Everything is not
There is a ringing
In the air though
The bell was struck long ago
A pregnant pause
Like a rollercoaster
Poised to dive
Breathe with me
Make the sounds
Of the rhythm of life
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You have to build your difference, they say.
You are divided for love.
But I don’t know who you are.
Do you know who I am?
I can feel your fingers reaching out to me,
so close to having material form it hurts
like an unstruck sound in my heart.
You are surely a reflection,
but when I look for you in the mirror
the only me there is I.
I project the idea onto all of my lovers,
trying to understand the shape of you,
then when they are gone, I retract you
back into the darkness of shadow.
I saw you in the theatre last night.
Three stages, three shows, three facets of you.
I danced with each in my dreams.
You had raw, bleeding knees from the crawl;
an attempt to save yourself from fiction, no doubt.
But one tug on my necklace, one cry from within
and I knew the fall was real.
How do I write you?
Your essence is somewhere
between the scribbled words
on the mountains
of screwed up paper sheets
in which I nest.
Are you a jigsaw?
I try a word from one attempt
with a sentence from another
to draft a new layout,
an alternative frame;
but still I can’t complete you.
Like Osiris, you are in fragments.
Pining, longing, desperate to grasp
But one gasp
And the connection is cut
The life supply removed
The flowers rot in their cellophane.
I went to see the Abstract Expressionism exhibition that is currently showing at the Royal Academy of Arts. I find art exhibitions great for putting musings into perspective, and I have a particular love for abstract works because they offer something that bit more open to interpretation. Out of habit perhaps, I take a sketchbook with me. It’s what I was taught to do in art class, but I never really understood what I was supposed to be drawing. You see, my art is depictions of things that are inside, never objects from the exterior world, and I struggle to feel creative when sketching from life. But I do want to get that response down, that raw inspiration and mental illumination that happens when I react to a piece of artwork. So this time I spontaneously decided to make a written response to what I was seeing, and I did this without reading the accompanying information bites until afterwards to prevent my thoughts being influenced by ‘what you are supposed to think’. Here are some of the things I wrote.
Continue reading “Abstract Expressionism: A Poetic Response”
The sound of water dripping in a cave Continue reading “Falling Asleep”
We are the echoes
We are the distortions
Of the music
That reminds us of home
Of the centre
From which we emanated
But we can never actually be
We are embers of the fire
We are short lived
Sparks of the main event