Friday, November 13, 2020

Composition

I think I'm in love again here! It's 2002 and I have a new job but my angst in the romance department continues aplenty and I'm still chasing Shakespeare around 'shadow scaping up the stairwell' despite cribbing his Caesar speech on facing death; there's a couple of bouts of philosophy on that subject and before it space, more words heard against my chosen vocation as poet and a really big moan against my precursors before I solidify my decision again to write which first I decided upon in Invocation To A Muse...

I haven't really mentioned the obstruction I encountered from some quarters towards this chosen career path, suffice to say that the more people are advising, telling or even mocking what you do and plan to do the more it's generally right for you and you should plough on regardless. I often feel my precursors themselves, particularly that Sweet Swan of Avon, have tried to thwart my writing but they've all failed as it keeps on pouring out, evidenced here in Composition...

Stuck. Fast. And let no man say this work comes easy.
It doesn’t. Not now. Not then. Not e’er.
The bolting blue is found, struck, delivered,

And I must suffer a force that drives me from my feet in backward roll.

Back, over, over, back, away and into mind-set not a village fool might wish.

 

Don’t care.

Don’t care.

You musn’t what they think. That’s they told me.

‘Who is they?’ she asks.

They, fool, they, that abstract beast which messes with our souls.

 

I moved, and ran, and sprinting hard did find myself o’erreaching far that bound.

No, left I had behind my lady for another,

Yet our contact slight, and love in infancy.

Saw I not some overwhelming force like he, but pain, for it rarely went my own persuasion.

No writer, that, divorced entire from the words which made him cackle flee.

 

Lightning came.

It winked, and I, I shivered for such subsumation hard decreed.

The wait, friends, the weight of silence.

Thunder struck, I ran through the night,

Fast wondering why I feared the dark when light was all behind.

 

What be the natural state?

Space, I pose, is black, yet pricked with holes that let in light its rear.

So all is light.

Yet in the universe, space be infinite, and space is black.

Stars appear, and stars are light.

Space dominates.

 

The space between our talk is infinite.

This other leaves me so fearful of the push,

I may not speak for days.

 

Though I love her more.

 

I rather think that love builds on itself,

To say, the more we love, the more our own ability to love is broadened, deepened, widened,

To say, if we open our hearts to the motion, it consumes us in its power master slave.

I love her more.

Is that wrong?

Nay, we love the next over previous,

Old news, out news.

 

Saw it in the paper that my sex were wimps unmanly.

Back off, detractors, or I’ll rage.

You’ll not like that, mark me.

 

Oh, quiet, poet.

What storm you brew will be squashed by tempest of the fury scorned.

 

I heard the bells.

That morning, they tolled, and they tolled for me.

Drifting from dreams in whose world I was boss,

I woke, slept, woke, slept, and

Waking cursed the time I’d ever left that den of equity.

‘Broken prose, lad, pierced account, you write like no poet.’

 

Once more, I turned and screamed out war.

Yet faced I was with shadow scaping up the stairwell, forward and off beyond my left.

Intent I was to follow time again, but fuggy steps did bury me in mud hole to my neck.

Lost, the traveller, weary at an inn,

I spun, and flipped, and strained, and pulled,

Fast extricating all my self from out the pit of darkness,

Whereupon I found me on my own with yet another thought compounding through my mind.

 

This – if life be all, and death a dream, why do we shrink to doze,

When what we have achieved converts itself into our pillowed stone?

More, if life be nought, and death be all,

Why bother we the tussle with extraneous matter foreign to our touch?

When it comes, it will come, we can no more be ready than the lily-liver fearing strike from every quarter every second.

 

I sat, I did.

I sat upon the platform at the back-end of the night,

Light,

Space,

Stars,

I wandered to and from the entrance exit fearing mug attack,

And contemplated how a country that had seen it through the Blitz might come to this.

Suspicion, I say, that’s I do.

Hostility, man spitting,

Attitude, attitude, everywhere,

And no one to comment on this time so future race might mark its progress.

Well, I s’pose it falls to me.

If in some forward time, you hap to stumble on these lines,

Tell them, tell them all, this is how it was in twenty two.

I’m taught that noting alters, that though all things must change, they do so only for that all will just remain the same.

I’d like to think I tried, that I helped, encouraged,

Held the stupid mirror when I’d like to smash it o’er…they anger me.

Why didn’t they use their gifts in better manner than they had?

That I, with one tenth the expertise injected in their tips,

Must stumble my way to some solution ne’er chance I might attain.

 

Oh, enough.

Work harder, lad, employ your centred brain to puzzle matter of this time.

Forget what’s come and gone and yet what is to be and come,

Concentrate on now, that pattern may be sought hereafter found.

Write, man, write,

Write until no other word will trickle from your nib,

And think, think hard.

Think harder than you think you may be thinking,

Though you thought you may have thought you might be thinking, think harder.

Work, man, work, fulfil the task allotted you your place,

Never stop, don’t care, until you build your own Mecca.

There, there your pitch.

Adieu.

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