Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
Reach a time and place when
you’ve been there and
you’ve done that
Hell, maybe you didn’t
maybe you watched someone else do it
maybe saw it on TV
Once it gets so far back
it doesn’t much matter much
cos your memory -
gets a bit long
a bit distant
Even though it tastes
as sweet as it ever did
you just can’t recall
the fine detail
There’s a bug going round the office. Kinda big, kinda scary – with long front feelers and a rather long body. Shot this with a macro lens, so it is probably 2-3 times life size here… Anyone know what it is???
There are a million bugs in the naked bush. And sooner or later, they all come crawling to me, looking for something. The answer, the truth, a new life, another chance. And I just send them on their way. My days of bugging around are over. I’ve settled down, don’t need their drama anymore.
Yet there she is, a female longhorn beetle, showing off her curves. She’s all that and she knows it. Femme fatale…
Maybe not ALL the time.
But SOME of the time.
That I will never live in a lighthouse for a year
or even a month
Spending my days staring out to sea
Scribbling poetry in tattered, stained notebooks
Ignoring reality in my search for something real
Something tangible, eternal
Something I can hold onto and believe in.
Then I wonder – why not?
There are lighthouses
And here I am
(or more correctly, here is me)
How hard could it be to put the two of us together
(Three would not be a crowd if the third was he)
We’d bring a boatload of supplies
food and water and blankets and pencils and pieces of paper
(I’m pretty sure there’d be no internet or regular electricity)
and hats and sublock
and a month-long supply of the various tablets that keep us alive
and pictures of the children and the cats
(who will give us the coldest of shoulders when we return)
(the cats and not the children, though they may expect some duty free)
It’s just not simple.
Even if I want it to be.
Even if we’ve paid our dues and cleared our debts and have no obligations.
You can’t run off to sea
You just can’t.
It’s not allowed.
Of course… I’ve broken a rule or two in my time…
There is a symmetry and a poetry and a rightness in all things. Even smokestacks. (This is not to imply that everything is perfectly all right with everything and we needn’t make improvements to anything.) (Nor should we come to the conclusion that smokestacks are a metaphor for life. They might be, but I’m not saying that.)
I like smokestacks.
The girl in front of me
just sniffed her armpit.
She was out dancing last night
and met some guy
went back to his place
and took off her clothes
and did the nasty
but they were too drunk
for it to be any good
and the second time
he couldn’t get it up.
This morning she wanted
to puke when she saw
how he held his toothbrush.
She’ll be home soon
and she can stand in the shower
until the water runs cold,
until the stink of it all
is washed away.
Yeah, I was sitting on the bus. And she did. And the story just came as they sometimes do, from out there somewhere. Good thing I had my notepad in my bag…
Not sure what brought this on… other than the ongoing sense of frustration lately at not feeling as creative as I ‘usually’ do. I sort of feel like I have photographed everything, that there is nothing in my world I have not looked at from every angle and there is nothing new to see. Of course I recognise this as a feeling, not a fact. The fact is, there are so many things in my world, in my very room, that I have not noticed or have not fully explored.
I shall chalk it up to transition, ever and ongoing, really. I suppose if we are not transitioning then we are dying – but… sigh… I vaguely recall believing in my youth that these transitions (or identity crises as we called them then) were something that we’d ‘get over’ when we grew and ‘became’ our adult selves. And while I am happy on the highest level that this has proven untrue, and my adult self continues to evolve and change, on the lowest, day to day level – it can be a real pain.
But back to this wee lad, nothing real was moving me, so I had to go for the unreal, which, like a novel, often exposes bits of reality that reality is very good at hiding. Not sure what this guy is telling me, though.
No, it’s not, but it reminds me
of the rows and rows of votive candles
in every church I went to.
And I was filled with such longing for money,
lots and lots of money
so I could light them all,
see them shine,
see them flicker,
inhale their waxy fragrance.
and then I would pray
that I could still get into heaven
without having paid a cent.
Not sure what brought this on… For someone who hates to drive and pretty much refuses – I admit to a fondness for cars and car graveyards. I have no idea what make this was, but just love the curve of this hood ornament.
I rather think the man who drove this car (and it was surely not a woman) despaired of ever owning a fast car, not with a wife and a growing brood all needing shoes and the rent to pay while they tried to save for a down payment. I rather think he polished this ornament and wondered what it would be like to slip behind the wheel of a Jaguar, with a woman like Julie Christie or Rita Tushingham at his side, wearing cool cool shades and put the pedal to the floor. Just once.
a replay – taken in lovely Puerto Vallarta a couple of years ago. One of those places I didn’t expect to fall in love with but I hope to return one day and spend a week or two exploring. Actually all of Mexico was so different than I expected. How wonderful it would be to escape the southern winter and set up shop on the Mexican Riviera for a season…