Ha Ha English

Why can't the English speak the truth?
Are we so civil, are we so anglicised?
In our stripy pyjamas, in our public houses,
What secrets do these tight lips hide?
A nation with too much history, too many heroes,
Too many carpets bulging with that swept under,
So now we don't speak in case we belch rudely,
We don't play cricket because it never stops raining,
We don't go through the door if we can go round the houses,
And we laugh, laugh so hard, at the irony of it all.

Why can't the English tie their own boot laces?
Are we so privileged? Are we so busy shouting?
In our guilty moments, in our filthy milky way,
What did Victoria do to Albert in that museum?
A nation with too much front and much left behind,
Too many Romany Rooney ruby faced lotharios,
So now we don't speak in case we belch loudly,
We don't play cricket because we never stop swearing,
We don't go through the door we go round the back passage
And we laugh, laugh so hard, at the irony of it all.

Laughing, laughing so hard,
All the way to the bank,
And back again,
Distraught,
Disgraced,
So hard,
Laughing,
At us,
Can't you see they're,
Laughing,
All the way,
To where the bank used to be,
Laughing,
So hard,
Aren't we?
 
(This is a flippant poem with a saucy sense of humour. The sort of humour you get on postcards at English seaside resorts. It feels like it must have been written near closing time in the local pub because of its mixture of hilarity and a sense of impending reckoning. It captures a hysterical sadness and hints at serious problems below the surface, unspoken, swept under carpets and contained by the English habit of irony, politeness and understatement. Even Wayne Rooney makes a surprise appearance as an icon of the times - distraught, disgraced. And our banks - distraught, disgraced. Ourselves - distraught, disgraced but still laughing. Aren't we?)

A Stumbling Grace

Been swept up by the storms of life,
Been swept down by the retreats,
Lost my balance in your absence,
Lost my rock, lost my way,
Made a rash move with a tearful eye,
Stood tall though my legs were thin,
And now it comes to this, a stumbling grace,
To this a stumbling grace it comes.

I give thanks for all I've been given,
I try not to question what's taken away,
I remember all the words and moments,
And know what I was blessed to share,
But still it stings like a salted wound,
Still it catches me in the throat,
And now it comes to this a stumbling grace,
To this a stumbling grace it comes.

Pray calm me with your presence Lord,
Send your host to steady the ship,
Drown me with your choir of angels,
For I sense I will lose my grip,
Long is the day and longer the night,
Yet I resign myself to your might,
And so it comes to this a stumbling grace
To this a stumbling grace it comes.

(This poem is about letting go and loss. I watched a TV programme recently where George Michael(!) said 'The world is split in two very different groups of people - those who have experienced a great loss in their lives and those who have not yet reached that point'. I think this is fair. Great loss does change your perspective in a fundamental way. I think this is because great loss shakes your identity to its roots and challenges your sense of security at a profoundly deep level. The best that you feel you can do is to stumble on yet to do this with grace not with anger or with guilt. The stumbling is appropriately human because to not stumble when you experience loss is to be heartless, inauthentic and absurdly strong. The grace is appropriately divine because it is who you are in the midst of your loss that defines your example and your impact on others and your relationship with the higher power who you perceive to have 'taken away' what you valued so highly. The third verse of this poem is the moment of surrender - the tipping point when fighting the pain of loss finally gives way to the truth of our vulnerability and our despair. The point at which we finally, finally ask for help and submit ourselves to a new covenant with that which has a higher power over our lives. For individuals this is a process of weeks, months and years. For whole societies this is a process of months, years and decades. Who knows that for a whole race it could easily take 2,000 years or more :) )

A Labour of Love

It's a game, a factory, a vainglorious point-scoring institution,
Chews you up, spits you out, drags your entrails in the streets for all to sneer,
When you stand in front of those Victorian spires, those iron gates,
When you enrol and enrol and enrol again,
And hear them screaming for your soul,
The good, the great and the simply profane,
Clambering over your inert frame,
Wanting you for their GDP, their endless needs, their sycophantic, meaningless parade,
Makes your heart hammer your insides raw,
Like a battered iron casing,
Your intuition holds fast in the teenage storm,
Compels you, drives you, on and on,
Away from that which wishes to feed on you,
That which you never understood,
Except in your aching guts,
Except in the love of your Mother's arms,
And years later you come to rest,
Washed up, burnt out, heaving up,
Dizzy with relief that they didn't devour you with their snarling teeth,
All those loyal soldiers didn't catch you with their relentless, pounding drums,
Your gift is intact, shining like a lost pearl,
Glistening like an eternal promise, a sacred shrine,
Deep in the unplundered depths lies this protected, defenceless truth,
That which they wanted to steal from you with their grasping claws,
With their greedy, zealous, engineering minds,
That which was only ever yours to keep.
And now, as the shawl draws back,
It looks up at you like a little baby and smiles a little baby's smile.
It blinks in wonder at the sheer magnificence of it all,
Crawls into the light with its blinking eyes,
Pulls itself up tall just by your side,
Summons the strength of two thousand pointless years
And strides purposefully into this starving world.

(I have been struck this weekend by the outcome of the labour leadership elections. Don't get me wrong, I am not interested in politics but I am interested in leaders and how they behave. The Miliband battle made me think of loyalty as a leadership value. When is it appropriate to be loyal to yourself and when is it appropriate to be loyal to others? For me, David Miliband showed great loyalty to Gordon Brown in not challenging him for the leadership in 2007-2009. In contrast, his younger brother showed no loyalty at all in challenging David for the leadership battle this time round. But loyalty to what or to who? - family, party, boss, self, purpose? I went scrambling in my archives to see what poetry I have written that might speak to this theme. When I came across this poem with the title 'A Labour of Love' I couldn't help but smile. The first few lines certainly made me think of David. The word 'profane' made me think of Ed. The line referring to the 'love of your Mother's arms' made me think of Mrs. Miliband and what she is making of it all. And then, in the final lines, I was reassured that David will reap what he has sown. His 'gift is intact'. Despite the undoubted depth of hurt of this act of betrayal, his spirit will rise again. It will 'pull itself up tall just by his side' and he will go on to greater things. Ed likewise will reap what he has sown. I wonder what that might look like for him, his family, his party, the country? Let's wait and see...)

Fight, Flight or Forgiveness

These blows we are feeling,
That still feel real,
And they hurt and swell with pain,
They tempt us to run away,
Or to stand and fight and brawl,
For we think it is real,
And yet we can let it happen,
Like watching a movie scene,
We can be author not actor in this dream,
Distant and observant and still,
Whilst the blows are raining down,
And your ego is screaming for revenge,
And then the rage passes,
Like an impersonal storm that dies,
And you have not fought nor run away,
You are still standing, it was not real,
And now,
With the energy of forgiveness flowing in your limbs,
You move forward again as a leader in this world.

(For me this poem is aspirational. I see that it could be possible to take this approach in all situations however challenging yet I still find it difficult to put into practice. I find that I do not run away and I do not fight but I do get hurt by just standing still. The reason I get hurt is because my powers of forgiveness are not strong enough to create a sufficiently strong 'impersonal field'. There is a point where I do take things personally even if my outward behaviour does not betray this fact. On the one hand, these situations show me the edge of my development but I also wonder about protection. There are some situations where it is sensible and prudent to not be defensive or aggressive but to have appropriate protection. To not have protection might be naive and it might over-estimate your strength. We know that in a physical conflict protection might take the form of a shield. What is the equivalent of a 'shield' in a situation where it is not a physical attack but an emotional or spiritual attack? I don't know the answer to this question but I am sure as heck going to work on it because there are plenty of pointy-shaped things out there :). Any thoughts on how other people achieve this would be welcome. Beyond the purely personal context of this poem, I do still chime with its last line where forgiveness is positioned as a critical leadership 'competence' for the complexities of the modern world. In how many corporate HR manuals does this word appear? )

Letting You Down

I never let you down,
Never let you off my back,
Kept you there cause you knew good jokes,
And whispered them in my ear,
As I laughed I was tempted to forget,
That my legs were aching so,
As I laughed I was tempted to forget,
That I carried you down my path,
A pact we made that served us well,
Through many a difficult day,
But with it crept in our dependency,
And a pinch of grief and jealousy,
A twist of judgement and complacency,
So now I let you down at last,
Onto your wasting limbs that will find their feet,
I let you down at last,
Finally giving each back the independence that we stole many years ago,
The crown jewels that are now restored,
In the castles of our forgiven hearts.

(I wrote this poem many years ago following the breakdown in a valued relationship. I was reminded of it yesterday. Dependency is a theme that I am a bit obsessed with or you could say I am passionate about it. How does dependency develop in relationships? What is each parties contribution to this? How is indepedendence gained? And what about inter-dependence? How is this different and how can we establish this in our relationships? The poem describes a dependent relationship that has served its full course and ends. In a dependent relationship one carries and one is carried. A deal is struck which both parties agree to and which serves them until the day it does not. Put bluntly, the deal is 'I'll carry you and in return you'll make me laugh' ('kept you there because you knew good jokes'). This sounds trite but is not far from the truth. One party takes responsibility for the practical affairs and the other is free from this. In their freedom they think more creatively, they travel lightly, they can live for the day (well, wouldn't you in their position? :) ). It is important to stress that I am not blaming anyone for this or saying it is wrong, it is just an observation and an experience that I have had. However, the difficulty with dependent relationships is that they are not holistic, they tempt us to dishonour our full selves ('the crown jewels') and this is difficult to sustain over long periods of time without getting tired. Tired emotionally and spiritually. Often dependent relationships end. But sometimes they don't and sometimes they evolve into inter-dependent relationships. This one didn't. In this case, it had gone too far ....)

The Narrow Gate

Attached as we are to all that fades,
Our clothers, our looks, our machinations,
In a society where growing old is a sin,
Like drinking sour wine, eating stale bread,
It sticks in my throat this sickly medicine,
Waiting for a new skin, a new way of living,
One that is not bought by me for me in me,
Waiting for new vessels in which to place my self,
To be reborn under water within Him,
For I have spent this life many times without,
Without relationship, without boundless joy,
Without a sense of the eternal hope springs forever,
Must whisper these words with croaking voice,
Before this world holes me like a pigeon,
Must whisper of surface glimpsed arms aloft,
Yet unless my heart opens now, great bow doors,
Unless I take in the whole of creation in one gasping gulp,
Then it will drown me outside in with a blink inconsequent,
And I will be an old hero, a war story, a collapsing coin spinning utterance,
A random power play in a terminal Universe,
Stark in its choice looms the narrow gate.

( Wooah! What the heck is that all about? I sort of get the first bit (lines 1-7)- a take on consumerism and the meanginglessness of a life devoted to stuff that decays (looks, food, wine). And then there is the line about 'new vessels' which echoes the new testament verse - 'Neither do men pour new wine into old vessels' - Matthew 9:17.  A reference to the fact that transformative change (a rebirth) cannot be superficial. Consumerism as a way of being that does not bring happiness and that focusses upon things rather than relationships. The hopelessness of consumerism. And then (line 13 - 'Must whisper these words...') a sudden self consciousness arising from the lapse into religious language and the steroetyping this will provoke in others. Then finally the choice - the choice between being true to oneself or keeping up appearances. The inability to be half pregnant ( 'Unless I take in the whole of creation in one gasping gulp'). A life of meaning (joy, hope ,eternal) or meaninglessness (coin spinning, random ,terminal). The last line is yet another new testament reference - 'Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.- - Matthew 7:13. Any clearer? I dunno. This guy is stark raving bonkers :) :) lol

Barbaric Garb

The vicious freedom of an open mind,
An empty diary, a blank sheet, a sudden start,
The ropeless ascent into a spiralling void,
Agonising a glance into the depths,
A compulsion to test the limits of my recklessness,
A rebellion from the straightened jacket of a managed regime,
To think beyond the pale where all true inspiration swirls,
To play amongst the edges where a strange peace prevails,
To loose this false sense of self, the costume, the garb,
And rest within my nature inchoate.

The vicious freedom of an open heart,
An empty head, a blank mind, a sudden start,
The ropeless descent into a glistening trove,
Agonising a glance into the depths,
A calling to accept an unlimited care-full-ness,
An obedience to the gentle chorus of a holy regime,
To be beyond the pale where all true inspiration swirls,
To play amongst the edges where a well known peace prevails,
And rest within my nature evident

(Poetry comes from a different part of the brain. The evidence of this is when you impulsively use a word in a poem which you then later look up in the dictionary because when you wrote it you didn’t know what it meant! It then turns out to be the most apt word you could possible have thought of, if you know what I mean :) The word ‘inchoate’ is an example of such a word in this poem. Inchoate (in-koh-it) means ‘not yet completed or fully developed’. It is not a word that I thought I knew. Where do these words come from? Where do these poems come from? For me the experience of writing poetry is evidence that we are able to tap into knowing beyond our reasoning minds. Some call this intuition, some call it the ‘gentle chorus of a holy regime’. Whatever we call it, ‘it’ clearly resides ‘beyond the pale where all inspiration swirls’ and ‘it’ involves breaking out of the ‘straightened jacket of a managed regime’. It involves an open mind and an empty heart. It is both natural and abnormal, both strange and well known, both complete and incomplete. It is clearly not logical and open to analysis yet it has a value that we too often discount from the perspective of our ‘barbaric garb’. (‘Garb’ – ‘a mode of dress , especially of a distinctive or UNIFORM kind’ ). Please do not analyse this poetry – it will make you blind.)

Soulburst

And she came to me,
Shimmering in the light of a Summer dream,
She came to me,
Perfect in every detail,
Basking in the peace of God,
Speaking the words of an angel,
As if it were just any other day,
As if all were normal and in hand,
And I didn't bat an eyelid,
Couldn't even recall her words,
Because it was just any other day,
All was normal and in hand,
All was held within the peace of God,
Then waking into the sounds of a new dawn,
I smiled at this glimpse of truth,
Bottled up this glory and this joy,
Taking it with me into the buzzing crowd.
The living proof of her creation,
Sweet Mother of mine.

(About my Mother. RIP. Enough said).

All

A pool of water on a God still day,
A reflection of a heavenly sky,
A perfect, empty circle divine,
A balancing act at the centre point,
A substance which neither holds nor is held,
A vessel that neither pours nor needs filling,
Now it is lost in the background plane,
For it has no Name nor eminence,
Now it steps forward to perform with grace,
Like a ballerina stretched with tendons of steel,
Like a hidden hand that can reach within,
Flowing and beating and sensing itself,
Deep within this recess a new form stirs,
For in this pallette of reality existent,
Are the many colours, the many shades,
All those you have copied are now well worn,
And from this panoply, this splashed out craze,
Comes forth this shining example,
The All of You in the All of Now.

(After a few postings that were a little darker in spirit, I wanted to return to a theme of potential with this poem. The first lines are representations of stillness and balance. The 'perfect, empty circle divine' is a reference to the t'ai chi symbol 'wu chi' - see http://www.ichingwisdom.com/intro.html . 'Wu chi' is pure attention, zero emptiness, corresponding to deep sleep. It is the stillness that precedes movement, the unity that precedes the separation into 'yin' and 'yang'. It is the pregnancy that precedes creation - 'deep within this recess a new form stirs'. And then this latent, hidden potential leaps forward, announces itself amongst the current ,worn out reality, this 'splashed out craze'. Something new is born - the 'all of you in the all of now'. Presence.)

Redemption Song

A frozen stream of tears
A bitter sweet taste left behind
We are the memories, the vague recollections,
The agonies of knee high vulnerability,
The apron strings I couldn't hold on to,
Though I tried, I tried, I tried.

A door never opened beneath the stairs,
A space left unprotected out of love my dear
We are the memories, the vague recollections,
In the land of the giants gentle yet firm
The apron strings I couldn't hold onto,
Though I tried, I tried, I tried.

Only Jesus intervenes to cradle the child,
Blesses the holes left flagrant and bare,
As deep in the being a threshold holds strong,
Thou shalt not pass, shalt not penetrate,
The spirit that rose up to meet the horror of life
Saying you're saved, you're saved, you're saved.

I will prove you with the shining light,
Stun the witness with my glaring insight,
I will be the living truth to your night of nights,
Endless, endless in my declaration of rights,
And then when I find you shivering and frail,
Will I bless you with the love of His might,
His anvil, His hammer, His peace, His sword,
Brought to you gently
Brought to you hard.

(This is a poem about child abuse. In the light of recent revelations about the 'goings on' in the Catholic church, I attempted to write something from the perspective of a victim of child abuse. Of course, we have all been victims of child 'abuse', it is merely a question of degree since we have all been 'abused' by those in positions of power who, strangely, we thought were there to protect us. Abuse comes in many forms some more permananetly damaging to the child psyche than others. It is a part of the experience of growing up to realise that power is abused and we have to be aware of that reality and to protect ourselves from its consequences as best we can. As children we are vulnerable and we are trusting in an undiscriminating way. This combination of qualities can result in tragic consequences. The poem also alludes to the unique role that men play in child abuse - maybe this is why female priests are not admitted into the Catholic church! For it is to the female that we look for protection from the aggressive male ego ( 'The apron strings I couldn't hold on to, though I tried, I tried, I tried'). The irony is that even in the midst of priestly abuse, it is the human spirit that rises up in defiance to protect and save the soul ( 'As deep in the being a threshold holds strong'). How else could anyone survive such a shocking breach of trust? It is the defiant human spirit that commits itself to the hope of a dis-abusing future. A future in which one day the abused child stands tall and strong as an adult in front of the aged, weak and frail abuser of the past. And in that moment, the abused sheds their guilt ('endless in my declaration of rights'), feels their hidden anger in all its God given glory ('His anvil, His hammer, His peace, His sword') yet refuses to take revenge upon themselves, trusting in the redeeming power of that which provided the original protection all those many years ago ('Will  I bless you with the love of His might....Brought to you gently, brough to you hard'). God bless all those abused children - may they find it in their hearts to trust again and create a new future for us all. Amen.)

Sleep, Dream, Wake, Sleep, Dream

Reflections,
Ripples in time,
Compressions,
Creases in the flow,
Voices,
Leaking like oil,
I am drowning in this love,
Head bobbing above the waves,
Waves of consciousness,
That lift and fall, lift and fall,
Leaving purple stains on my mind,
Revealing cave drawings, illiterate sounds, extinct smells,
I am drowning in this love,
Beyond loneliness, beyond boredom, beyond activity,
I am swept up on the shore of this natural habitat,
A stranger, a refugee, a stowaway,
Saved from salvation,
At least for now.
At least
for
now.

(This is a poem about consciousness. About the boundary between sleeping and dreaming and waking up. Each night we experience a shift in consciousness when we dream. Each night we 'drown' in our dreams and then we wake up. In our dreams we see things and feel things that appear real and then we wake up. Similarly, who knows what other levels of consciousness might exist and how we 'sleep/wake up' from these? The poem speculates on this theme using the boundary between air and water as the metaphor for a shift in consciousness. Can you imagine if you had never fallen asleep in your life and then it happened to you for the first time and you felt yourself 'nodding off'? Can you imagine how frightening this would be and how much faith it would require to trust that you would wake up again in the morning? :) And yet without sleep we could not function, could not survive. Similarly, without love we could not function, we could not survive. Yet to lose yourself in the consciousness of love is terrifying and requires great faith. Much better to fight this temptation and save ourselves form salvation don't you think?)

The Morally Brave

Stand Up,
Not from arrogance or petulance,
Stand Up,
Though your legs tremble with innocent fear,
Stand Up,
You who step down, sink back, keep quiet,
Stand Up, Stand Up, Stand Up.

Sit Down,
You of the tumbled leadership elite,
Sit Down,
For your legs of clay are cracked clean through,
Sit Down,
You who think fight, fight think, win first,
Sit Down,Sit Down, Sit Down.

Shut Up,
You of the underbelly underground,
Shut Up,
For your legs are always kicking subversively,
Shut Up,
You who fight talk, talk fight, fist first,
Shut up, Shut up, Shut up.

(Thus decay,unrest and decadance,
Provides fertile ground for new seeds,
Nature's courage knows no bounds,
Brings forth from the famine,
A feast of untold delight,
Speaks to us with compelling truth,
'Stand Up, Sit Down, Shut Up',
Brings forth the meek who have waited long,
Those who hold the heart of the age,
That which has no physical might nor empirical proof,
Yet commands the lion and the lamb,
As it reaches into their common soul,
Lo, the meek will be the bravest,
When the flesh finally runs weak,
For in them the spirit burns brightest,
They carry that which does not know how to die,
That which always prevails with timeless ease,
The ark, the covenant, the grail,
The blueprint of our higher concsciousness.
Sow now,
Stand Up, Speak Up, Stand Up,
You of the highest moral ground.
Claim your inheritance, free us with your courage
As the master frees the slave.)

(This poem was inspired by a comment on a TV show where a lady exclaimed 'What we need in this country right now is morally brave leaders!'. Morally brave leaders.She was commenting on 'Broken Britain' and it made me think about the state of moral leadership in our society. On the one hand, you have the discredited leadership elite ( MP's, bank CEO's, Irish priests, etc.), those addicted to the power of winning whom the poem suggests should 'sit down'. On the other, you have the feckless folk who have given up caring and have opted out of any sense of collective responsibility, the poem refers to these as the 'underbelly underground' and suggest they should 'shut up' :) And then you have those in the 'middle ground', the average man or woman in the street, those who are not in positions of power but have not given up caring or taking personal responsibility. The poem suggest that it is the voice of these people that we need to hear right now. And these people are often held back by their fear of standing out in the crowd, their fear of their own power which they so often give away to  those in the other two 'camps'. These are the meek people who the poem suggests need to have the courage to stand up and claim their power. The final passage in brackets is a statement of conviction and trust that nature always brings forth the right answer at the right time, or in this case the right people at the right time. It suggests that there is a spirit lying dormant in the morally brave. This spirit will know exactly when it is the right time to 'stand up' and 'speak up'. This is the point when that which is broken will start to heal. Is our society reaching that point right now? Are you one of the morally brave whom nature will ask to stand up and to speak up right now? Is it time for you to reclaim the power that is given away so cheaply in every day and in every hour?)

The Word

To live each day like this,
So free like blossom windswept,
To not know what is work or play or rest,
But simply steps and words and smiling back,
To live each day like this,
So full of a glorious emptiness,
To let go of the possibilities,
And share food that tastes like the first time,
Tastes like the first day of Spring,
Just me and a milky sun watching on,
And there is so much time and space,
So many gaps and moments of peace,
Stepping in and out of the world,
Like a flickering movie scene,
Watching then acting then watching again,
Swept up on waves of awareness,
Swept back to gulp the air,
To live each day like this,
In a never ending picturescape,
This then all a frame of mind,
That each carries deep within,
This then all a gift we have,
That we left at the world's front door,
This then all a living secret, a raided casket,
That we now declare as TRUTH.

('In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, He was in the beginning with God, All things came into being through Him....And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it.....And the word became flesh and tabernacled amongst us...This was He of whom I spoke...He who comes after me has been before me....He has declared Him...I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness...behold the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world' John 1:1-1:29. TRUTH is the word. The word is the TRUTH. Who stole the word? Who stole the TRUTH? 'A living secret, a raided casket'. Who found the word? Who found the TRUTH? You did!) 

Glittering Prize

We care about the big things,
Over which we have no control,
The famine, the flood, the state of the world,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little things that lie just under our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we no longer see,
That which we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.

We care about the big things,
For these are worthy of our name,
The job, the car, the next pretty house,
The vision of how it could be,
Whilst the little people that lie just at our feet,
Get squashed by our clod-hopping boots,
The little screams that we don't hear,
The pained expressions we don't see,
Those who we sacrifice for a stab at fame,
In our stampede for the glittering prize.

Remember then the little things,
Brought each day unto you,
The glance, the pause, the touching hand,
The vision of how it could be,
Gather the children that lie at your feet,
Lift them to your gaze,
Hear and see what you love as your own,
Linger in the awareness of now,
Mend then the detailed stitching of our emotional lives,
Heal the leaking spirit of our daily grind,
For those who sacrifice for a moment of love,
Render the world as a glittering prize.

(Named after the Simple Minds song of the same name! An ode to the little things and the little people. It is an old, old message which I know we've all heard before. Maybe if we keep saying it over and over again, it will seep into a change in our behaviour. Until the next advert, the next newspaper article, the next disapproving glance.....what iron will it takes to live for the little things!)  

Reclamation

Caught you skulking in the shadows,
Scurrying from town to town,
Glimpsed you sat at the bar in some southern hotel,
Idly stirring a cold dank coffee cream,
You are like a faint rash, a feint accomplice,
You are the sediment of my deepest draught,
The ridiculous dream of faithless friends,
How I would squeeze the life out of you,
Should you come within reach,
But, No, you are the unseen shadow, the slippery soap, the unscratched back,
Speak to me, you, the muted minister of my self doubt,
.............
.............
Speak to me
............
............
'Time was when I didn't need you,
Time was when I had my own life,
Time was when we were friends'
............
'Cast out in this splendid isolation,
Cast out to peddle like a paupered soul
Cast out to watch, observe the distance'
...........
'When will you let me come home?
When will you bathe me, waive the sorrows I caused?
When will you heal my withered hands?'
..........
Lets's meet again you and I
Not for gain or recrimination but just for something to do
You know sort of like young men do
When they know not how to tune their hearts,
Let's find the ways that rebuilt the trust once lost,
Through nothingness chats that pass the time,
And prove that we no longer have the will to kill or maime,
After you, no after you, no after you, please do
The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace
On into the possibilities of the male condition,
On into the white light that will fuse our bones once more.
Beyond the muck and blood of our unspoken separation

(This is a poem that wrote itself. There was no thought or idea in my mind when I started it so I suppose it is a stream of consciousness from somewhere. Something or nothing can be made of it. So what do I make of it now in hindsight? I think it is about the reality of our fragmented psyches i.e. the idea that we are made up of many sub-personalities that vie for control and dominance and don't always agree with each other! This is the central theme of the psychological model of transactional analysis with its sub-personalities of parent, adult and child and the internal dialogue that these 'energetic states' engage in as they struggle for their identity and role within the overall 'I'. In this poem, two sub-personalities have been fighting each other, one has 'won' the fight and banished the other, denying it a voice or a presence until now reluctantly inviting it 'back to the table'. We hear the banished fragment pleading to return and to be forgiven. As the poem nears its ending we learn that these are two 'masculine' sub-personalities that are not necessarily that emotionally intelligent :) ('The great skulkers stumble on in an autustic embrace'). Still, in their own awkward way, they seek reconciliation and the psyche reclaims its completeness. You cannot 'kill off' these internal voices without destroying your authenticity - though many of us spend many years trying to do just that!) 

Methodical Recklessness

A change in the weather,
A change in the times,
A shifting of sands that lie underfoot,
Staring at the ceiling at 4am,
Stamping my feet to shake off the day,
A feeling of methodical recklessness runs through my inner world,
A sense that the bridge has been breached,
The keys lifted from idle guards,
Its happening, its happening from the inside out.

Peculiar travel suggestions dance into my opened mind,
With secret destinations and coded travails,
All that I hear yet fear to obey,
The voice of a will that is grander than mine,
Yet grows restless ever restless at our recalcitrance.

A time for the brave,
A time for the meek,
A shift in the heavens that lie overhead,
Staring at the ceiling at 4am,
Stamping our feet at the start of the day,
A feeling of methodical recklessness runs through the outer world,
A sense that the bridge has been built,
The latch has fallen, tumbled, shattered and free,
It happening, its happening from the inside out.

(This poem was inspired by a conversation with Kay Cannon - a friend and fellow coach in the US. Kay was listening to me and captured my mood perfectly when she said 'it sounds like you're engaged in methodical recklessness'. I laughed since I loved the apparent contradiction of these two words. I said to her that it was the title of a poem and the next day I wrote it. Kay also shared with me two lovely quotes from which I pinched some of the words in the second verse. These were 'peculiar travel suggestion are dancing lessons from God' by Kurt Vonnegut (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurt_Vonnegut) and 'All journies have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware' by Martin Buber ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martin_Buber ). The poem describes an uncontrollable, unsettling, inevitable journey. A natural transformation. Maybe this would be how a flower would feel as it grew and changed if it were blessed with self-consciousness? Or even scarier how a caterpiller would feel when it was 'dying' into a butterfly? Maybe this is how the world feels when it is wanting to change, when it is bored of how things are, restless, shaking the ground and stirring the heavens? What would you be doing if you were living in times of 'methodical recklessness'?

Transition Throes

Flickering like a knackered neon,
A connection is breaking down,
Now you see me, now you don't,
Who can read in the dark?
With these half messages of mine
The two halves of my transition throe,

Flickering like an eyelid half open,
A window in me is opening up,
Now I see you, now I don't,
Who can see with eyes wide shut?
With these sleepy lids of mine,
The two halves of my transition throe

Learning through this flickering pain,
Glimpsing a future state of permanence,
Grasping for the excitement and joy,
Whilst flirting with the still distant past,
Waiting for the tipping point of my transition throe

This half finished palace resembles a dusty building site,
Yet its foundations are firm, its design a noble cause,
I will finish its construction, I will deliver the vision
And over that oaken door will I hang the garland of my new beliefs.

(This poem is about change, deep change. It doesn't come much deeper than trying to change your beliefs. Beliefs are the foundation of our behaviour, when they change then everything else changes - sometimes this can be disconcerting! It is most disconcerting when you are in the halfway house between one set of beliefs and another, when you are in the midst of the 'transition throe'. The word throe means 'a severe pang or spasm of pain, as in childbirth'. It exactly fits the feeling of giving birth to new beliefs. The old world drops away and the new world starts to take shape and inbetween lies the 'flickering pain'. Yet once started the job has to be finished. The new palace has to be built. Determination pushes you. The vision pulls you. There is no turning back. The second verse of the poem reminds me of the quote from Marcel Proust - 'The voyage of true discovery lies not in seeking new landscapes, but in seeing with new eyes.')