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).