a ticket.
Whatever the reason, I stood upon the docks as the sun began to set and watched that ship sail away.
There were no more ships that day, that week, that month, that year. My luggage is Havisham dust covered and my failing eyes scan distant horizons for funnel smoke.
Worse still, I turn around and look behind me; it is with slight horror that I notice the lands on which I stand beginning to sink into the sea.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Jagged Rocks
Time and time again, they struck him down with every kind of amunition they could craft.
Time and time again, he dodged their bullets, took steady their blows, picked himself up from their bomb-blasts, staggered on with the shrapnel still in his skin.
They exhausted their artilery; soon they were doing no more but throwing jagged rocks at him.
He's bloodied, he's bruised, but he is ever moving on.
Not once has he complained about his wounds; to him, they are the punctuation marks of his life.
Time and time again, he dodged their bullets, took steady their blows, picked himself up from their bomb-blasts, staggered on with the shrapnel still in his skin.
They exhausted their artilery; soon they were doing no more but throwing jagged rocks at him.
He's bloodied, he's bruised, but he is ever moving on.
Not once has he complained about his wounds; to him, they are the punctuation marks of his life.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Let It Go
This seemingly nonsensical journey is not without its finer points, its highlights, if you will. It is by no means entirely akin to pushing water uphill; there are shady spots to sit and rest tired feet and eat Blyton-esque picnics, even though the road does loom large ahead.
Recently, when forging my way through a miniature flood, I saw something striking bobbing on the surface of the muddied waters. I had no idea what it was, but I picked it up, on impulse, and carried it with me in a deep pocket whilst I navigated the rushing waters with renewed vigour. It propelled me forwards, somehow.
On dryer land again, I took it from its cocoon and looked at it more closely. I still had no idea what it was, but I found it rather wonderful and decided I would keep it. It never occurred to me to question to whom that thing belonged.
I have been carrying it for some little while now. Each day I take it from my pocket more often and look at it for longer. Each day I wonder if I would bother to walk forward if I did not possess it. Each day it becomes a little clearer that I must, though I do not wish to.
I should remember that it is not mine, put it down, set it on its way, let it go before I break it. Or, as is more likely, before it breaks me.
Recently, when forging my way through a miniature flood, I saw something striking bobbing on the surface of the muddied waters. I had no idea what it was, but I picked it up, on impulse, and carried it with me in a deep pocket whilst I navigated the rushing waters with renewed vigour. It propelled me forwards, somehow.
On dryer land again, I took it from its cocoon and looked at it more closely. I still had no idea what it was, but I found it rather wonderful and decided I would keep it. It never occurred to me to question to whom that thing belonged.
I have been carrying it for some little while now. Each day I take it from my pocket more often and look at it for longer. Each day I wonder if I would bother to walk forward if I did not possess it. Each day it becomes a little clearer that I must, though I do not wish to.
I should remember that it is not mine, put it down, set it on its way, let it go before I break it. Or, as is more likely, before it breaks me.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Vintage Red
She is everything he didn’t want.
He feels as though he has entered a grocery shop with a list dictating he buy eggs and bread and milk and bacon and has emerged shell-shocked and shaken with an inordinately expensive bottle of vintage red for which he has neither the palate nor the pocket.
The click of her heels is too loud, the shine of her smile too bright, the colour of her hair too brash, the sound of her voice too startling. Yes, she is everything he didn’t want, but, somehow, it has come to pass that she is everything he needs.
He feels as though he has entered a grocery shop with a list dictating he buy eggs and bread and milk and bacon and has emerged shell-shocked and shaken with an inordinately expensive bottle of vintage red for which he has neither the palate nor the pocket.
The click of her heels is too loud, the shine of her smile too bright, the colour of her hair too brash, the sound of her voice too startling. Yes, she is everything he didn’t want, but, somehow, it has come to pass that she is everything he needs.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Nothing More
It’s just a bump in the road.
It’s not a mountain. Nor a precipice. Nor a high-wire with Captain Hook crocodiles clammering their jamming jaws beneath.
The lost boys are still lost.
And this is just a bump in the road.
It matters that its circumnavigation has lasted ten months or more? It matters that the road beyond it may be anything but straight and smooth, or that the wall calendar is filled with ways by which to surmount it?
No.
It’s just a bump in the road.
It’s not a mountain. Nor a precipice. Nor a high-wire with Captain Hook crocodiles clammering their jamming jaws beneath.
The lost boys are still lost.
And this is just a bump in the road.
It matters that its circumnavigation has lasted ten months or more? It matters that the road beyond it may be anything but straight and smooth, or that the wall calendar is filled with ways by which to surmount it?
No.
It’s just a bump in the road.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Starshine
You speak to me, and when you do, in a warm, thick blanket I am encased. My spine is soothed by words of pure velvet and my temples tingle with a quiet delight.
You speak to me here, in the stillness and depth of the night and in this still, harsh world, I am not alone. The stars glint through cover of cloud, casting sparkles on the counterpane; the same stars that glimmer on the surface of your sea.
How, then, can we either of us be alone when united we are by those tenacious stars?
Hours later, your voice is alive in my mind, struggling for space, jostling for a place and I throw whatever I can find upon its fire in the hope of keeping warm.
Hours after that, the cold begins to creep callously back in. I look to the sky and hope there will be star shine tonight.
You speak to me here, in the stillness and depth of the night and in this still, harsh world, I am not alone. The stars glint through cover of cloud, casting sparkles on the counterpane; the same stars that glimmer on the surface of your sea.
How, then, can we either of us be alone when united we are by those tenacious stars?
Hours later, your voice is alive in my mind, struggling for space, jostling for a place and I throw whatever I can find upon its fire in the hope of keeping warm.
Hours after that, the cold begins to creep callously back in. I look to the sky and hope there will be star shine tonight.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
The Thousands
There were thousands of I Love You’s.
Some were filled with a fiery warmth as they exploded from lips, others were quietly yet intensely whispered on doorsteps in the dark.
Some were written in a variety of ways and propelled forth to their targets through a variety of mediums.
Some were lit large across the sky.
Some were small notes hidden in shoes.
Some were the first magical combinations of that irreplaceable three word mantra, others were uttered quickly, accompanied by backward glances and flashes of guilt.
Some will always be true.
Some were never meant at all.
What do I care?
All the I Love You’s are the confetti crushed on the heel of the divorce lawyer emerging from the registry office.
Some were filled with a fiery warmth as they exploded from lips, others were quietly yet intensely whispered on doorsteps in the dark.
Some were written in a variety of ways and propelled forth to their targets through a variety of mediums.
Some were lit large across the sky.
Some were small notes hidden in shoes.
Some were the first magical combinations of that irreplaceable three word mantra, others were uttered quickly, accompanied by backward glances and flashes of guilt.
Some will always be true.
Some were never meant at all.
What do I care?
All the I Love You’s are the confetti crushed on the heel of the divorce lawyer emerging from the registry office.
Monday, 19 January 2009
She will take you on a time trip, the greatest ride of your life. She will lead you back into the classroom and tie you to the chair. She will suck out the poison from the teacher’s apple and let you kiss her tainted mouth. She will be the most thrilling lesson you have ever learned. She will make your palms sing out with the sting of the cane. She will detain you and make you dance. She will set alight the youth in you again.
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Polish on the Parquet
I can smell the polish on the parquet floor. I can hear the shoes click across it. I can see its shine reflected on the well brushed, silky hair of youth.
As the flash explodes, the air is heavy with the hammer of heartbeats, twenty two aortas swelling and filling the way only unscathed coeurs can do.
The flash gives a second lightening strike, fast forwards near three decades and the picture shatters - the smiles fall from faces, postures slacken, rings appear and disappear from fingers, chasms are carved between shoulders that one touched, lives are made from stolen sideways classroom glances, some flourish and blossom, others fall like withered fruit from dead trees and some souls are so crippled they are barely holding on.
Better that they did not see their lives illuminated in that second blinding flash; their smiles would never have been so bright id they had.
As the flash explodes, the air is heavy with the hammer of heartbeats, twenty two aortas swelling and filling the way only unscathed coeurs can do.
The flash gives a second lightening strike, fast forwards near three decades and the picture shatters - the smiles fall from faces, postures slacken, rings appear and disappear from fingers, chasms are carved between shoulders that one touched, lives are made from stolen sideways classroom glances, some flourish and blossom, others fall like withered fruit from dead trees and some souls are so crippled they are barely holding on.
Better that they did not see their lives illuminated in that second blinding flash; their smiles would never have been so bright id they had.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Block
He tried to ignore it, but he cannot and finds, to his dismay, that he has exhausted all the possible means by which it might be exorcised.
He shudders as he looks it in the face and finds that it is as deep as eternity and twice as frightening. Now, now that he has stripped away all the layers he had thrown down to cover it and they lie useless and discarded on the floor like heaps of garish, clashing wallpaper, now that he sees it was there all along, in spite of the useless and foolish facade, he wants to shrink back into himself, like a snail retreating into its shell.
But he cannot do that either as he realises, to his dismay, there is no longer a shell into which he can disappear. He is naked, vulnerable, alone.
There is only himself and the truth; a hard block of solid granite in front of him, blocking his way, and, whichever way he turns, it is there.
He feels helpless, teeters on the verge of hopelessness and considers throwing himself into its abyss, yet something steers him back and urges him to look again.
He stares at the immovable stone pillar, wondering whether it will be easily mastered and all the while the truth stares at him, unblinking and harsh.
He shudders as he looks it in the face and finds that it is as deep as eternity and twice as frightening. Now, now that he has stripped away all the layers he had thrown down to cover it and they lie useless and discarded on the floor like heaps of garish, clashing wallpaper, now that he sees it was there all along, in spite of the useless and foolish facade, he wants to shrink back into himself, like a snail retreating into its shell.
But he cannot do that either as he realises, to his dismay, there is no longer a shell into which he can disappear. He is naked, vulnerable, alone.
There is only himself and the truth; a hard block of solid granite in front of him, blocking his way, and, whichever way he turns, it is there.
He feels helpless, teeters on the verge of hopelessness and considers throwing himself into its abyss, yet something steers him back and urges him to look again.
He stares at the immovable stone pillar, wondering whether it will be easily mastered and all the while the truth stares at him, unblinking and harsh.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Not Waving
I thought there was terra firma under my feet, but there is not and, worse than nothing at all, worse that floating, I find myself upon a turbulent sea. The current changes moment by moment; I am pushed this way and that way, then dragged back. Water is filling the pockets of my clothes, the weight of surviving this pulls me down while the roar of the ocean deafens me and the spray from the crashing waves blinds me. There is salt water in my lungs - it renders me mute and a lightening strike of panic flashes across my brain as I realise that I am drowning.
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Across The Fields
We used to walk across the fields
Down the slope and to the stream
We used to wake
Early and smell the dawn
But not now
Not any more.
The walks were languid,
Lilting, even in rain
And in those long, sun soaked summer
Days we’d walk at dawn, in light
Twilight
All day.
I don’t walk these days
I march.
The climb is steep and the hills
Seem harsh, the wind
Is keen
And my face is set
Every step beats out memories
I can’t forget those walks
Across the fields…
Down the slope and to the stream
We used to wake
Early and smell the dawn
But not now
Not any more.
The walks were languid,
Lilting, even in rain
And in those long, sun soaked summer
Days we’d walk at dawn, in light
Twilight
All day.
I don’t walk these days
I march.
The climb is steep and the hills
Seem harsh, the wind
Is keen
And my face is set
Every step beats out memories
I can’t forget those walks
Across the fields…
Friday, 2 January 2009
Mountains, Always Mountains
There are always mountains; mountains of paperwork, of ironing, of bills, of lists, mountains to climb, mountains to conquer.
In a low valley, by the shores of a lake, I sit in the shadows of the mountains, with my feet in the water. The lake is beautiful, but it is impossible to relax and drink in it’s splendour when, all the while, with every tick of the unseen clock, these mountains are closing in.
They move surreptitiously and, each time I turn around, though they are nearer, they cease their quiet creeping.
They make the shores of the lake crack and the rocks slowly crumble.
They send ever more violent ripples across the placid surface of the water.
They un-nerve me.
But I still make no attempt to climb or conquer them; I am intrigued to see what will happen if I do not.
In a low valley, by the shores of a lake, I sit in the shadows of the mountains, with my feet in the water. The lake is beautiful, but it is impossible to relax and drink in it’s splendour when, all the while, with every tick of the unseen clock, these mountains are closing in.
They move surreptitiously and, each time I turn around, though they are nearer, they cease their quiet creeping.
They make the shores of the lake crack and the rocks slowly crumble.
They send ever more violent ripples across the placid surface of the water.
They un-nerve me.
But I still make no attempt to climb or conquer them; I am intrigued to see what will happen if I do not.
Thursday, 1 January 2009
I Stand
I stand here, amidst the icy mist, in a short cotton gown, ill suited for such conditions. The freezing fog engulfs me. My mind spasms. My legs ache.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will stand here while chaos falls all around me with all the force and thunder of a tropical storm, rain drenching the cotton gown, ankle deep in mud.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will remain here, as the rain turns to snow, as the lashes of my eyes are silver with ice, as the white flakes stick to my skin, numbing all feeling and turning my red blood deepest blue.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will stand here, firm and resolute, awaiting the thaw, awaiting the Spring.
For after Spring, there will come Summer.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will stand here while chaos falls all around me with all the force and thunder of a tropical storm, rain drenching the cotton gown, ankle deep in mud.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will remain here, as the rain turns to snow, as the lashes of my eyes are silver with ice, as the white flakes stick to my skin, numbing all feeling and turning my red blood deepest blue.
But I will not sit down.
I will not back down.
I will not go inside.
I will stand here, firm and resolute, awaiting the thaw, awaiting the Spring.
For after Spring, there will come Summer.
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