Posts tagged ‘journey’

22/10/2013

Wandering

 

I took a train to see the world.

Each station brought me something new:

An angle never seen before,

A chance of colour, shape and sound.

 

I don’t suppose you saw me go:

Just couldn’t see the world like that,

Just couldn’t see the grey old dust

As tracks which led to somewhere grand.

 

I took the train and saw the sky.

You’d never know the blue I saw.

A destination never holds

The freedom of a wandering heart.

 

I don’t suppose you missed me much:

For after all, to you I’m dust.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

21/10/2013

Passengers

 

So who is there to hear our sighs?

Our tears will go unnoticed here,

And we will pass, as angels pass:

Unseen and in the end, unloved.

 

And who will take this track with us?

Another lonely soul who sits

And traces light on passing clouds,

With nothing left to lose or win.

 

And we will fill out hollow eyes

With all the dust which fell from stars.

And we will cling on to the hope

That someone here will share our weight.

 

So who is there to dream of us,

To hold our hand, to make this stop?

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

20/10/2013

Reflection

 

In you he finds the space to be,

So obvious for all to see.

You sit together on the seats:

You’re sharing thoughts, not needing words.

 

I watch you, wonder if you know,

And wonder if you’re growing cold.

He’s gazing down upon your hands:

You know he is: he often does.

 

And then, I’ve gone a step too far:

Not you, but me I’m reading here.

You catch my eye, then look away.

He only needs to touch your hands.

 

The thoughts pass on, the words have gone:

The two of us are miles apart.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

20/10/2013

There is (No Like)

 

The thoughts are drops which form and roll,

Are watched a while like birds or breath,

Like everything that they are not.

Within themselves there is no “like”.

 

To journey and become again.

To be a thought amongst the thoughts.

To pass beyond all hope and loss.

To be the emptiness of thought.

 

When nothing is the world, there is

In golden light, in umber night,

In waveforms scattered out: there is

No space but space, no time but time.

 

There is a thought which rolls and forms:

A single drop of all there is.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

20/10/2013

Flight

 

And into air I spin and twist:

I never knew my scattered world

This high, this bright, this burning light.

And down below they swirl in blue.

 

The forests and the fields, they flow.

Their dizzy hearts, their green and grey

Are fading out, escaping from

The boxes and the traps we built.

 

And here, I hang on cirrus lines,

On eddies at the edge of space,

In jouissance, in points beyond

The passing earth and all it was.

 

It slips away: a distant star,

A point of light in boundless light.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

20/10/2013

Between Stations

 

I sit between points A and B,

And watch the rooks begin to roll,

Across the fields, all scattered leaves.

We pass them by, they fill my mind,

 

With thoughts of wings and freer things.

We journey by the forest track

And see the beech and maple turn,

With golden branches trailed in shade.

 

And yesterday will come again,

With all the love and hope alive,

And none of this will then have been,

And we would take a different train.

 

I sit between points A and B,

I close my eyes and feel life pass.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going journey.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

13/10/2013

Broken

 

He broke his journey on that day.

No reason why, no thought before,

He simply picked his bag and left,

Four stops before the usual place.

 

And still without a question raised

He left the station, walked into

The town whose name he’d always seen

But never thought a real place.

 

He wandered on without a goal,

Just looking at the streets and shops,

And people on their way to work,

And none of it made any sense.

 

He stopped and stared up at the sky.

Same sky, same day: different life.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

07/10/2013

Soliloquy

 

The light was dreaming for the swans:

A morning mist, an autumn drift,

For necks to lift and court their kiss.

I wonder how I’ll break the news.

 

The leaves beneath my feet were soft,

But dry despite the time of year:

It could have been the perfect walk.

We are apart – so nothing’s changed.

 

I close my eyes and count to ten,

And nothing’s changed: it never will,

No matter how you try to hide.

This train pulls further from that past.

 

And closer to the end of things.

Oh god: the beauty of those swans.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

06/10/2013

Thought Sky

 

She had a thought: that sky was true,

That sky was blue as eyes, as deep

As weeping in a loveless home:

Not cold, but crystalline it shone.

 

She had a thought: those lines were meant

As purpose, point and route to run,

Another means to fake escape,

Until the next direction pulled.

 

She had a thought: of someone trapped

As everybody else was trapped,

But who would see her questions asked,

By fists she formed as stations passed.

 

Her music played, the sky was sky,

She had a thought and let it die.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

03/10/2013

Platform

 

So here I am in hope again,

Between the layers of sleep and thought,

The shade and space and hidden lights,

Between the shifting lines of doubt.

 

I sit in carriage four of five,

And drift through waking depths of dreams.

I wait for certainties of time

To close my eyes, or shake me out.

 

He sits on platform three and stares

Into an emptiness of clouds.

The train – not his – has mirrored glass:

He sees himself – he’s looking old.

 

I watch that world disintegrate:

What could have been and what was not.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

02/10/2013

Station in the Rain

 

These autumn rains, these Hopper blues,

These destinations, stations passed,

These memories which have yet to form,

These tricks which gather up the night.

 

Each isolation – neon stained –

Is captured in its gleaming feint,

Is held, unique, in slow decent:

From state to state, from hope to spent.

 

And you: I wonder how you took

The morning – made it live again,

And glow again (if only once,

If only through electric eyes).

 

You took a crossing point in time,

And found a voice for rain and light.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

02/10/2013

Dust

 

At evening, as the fires lit

The hillsides with their gathered glow

And told their stories to the stars,

She ate her bread with curds and figs,

 

And stared off through the olive groves

And out towards the distant sea:

The salt of land upon her tongue,

The memories of her journeys done.

 

This land was never hers to taste.

The burning herbs, which spat and danced

And filled the sky with resin smoke,

Would blow as dust before the dawn,

 

When she would take the northern road,

And leave these hillsides’ burning lights.

 

09/07/2013

Three Hares Linked

 

Across the steppe and mountain plain,

The hare came tumbling, carved on rock.

They spoke no language, gave no sign:

They simply were the three as one.

 

Along the silk route, scratched on wheels,

The traders pondered what they meant,

And made up tales and sang them songs:

The hare were lovers, mystics, gods

 

And on a distant, ice-cliffed, shore

The hare at last could make their peace.

They found a place of fragile walls,

Which faced the sea and all its storms.

 

The three were one, their journey long,

Together: water, stone and sun.

 

 

05/06/2013

A Week in Slovenia (Part 6 – With the Swallows of the Sky)

 

1. A Mountain Pass

 

The poetry is closing in

And trapping words in limestone blue.

In mountain forests, catching clouds,

Words lose meanings, clouds lose rain.

 

The air is pulled through lips and teeth:

It bites the throat, it takes a road

Of sunlit snow through mountain tops.

The sounds may form, the thoughts will not.

 

How will I find a voice for this,

This pass which crosses through the peaks?

It used to be the only way,

Now purposeless its tracks are still.

 

As evening gathers clouds and flow

We hear the night birds call the snow.

 

 

2. The Impossible Swallows of Mount Razor

 

Against the backdrop of these cliffs

The swallows seem impossible.

As morning lights the highest peaks,

The swallows swirl and dance the more.

 

Because we know all this will end

We breathe the pollen scent of trees,

Make crystal memories of streams:

We try to find the solid ground.

 

Too soon the wings will fold and furl.

We’re living in the past again:

The passing through, the sleepless dreams.

We’ll stare at walls and hear the calls.

 

I close my eyes, there’s nothing there

But mountain birds in mountain air.

 

 

3. Ljubljana Airport

 

So this is where it all begins

(And for all that, it’s where it ends).

The spirit drifters check on through

To other times, to brand new lives.

 

The Forest Man is watching planes:

He has his papers and his pass.

You see the girl who shifts and frets?

She can’t believe she won’t be back.

 

You see the woman dressed in grey?

Her mysteries mean so little now.

She longs for shadows, hugs the wall.

The angel at her shoulder weeps.

 

A palimpsest of all who pass:

This stone and steel is first and last.

 

 

 

4. Sky Layers

 

The edge of air lays curved and dark:

An empty hell of frozen lungs.

Above the highest birds and planes:

A point where science fiction ends.

 

Beneath the earth-rim, filters fade

The black of space – a lighter grey.

It sucks the clouds up from below:

Their hazing emptiness is filled.

 

Then further down through mists, the clouds

Begin congealing, blowing knots,

And twist themselves in rain and storms:

There, where light and silence stops.

 

And last – inconsequential – lies

The thinnest layer, the layer of lives.

 

 

04/06/2013

A Week in Slovenia (Part 5 – Just Passing Through)

 

1. In the Lobby of a Hotel, Kranjska Gora, May 2013

 

Are we between the wars again?

Or back when Empires froze and stared

At mountains barely understood?

We take “the tour”, we are the world,

 

And then that gap has opened up.

There’s knowledge here no one can know:

Israeli cases, linen suits,

A sporting team, some Irish girls

 

(Who laugh, then buy too many drinks).

We all look lost, but some breeze through.

The world we are will shift and twist,

And leave us clinging to our pasts.

 

We see ourselves one step removed.

We pass our evening sharing time.

 

2. Listening to an Israeli Tour Group

 

I roll in music born of tongues,

The beauty of the unheard sounds,

The meanings gleaned from rise and fall,

The other worlds I cannot know.

 

A flow of fear and joy combined,

A mystery from a mythic prose:

There’s sun in there and lemon groves,

There’s salt and desert, birth and dreams,

 

And then the stillness when they leave,

Their final rumble lingers on.

I hear the echoes down the hall:

A question mark which breaks through song.

 

Whatever place the words come from,

The human voice always belongs.

 

 

3. Borders

 

One border is a mountain range,

An earthquake shattered caravan,

A sheer drop of broken seas:

We stand outside its distant age.

 

Another border has its plaques,

It hides in parks and deep in books,

It towers like the end of time:

We cannot touch its heroes here.

 

The final border has no words.

It creeps out from the forest edge,

It fights for life with every breath:

Its meaning is its force within.

 

We cross a line and sense a change:

The air is clear, the buildings strange.

 

 

4. New Europeans

 

The rain falls straight from limestone clouds.

She huddles tight beneath the roof

And stares at puddles, danced with drops.

The bus will come in half and hour.

 

In other years the water fell

On streets she felt she knew too well.

But now they melt around her feet,

Their patterns seem an old deceit.

 

Across the street another bus

Takes other people to the north –

Frustrated, tired and seeking truth,

Or work (whichever comes by first).

 

The rain falls straight, there is no wind.

The bus will come in half an hour.

 

 

05/02/2013

2001: A Space Odyssey

 

The universe begins in light.

We clutch its bones, we twist and sway.

For us the sterile void of space,

Is all there is and all to be.

 

The emptiness within, without,

Is spinning, weightless, wordless, bleak,

A hollow home to hold our heads,

And birth our dreams, and leave our dead.

 

We step beyond the body’s shell,

Traverse the glimmered track of stars.

We trace our possibilities,

And raise our heads in wonderment.

 

We walk the stepping stones and sparks,

And drift forever through the dark.

 

 

response to the film and novel 2001: A Space Odyssey