What stagnant noise this dark unrest
that beats poor time within my breast
and drums such dirges in my thoughts
but misery and woe to court,
‘tid then the night sky I survey
and silent prayers I do relay…
“oh stars, far stars let me seize
your calm reflection for its ease,
which does reliant heavens place
a silent truth, eternal grace”
and quiet may I gain from there
which sets to rest the loud despair.
Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to hear the angels on the air
and the music of their wings
to scribe the poetry they sing.
I yearn for blessed insanity
lost Edens in the world to see
to picture them in rhythm’d rhymes
and paint them with such saintly lines.
what fear do passing seasons hold
when such stories have been told
of beauty’s scars upon the earth
and how from death comes rebirth.
Oh! for the madness of John Clare
to mark the sacred everywhere
despite dark Hell’s corrupt intent
such souls define the heaven sent.
at ten, I think
is when, I think
death came.
He had, of course
announced himself
upon the grey
tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
but strangely
that was all
no black
foreboding pall
(..or bugle’s dampened call)
just quiet
pregnant quiet
silence, save
the grey tipped rain
(..sudden on the window pane)
which replaced her breath
now lost,
to never, ever
sound again.
I dreamt of foxes
lost at sea escaping hounds
fearful of the coming tide
when not just foxes
take to cruel seas
as the hunt no more abides.
are we the fox
or are we hound
as bloodlust
runs us all to ground
was there then a red rainfall
my memory is not complete
the years have played with my recall
so lest my verse be obsolete
I can remember water though
black as blood streams everywhere
river crossing, gutters flow
to fountain’s crystals in the square,
there is no more that I may tell
nor will my story ever end
for recollection’s empty shell
allows what was with dreams to blend
the oldest song holds ever true
yet it’s music evades me still
that such can I with words imbue
not e’er a note with sharpened quill
but even as this silence peals
an echo of the ancient strains
calls inward for my heart to yield
unto the muse’s pleasured pains
that brought into the world their songs
of innocence and sinful tales
sagas of men loved and wronged
of happiness and sad travails
thus as these shadows stretch in mind
they in their turn bring also light
that could allow my soul to find
the old song’s words I long to write.
of late I find I sit no more
to wonder on the whims of man
as for fifteen and two score
years in, I don’t know who I am
so who am I to think upon
the foibles felt by other hearts
they’ll still be there when I am gone
and from man’s company have parted.
so therefore I’ll watch the wheels
of sun and moon’s eternal drive
and simply for the present feel
my own existence to derive.
If I write in verse of you
would you really mind?
Is it more of you or me
that these words will find
within the lines
I dared to form
without your say
or knowledge born,
could it be with all good will
that my prose has done you ill
rather than praise or celebrate
I have in some way denigrated..
..you?
like scribbled notes
they stood in lines
one phrase next to another
strangers of prose
rather than rhyming
as sisters or as brothers
each tale the same
yet not it seemed
though relayed like song
and no matter
what was gleaned
from telling, it felt quite wrong
yet still they stood
like A to Zed
in print or cursive ways
yet still no matter
what was said
no truth could be relayed.
If this should be my dying day
would I know it as I woke
and looked upon the rainy dawn?
for what concessions would I pray
that the clouds above look darker
on this my final morn?
If this should be my dying day
what would my last words be
a bid to heaven’s that I stay
would its host hear my plea
If this should be my dying day
let it end with a smile
as what else is there left to say
to death’s black humoured guile
the blighters rock 