Posts tagged ‘melancholy’

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/

 

26/07/2013

The Apple Trees (Video)

 

 

 

 

video of my poem The Apple Trees. The text version is earlier in this collection.

 

 

19/07/2013

Gwen John

 

Of all the moments, there you were:

Alone in thoughts, and thoughts alone,

With lessons learned in fields of corn,

With pasts to run from, pasts which form.

 

Alone in knowing reverie.

An open book of worlds to touch.

Alone and deeper still, within:

Those worlds of darkness, warmth and words.

 

From Bordeaux, running field to field,

Remember all those tainted hopes?

From Britain, homeless, drifting, cold,

Whilst all around was burning light

 

That strength once learned has found its poise:

A stillness brought from years of pain.

 

 

inspired by the work of painter Gwen John, especially “The Student” in Manchester Art Gallery

http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/gwen-john/the-student-1903

 

 

 

07/07/2013

Melencholia I (Dürer’s Angel)

 

The comet tail has sliced the sky,

And rainbows with it sink the sun

Beneath a springing autumn tide:

A will which never will become.

 

The dust of spirits coat the walls

And count from numbered square to square.

Their flightless wings, which trick the skies,

Dissolve her memories into time.

 

And all around there lays the wreck

Of love and art, which break apart,

And carve their sorry tales away,

Into the pointlessness of life.

 

With watered crown and weighted wings,

She leans her heavy bones on bone.

 

10/04/2013

Dead Calm

 

We never spoke about the end –

The evening out of light and shade –

But always there the fall of doubts

That soon the shade would take the light.

 

A trace of blood from deep inside,

A simple tap, a twitch then gone.

How quickly life can pass away,

Though sometimes worse: its clinging on.

 

We missed the intervening years:

From silence, back to innocence.

A final flicker in the dark

And that was all that could be done.

 

And sometimes face to face is best,

But never face to face with death.

 

 

04/02/2013

Withnail and I

 

The eras end with wrecking balls,

And eyes so dark they look like fights.

Just try and touch those stars again:

You know you’re made of light and dust.

 

If peace and love are sold as slaves,

And aesthetes all have broken hearts,

Then all that’s left is rain and pills,

Those rapid fading hopes and dreams.

 

So take your wine to Camberwell,

And walk your wolves to Primrose Hill,

And join the ghosts at Camden Lock:

It had to crash, it rose too high.

 

You face two ways when made to lose:

Regret the end, embrace the fall.

 

response to the film Withnail and I

 

20/11/2012

In the Garden of the Melancholic Angels

 

Despite the joys and birth of days

It’s in the shadows lives are formed.

And emptiness has taken grip

With hollow hold and weighted wings.

 

In dreamless sleeps and deathlike states

These creatures, raised in setting suns,

Have soaked my life’s imperfect truths

With bile as bleak as printer’s ink.

 

Their tools of resurrection rust

Beneath the darkening Autumn skies.

I’ll wear their wreath of drowning hopes,

No matter how the lights might spark.

 

As comets trail their dust of tears,

My hopeless questions cling to fears.

08/01/2012

Ring Ouzel

 

A lunar crescent, skyward horned.

A tail which traces scree and ling.

A plaintive tone, a mournful tune.

A solitary black and bib.

 

Alone in rocks above the scars,

Where streams from bogs first scratch their beds

With steady tick like lowland merle,

A lost and wayward song of moors.

 

The moon is pitched in afterglow

And scattered with the trace of stars.

The melancholy call of space

A flick of night pitched wing and gone.

 

And left as one with what was once,

The sadness of a memory’s song.