So, we've been here now for a good while,
And age does not seem to have made it brighter.
Decades into service it gutters
In an indifferent wind, a cry piping
Its light between immensities of black,
Starkly illuminating its own cell.
Is this the infinite space of the anchorite,
Echoing vain witness? I find my voice
Put to trial by another ambassador,
Self and beyond-self flowering from his tongue,
Touching the horizon and its confronting sun:
"If the made thing happens, you have escaped".
The summons is a liquid suggestion
In a charming, just familiar tongue.
When you become aware, at first, of the minute slow lowing,
The crystalline base line that turns
Into the edges of coolness, and you learn
The thing that has the look and shimmer
Of moving muscle somewhere underneath you
Commands its own attention. On the venture to the bank
The sap-cracking, recovering eagerness
In the tilting of trees
And the eager leanings-to of riverbank flowers
Hem you about like a portal.
River-hurry and sky meet at the edges
And lens that enclosed, enclosing
Space that is suddenly universes wide,
Native elements running parallel
Ma
The very keenness of the syllable
Whetted itself along my tongue, conjured
The quicksilver italic of a sword.
And as, with use, enunciations roll,
Honing, along its edge, the flightings start
To glance off other things: breath in the air,
The muted purpose of a clenched fist, or
The tremble-taps of blood shaking the heart.
Spot Where A Sycamore Grew by NeonHades, literature
Literature
Spot Where A Sycamore Grew
I was sorrier I had not been there
For the moment when the canopy hefted,
Sighed, awe-struck, and became the 'bright nowhere';
The thrill of what that earlier sage had minted
In the groves of his own verb-garden, meant
There would be, I felt sure, some flooding in
Of light to the spot that he had cleared. Rent
Through the thick-flourishing luxury of green,
That place where the sun had always come hands-first,
And me imagining brushing back the boughs
To meet it, there was no sudden cloud-burst,
No epistles, no revelatory show.
Where I had expected the rack of Binsey Poplars
Or luminous stained-glass refigurings,
I got the open s
The rest was simply ornamentation:
Where you had the thing itself
To toast, to salute, to embellish the vacant mood,
To show up on your profile if you could,
Allowing for louder voices raised
In other places,
There was no need say anything else.
There was no need, or even if there was
(You worried, yes, you'd trip and fall
Like a fawning courtier
over the occasion of it all)
Being outstared by what should have held our gazes
To that spot, and challenged to response
By safety and facility,
The appalling luxury
Of somewhere to write,
The subliminal thunder of the still, small voice
Ran under the op
Most could nod politely
When I caught
On a favourite line,
Then trammelled shamelessly
Through my pitch-perfect
Parrot of
The better said,
"Your breast's mauve star."
Far harder then,
To register
And still, hoping
Through the grandstanding
Grown out of hiding,
There was something
Salvageable
In the old-before-time bore,
To step in and whisper,
Not without force,
Giving the hand an encouraging pulse,
"Quote less, talk more."
This afternoon, existence finds itself
Locked up along its length and growling, like
A dog still on its chain, or bowel trouble,
Coming back from the office.
At the wheel
The gas pedal has long since lost its feel,
And at odd intervals the stoppage swells
A second, and then peters out.
That dull not-thereness shooting up and down
My arm this morning as I made the toast
And levered out the coffee, must have been
The kind of DVT you get, I'm told,
From 9 hours to Singapore, business class.
Which now, I hope, will add a touch of glamour
To that worn slow, restated all-against-all
That cr
In Praise of Running Water by NeonHades, literature
Literature
In Praise of Running Water
I
That holiday in Yorkshire where
We argued, or we couldn't call
Upon enough in speech to cure
The smarts we laid down last, the fall
Of Hardraw seemed to bring relief.
The shimmering smack of thunder shook
Us back to friendliness, and we
Swallowed a register that took
In muck and crystal as it ran,
Knotting music with the mud
And nuzzling round the sharpness of
The stones, devotional in flood.
Holding your hand that day felt like
Palming cool water, knew again
The any-angled, pebble-probing
Hurry of the known and strange.
II
In Edinburgh, the heavens tore
Themselves, and crashed like revelation
On the Mile, with me still
So, we've been here now for a good while,
And age does not seem to have made it brighter.
Decades into service it gutters
In an indifferent wind, a cry piping
Its light between immensities of black,
Starkly illuminating its own cell.
Is this the infinite space of the anchorite,
Echoing vain witness? I find my voice
Put to trial by another ambassador,
Self and beyond-self flowering from his tongue,
Touching the horizon and its confronting sun:
"If the made thing happens, you have escaped".
The summons is a liquid suggestion
In a charming, just familiar tongue.
When you become aware, at first, of the minute slow lowing,
The crystalline base line that turns
Into the edges of coolness, and you learn
The thing that has the look and shimmer
Of moving muscle somewhere underneath you
Commands its own attention. On the venture to the bank
The sap-cracking, recovering eagerness
In the tilting of trees
And the eager leanings-to of riverbank flowers
Hem you about like a portal.
River-hurry and sky meet at the edges
And lens that enclosed, enclosing
Space that is suddenly universes wide,
Native elements running parallel
Ma
The very keenness of the syllable
Whetted itself along my tongue, conjured
The quicksilver italic of a sword.
And as, with use, enunciations roll,
Honing, along its edge, the flightings start
To glance off other things: breath in the air,
The muted purpose of a clenched fist, or
The tremble-taps of blood shaking the heart.
Spot Where A Sycamore Grew by NeonHades, literature
Literature
Spot Where A Sycamore Grew
I was sorrier I had not been there
For the moment when the canopy hefted,
Sighed, awe-struck, and became the 'bright nowhere';
The thrill of what that earlier sage had minted
In the groves of his own verb-garden, meant
There would be, I felt sure, some flooding in
Of light to the spot that he had cleared. Rent
Through the thick-flourishing luxury of green,
That place where the sun had always come hands-first,
And me imagining brushing back the boughs
To meet it, there was no sudden cloud-burst,
No epistles, no revelatory show.
Where I had expected the rack of Binsey Poplars
Or luminous stained-glass refigurings,
I got the open s
The rest was simply ornamentation:
Where you had the thing itself
To toast, to salute, to embellish the vacant mood,
To show up on your profile if you could,
Allowing for louder voices raised
In other places,
There was no need say anything else.
There was no need, or even if there was
(You worried, yes, you'd trip and fall
Like a fawning courtier
over the occasion of it all)
Being outstared by what should have held our gazes
To that spot, and challenged to response
By safety and facility,
The appalling luxury
Of somewhere to write,
The subliminal thunder of the still, small voice
Ran under the op
Most could nod politely
When I caught
On a favourite line,
Then trammelled shamelessly
Through my pitch-perfect
Parrot of
The better said,
"Your breast's mauve star."
Far harder then,
To register
And still, hoping
Through the grandstanding
Grown out of hiding,
There was something
Salvageable
In the old-before-time bore,
To step in and whisper,
Not without force,
Giving the hand an encouraging pulse,
"Quote less, talk more."
This afternoon, existence finds itself
Locked up along its length and growling, like
A dog still on its chain, or bowel trouble,
Coming back from the office.
At the wheel
The gas pedal has long since lost its feel,
And at odd intervals the stoppage swells
A second, and then peters out.
That dull not-thereness shooting up and down
My arm this morning as I made the toast
And levered out the coffee, must have been
The kind of DVT you get, I'm told,
From 9 hours to Singapore, business class.
Which now, I hope, will add a touch of glamour
To that worn slow, restated all-against-all
That cr
In Praise of Running Water by NeonHades, literature
Literature
In Praise of Running Water
I
That holiday in Yorkshire where
We argued, or we couldn't call
Upon enough in speech to cure
The smarts we laid down last, the fall
Of Hardraw seemed to bring relief.
The shimmering smack of thunder shook
Us back to friendliness, and we
Swallowed a register that took
In muck and crystal as it ran,
Knotting music with the mud
And nuzzling round the sharpness of
The stones, devotional in flood.
Holding your hand that day felt like
Palming cool water, knew again
The any-angled, pebble-probing
Hurry of the known and strange.
II
In Edinburgh, the heavens tore
Themselves, and crashed like revelation
On the Mile, with me still
Current Residence: Edgbaston, Birmingham Favourite genre of music: Rock Favourite photographer: Chrystal Ding Favourite style of art: N/A Operating System: Windows Vista MP3 player of choice: iPod Wallpaper of choice: Sonic the Hedgehog Favourite cartoon character: Sonic the Hedgehog Personal Quote: 'The man who's putting his boot in the world's collective arse.'
Hallo, Just wanted to say, you're stuff is really amazing. I absoloutely adore your style, it makes me shiver! Looking forward to whatever you submit next!