This is the last of my Isle of Wight poems before we return to the concluding verse in my 2004 book, Into The Abyss. In all honesty, I have not the faintest idea what Creation means or is about because I simply can't remember writing it! Obviously I did write it because it is here, and I know it belongs with this section of poetry as I have it placed so in my chronology but for me it runs and it rambles and it doesn't really go anywhere except, except, I think there is something to it by close.
I talk of a 'force' in the world and must have had Star Wars to mind for that belief; I wrote a novella called Jessie Lomax a couple of years after this in which George Lucas' cosmology was still uppermost in my mind such that I included a character called Father Force but this is just, so vague. That's the problem, the poem is flaky, odd mentions of 'Copsem' and 'Linden' referring back to names of roads near the school I attended, the 'dreaming/Spires' referencing Oxford University perhaps, somewhere I had applied at the time? Then there's Virgil in 'rumour' here being some flying avian...
I give up. The clear volta at 'joy. Image ruined that' can actually be traced in straight line to the first tale in my short story collection, William Ottoway's Utopia, written 2000 and revised for that output 2019. But who am I targeting in the last line, 'your wake', a stance no decent poet must ever make in alienating their reader, especially if charge of hypocrisy can be brought back to their own door? Let's just leave the piece to speak for itself, rumbling on like low thunder...
Within this world of dreams,
The echoes of a bygone age
Sink peacefully. Down, deep down,
Back, far back to a time when Life was young.
People were, but Nature dwelt
Among them, not beside,
And a force circled the world,
Living with men, watching and teaching.
Those who forged Existence Path
Knew where they trod, for good and bad
Stood opposed, and suffering and hate,
Forever marching on the way,
Were shunned by love and hope.
Over all Wyrd fell, directing the course
Of eternal days, whilst the blue white faith
That searches the skies marched on,
Windswept to a grey misty light.
Right and wrong grew up,
Soon spreading poles apart,
And mankind, borne of conscience,
Learnt to be their master. Gods arose,
Bred by the inexplicable,
And worship followed,
Harrying those believers
To accept a faith of artifice.
Ever was proof foiled by cunning.
Moulding, shaping, forming,
Creating what would be the past
In many years to come,
Man dug himself a muddy hole
Of dark. Centuries turned,
Ages came and went, and wars were fought
In name of separate cause,
When folk involved were one
But acted out divides,
And Fate was left to burn
Within the bodies of her care.
What days were those when men of hardship
Cried out in horror, 'No! No more!'
Peace came, brother Wisdom too,
Negotiation urged them forward
And in one accord the world was joined,
Hand in hand, arm in arm, forever.
Humanity felt young again,
Free to pave a fresh path
Of joy. Image ruined that,
Clutching in its talons everyday,
Firing normality with savage spite,
Eyeing routine with disdain,
Spreading rumour everywhere
On both its scaled wings.
Never did truth stand chance.
As right now wrong became young people's way,
Tradition tried to teach
What it could not,
And gods who'd ever held the world in thrall
Were sent from whence they came to unexplained.
The force was always there before mankind,
Stable, constant, dormant but with the change
It erupted. Pleasured ash exploding high,
Beneath it all dejection oozing, flowing,
Coursing through veins of youth
Until a point of nought was reached,
Where dream and fantasy were all
And echoes took us down again.
The terror of that way! White darkness
Held us clamped in stricken vice,
Ravened nothingness gorged on souls
Of sloth. Fare was fowl and hags
Revelled in bedlam of their prophecies.
Copsem Wood closed rank, Linden grieved
The loss of glamour's crown,
Upside down the world was turned,
All tumbling, falling, crashing
Bruised and torn atop each other.
Creation's mantle smashed to smithereens,
Beauty scarred, wonders dirtied,
People born to live in pain.
So it was, so it is,
Yes, so it is. Deference, homage
To a golden dawn is nigh,
For the puffy, idle, dreaming
Spires of reality are far away,
Lost in a land of promise and regret.
Maybe, once, we might have stretched
Our arms to bring those steadfast days
Back into line, but now it seems the force
Is blanked and spurned, forever dead through
Tamperance at our hands.
For who to blame this slow decay
And wanton degradation of our right to live?
Look round and see destruction in your wake.