Though here at journey's end I lie
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Into the West
Lay down,
your sweet and weary head.
Night is falling.
You have come to journey’s end.
Sleep now, and dream
of the ones who came before.
They are calling,
from across a distant shore.
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see.
All of your fears will pass away.
Safe in my arms,
you’re only sleeping.
What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.
And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
All souls pass.
Hope fades,
Into the world of night.
Through shadows falling,
Out of memory and time.
Don’t say,
We have come now to the end.
White shores are calling.
You and I will meet again.
And you’ll be here in my arms,
Just sleeping.
What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.
And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
Grey ships pass
Into the West.
your sweet and weary head.
Night is falling.
You have come to journey’s end.
Sleep now, and dream
of the ones who came before.
They are calling,
from across a distant shore.
Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see.
All of your fears will pass away.
Safe in my arms,
you’re only sleeping.
What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.
And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
All souls pass.
Hope fades,
Into the world of night.
Through shadows falling,
Out of memory and time.
Don’t say,
We have come now to the end.
White shores are calling.
You and I will meet again.
And you’ll be here in my arms,
Just sleeping.
What can you see,
on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea,
a pale moon rises.
The ships have come,
to carry you home.
And all will turn,
to silver glass.
A light on the water.
Grey ships pass
Into the West.
Monday, 12 January 2009
I Believe In You And Me
Someone on or above the earth, tell me why on earth, does she beg of love at the feet of men who snatch hers from her, selling it on to themselves at a profit that can’t possibly reflect its worth.
This is always ungentle robbery, is not a plot of lust, because she is very conscious of her select few lovers, particularly in relation to her gains, to her own sexual harvest.
The answer, in vague and uncertain terms, lies somewhere in the shaded area shaped quadrangle by the lines that don’t quite connect the picture of a father, the part of her soul that freezes at the touch of warmth, the tattered feminist beginners handbook, the lampshade and the bloody gate that she gazes at monthly, that she once made me taste, that stains her desire for progress.
But desire tarnished; twisted, perverse desire, does not have any implications for the progress itself. And so, progressively, her questions become more stupid. Hand in the fire stupid, eating broken glass stupid, forgetting that you don’t like pain stupid. Stupid then and stupid when, on a terribly, deadly sunny day comes the most ridiculous, nauseous, frustratingly stupid question of them all.
On the wall high above the graffiti of all the things I could never bring myself to say, she turned to me just as the sun turned away and (thinking, in her stupidity, that it couldn’t see or hear us) asked: ‘Will you love me forever?’
‘Of course not’, I said.
This is always ungentle robbery, is not a plot of lust, because she is very conscious of her select few lovers, particularly in relation to her gains, to her own sexual harvest.
The answer, in vague and uncertain terms, lies somewhere in the shaded area shaped quadrangle by the lines that don’t quite connect the picture of a father, the part of her soul that freezes at the touch of warmth, the tattered feminist beginners handbook, the lampshade and the bloody gate that she gazes at monthly, that she once made me taste, that stains her desire for progress.
But desire tarnished; twisted, perverse desire, does not have any implications for the progress itself. And so, progressively, her questions become more stupid. Hand in the fire stupid, eating broken glass stupid, forgetting that you don’t like pain stupid. Stupid then and stupid when, on a terribly, deadly sunny day comes the most ridiculous, nauseous, frustratingly stupid question of them all.
On the wall high above the graffiti of all the things I could never bring myself to say, she turned to me just as the sun turned away and (thinking, in her stupidity, that it couldn’t see or hear us) asked: ‘Will you love me forever?’
‘Of course not’, I said.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Sunday, 4 January 2009
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