Original poems 2015

[ladylinda]

Elegy for the victims of the Troubles:

our blood stained the brown earth red,
and even though flowers sprouted on our graves
they too faded. For years
mothers wept at the loss of children,
girls fell silent as their sweethearts died,
and within the survivors
love ebbed away,
replaced at best
by an abstract pity,
at worst by hatred
and coldness inside

all the bravado of the bullying 'war'
as the men in balaclavas
robbed a generation
of the chance to love,
denied homecoming
to parent, sibling, child,
who emerged instead
into as empty a world
as the cold steel of the assassins' heart

the living remember, and need to tell
the new generation the truth so long denied
by IRA and UDA alike,
that it was neither inevitable nor necessary
for so much innocent blood to be shed,
that the trumpeted cause
was never worth all the murder,
that for all the beatings, the knee-cappings,
all the tarring and feathering,
all the bombings and shootings -
all futile, evil exertions,
an attempt through fear to make people groan
into slow surrender -
achieved nothing

battered and bruised
with the long years of suffering,
still we need to rediscover
how to kiss, to hug, be open,
not look forever over our shoulder,
check our car for bombs,
wonder if we dare open the door -
we must learn to love and trust again

taig and prod,
republican, nationalist, unionist,
all need to reach out
beyond the limitations of ideology
across the contours of hope
and embrace life, its love and joy

[ladylinda]

The Decision:

new life grows within me:
I feel joy and pride.
Then the doctor
rips away both feelings

in casual callousness he says:
'I would advise a termination.'
Why? I demand to know
his reasons

in his Social Darwinist way he tells me
'your child has certain genetic defects.'
I press him for more information
and he tells me what to expect

oh, just as houses fall down
when an earthquake erupts around them,
so too my heart, so full of nurturing love
towards my firstborn, froze to a stalactite

oh, such a little thing!
how easily we flush away a life
as if it had no value, no existence,
no purpose but to be destroyed

inside me was a small expanse of life,
my baby housing, keeping you alive,
how could I throw away, deny my love
and void him like my excrement?

and so it was I chose to keep my chal,
and even though the doctor's words were true -
spina bifida, dyspraxia, Asperger's -
I don't regret the choice I made

duty over selfishness,
caring over lack of empathy,
love over cold indifference,
life over death

[ladylinda]

Apologia pro vita sua

of course it's only vanity to imagine
everyone will like you; no matter what
you say or do, to some you're a curmudgeon,
unfeeling bitch, or downright evil twat

what seems to some despicable behaviour
to others looks like honesty and kindness,
and there are times when cowardice seems braver
than acquiescing in the PC blandness

the heart of all of us is an intricate fabric
woven out of many joys, loves, tears;
its workings are too complex to be a matrix,
its many labyrinths hide many snares

heart is infinitely deeper and bigger
than the aspersions, jeers, seeking to wound,
perhaps to drive away with poisoned dagger
the expression of unwanted thoughts or sound

pain, tears and blood are common to us all:
even the worst of us are sometimes sad;
all of our lives flow through the dark canal,
all of us actors in life's great charade

to you, life's simple, all the answers known;
no room for doubt, questioning, disbelief;
you wear with ease the paste-bedecked gown,
as valueless as the fig-leaves worn by Eve

if perhaps I disconnect
is it because your world is so removed
from actual feeling, suffering, that in fact
perhsps it's you, not me, who's never loved?

[ladylinda]

Britain 2015

We are alive, in spite of the deadness around us,
the apathy, unwillingness to act,
the fear of passion, openness, expression
of feelings too removed from the common herd,
who seem always to linger, watching us
for secret signals of dissenting thoughts,
and yes, in theory it's allowed
to voice contrary opinions, thought
if you do so in earshot of the wrong people
you will be hounded, traduced, trashed, even attacked.
The day of 'thought crime' and 'newspeak'
so long upon us now
we hardly notice how conditioned we are
as only robotic platitudes are heaved
out of mouths stuck in attitudes half-believed

as Wyndham Lewis wrote: 'what wind
serves to advance an honest mind'
or as Yeats said: 'the best
lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity'
or as Lawrence wrote, 'oh build your ship of death,
for you will need it,
for the voyage of oblivion awaits you'

[ladylinda]

The Vanishing Road

1)
we walked along a street we did not know,
hearing the mocking laughter of pursuit
ring in our ears, feeling the hunger gnaw
away inside, though wrapped up in the sheet
of love surrounding us, we shivered,
as everywhere we felt the coldness settle,
and both our living voices harshly quavered
at the assault of those to whom we're cattle,
and the clouds above us seemed like predatory wings
of mythical monsters out to work us harm,
and though we felt their claws like chains or thongs
seek to restrain us, somehow we stood firm
until the nightmare caught us in its spell,
and wound us in with its unending spool

2)
we found ourselves outside the known parameters
of time and space; the Thames, the Mississippi,
vanishing along with Earth's perimeters
into a void where no one could be happy,
till somehow through the wormhole we emerged
to see the ghosts of those long dead staring
into our own blank facesl eyes enlarged
as if on drugs, we felt the constant steering
of our unwilling selves towards some end
beyond our comprehension. Then, eyes agape,
we saw ourselves in a dreadful sarabande
dance at the end of the executioner's rope
while round us others dangled from the gallows
by the riverbank overhung with willows

3)

Pislikurja, save me if you can!
I strive, I struggle, to escape this street
where all around I see our murdered kin
and know we too will share the self-same fate.
Where are you? I no longer hear your voice,
your clear blue eyes, your soft pink skin, recedes
into a freezing fog denser than ice,
and all my tears dissolve as your vision fades
you, like the road, distant as ash and embers
from the living heat and glow of our yog's true flame,
on this new road with neither patrin nor cambers
we see no mountain of hope we still may climb,
only a crumbling pathways pocked with holes,
not the alluring tracks of hills and dales

4)
oh, our sad freedom, flickering and lost
like a dowsed beacon from a far-off land
and we, lovers in spite of all, are cast
into the cold and dark; their laws rescind
all natural kindness, all that smells or sounds
of joy, of laughter, love; frozen to blocks
of giant ice statues, they close up the wounds
of pain or happiness, cut down with their axe
all things that make us human, make us smile,
touch each other tenderly, shed tears, show care
to others - all dismissed, the world makde small
into a prison camp or abattoir,
and our forsaken hearts can only flutter
defiantly, before at last we shatter

[ladylinda]

Unacknowledged legislators

1)

out of rough rock
we hew stars, constellations, planets,
the hammers we wield
coax music out of blank whiteness,
our tongues become silver,
fleshed out of pebbles and breezes,
water and leaf, fracking with ardent love
the precious shale gas out of the earth
till all our energy
is fit for purpose

2)

even in darkness
we see, grasp, make actual
the hidden light and colour,
the stream of language flowers out of us,
softening the harsh timber of uncut oaks,
moistening the bricks so that the mortar
of inspiration and honest perspiration
can be the cement binding them to a home
in which we all can live

3)

the individual, separate monads of us
are far from windowless,
each one, through love divided,
regains selfhood
in the diversity within unity
till the living water
of the ink we spill
upon virgin paper,
like a blank canvas
is touched by our artist's hands
and shimmers with light and colour

4)

out of our secret shames
we educe the refulgent daylight,
we are fed by fleeting impressions,
given form by the insensate,
darkness within us turned to glittering splendour
and the fragrance of perfect roses

5)

out of the storm raging in sea and sky,
earthquakes upthrusting from the ground,
out of the garbage strewn across the land,
the glint of sunlight on a smashed beer bottle,
all these are either images or thoughts
we turn to radiant beauty

6)

our tears, our screams of pain,
the horror haunting our dreams,
our eyes, washed by the moonlight,
our voices, suspended in a stasis
where actual time and space no longer function
or at least matter, we evolve
patterns and sounds to decorate and teach

7)

words bedeck the world,
casting their tiny jewels upon us all,
and we, shapers of this strange craft,
where sculpture, music and painting join
build our strange ships of verse, bid them depart
upon the oceans of the world,
our sails made out of breath,
and with a fair wind and kindly weather
can be carried over the most turbulent seas
and perhaps even heal, or at least alleviate
the woe and wounds of the earth on which we live
and, hopefully, also love

[ladylinda]

If only:

if only I was a horse,
galloping proudly across lush fields,
telling myself I'd soon ride my way to freedom

if only I was a planet,
whirling in orbit around a warming sun
that gave me light and heat
nothing could hurt me,
no one could blame me for anything

if only I was a flower,
budding, then blooming,
perhaps cut and placed in a vase of water,
admired and praised
till I withered and died

if only I was a swallow
flying above our circumstancial earth,
a critical surveyor of the landscape,
scavenging the little I need
to build my nest and feed my chicks

if only I was the ocean,
breaking in waves against rugged cliffs,
softening in time the harshness of rock
to the fineness of sand

if only I was the wind,
chastising the world with my cold breath,
warming it with my summer breezes
and cooling the arid air

if only I stood outside
the terrible limitations of time and space,
the instinctive, perpetual fear
of change, mortality, fragility
and the measuring stick cutting us down to size

but I am none of these:
only a helpless human in an alien world
where chance, destiny, danger
toy with me for their sport

if I was anything other than what I am
it would not matter that death will corrode me,
that every second of my life
I age, grow closer to the dust
to which I must return

what I am, I am;
I wish I was anything other than what I am

[ladylinda]

You'll leave me, but:

I know some day you'll leave me:
not because we haven't both been true
to one another, but that we both dwell
within death's shadow; nothing we can do
will lift that stern miasma from our shoulders,
and we can only try to live each day
as well as we or any others will,
or can. Whether beside the Calder,
the Severn, Aire, Wharfe, Graveney, Thames,
even the trickling River Wandle,
we'll walk, where waters pass us by,
hand in hand, our loving dandle
as restless as the ocean's spray

all that I know is we must leave
each other, and I hope and pray
although that passing makes us grieve
we'll met in heaven again some day.
and each shall wait until the other
joins together, reunited,
a love too strong for death to smother,
we'll be eternally delighted

[beth]

Jun 18, 2015 8:48:37 GMT -5 ladylinda said:

You'll leave me, but:

I know some day you'll leave me:
not because we haven't both been true
to one another, but that we both dwell
within death's shadow; nothing we can do
will lift that stern miasma from our shoulders,
and we can only try to live each day
as well as we or any others will,
or can. Whether beside the Calder,
the Severn, Aire, Wharfe, Graveney, Thames,
even the trickling River Wandle,
we'll walk, where waters pass us by,
hand in hand, our loving dandle
as restless as the ocean's spray

all that I know is we must leave
each other, and I hope and pray
although that passing makes us grieve
we'll met in heaven again some day.
and each shall wait until the other
joins together, reunited,
a love too strong for death to smother,
we'll be eternally delighted

That's very sweet, Lin. Thanks for adding it.

In fact, all these new ones are excellent.

[ladylinda]

Thanks for your kind words, Beth. I wrote the last one because Mike will be 57 soon and as I'm 20 years younger I'm conscious that probably he will leave me before I leave him.

[ladylinda]

Some short brevity pieces I've written recently:

The Earth awaits:

the grass is thirsty:
for thousands of years
it has demanded
its tribute of blood
to water it

humans
continue to feed it
*****************************
The clouds:

the clouds above slide
along their hidden substrate,
indifferent to our fate
**********************************
the cold ocean:

the retreating sea abandons
in regular betrayal
the scarred face of the land
it lately loved,
that weeps its stony loss
into brittle sand
*****************************
snail:

my soft frame carries on my back a shell
that is my tent, my roof, my living home,
gypsified as animal can be, I dwell
within myself, and slowly, very slowly, roam
across dry land, though out of ocean made,
seeking for plants upon which I may feed,
crawling through earth, eternally afraid
my shell will break, and my black blood bleed
upon the hostile landscape of the soil,
making a final end of all my useless toil

[ladylinda]

Dispossed:



hope floats a little boat into the middle sea
and rides the chariot of the waves,
jostled from land through unforgiving water,
hoping to make landfall, crammed on decks
and gazing anxiously across the ocean

each imagines they will soon be free
and no longer lying awake in expectation of early graves
or the casual molestation of furious slaughter
that has made each one bend their necks
in concealment from the perpetual commotion

is it possible here to arrive safely? boats
are treacherous, often not seaworthy, and the currents
too frequently sweep around their fragile vessels,
fuelled largely by the helium of hope,
and perhaps the kindness of strangers

out of their battered hearts they make notes
full of the weeping soul of the Levant,
and while the waves buffet them like a pestle
and mortar, still they slowly grope
towards a landing, and an end of dangers

our hearts must open to receive their human cargo
and not forget how once, a couple heard
the words, 'no room at the inn.' let no embargo
lead us to drive away the wounded herd
of those who seek for refuge in our lands:
let us instead stretch out our helping hands

[ladylinda]

Shabby Messiah

We have waited a long time
to hear the sound of trumpets announcing
the imminent arrival (or at least the promise)
of a future where freedom, fairness and compassion
define the world (or at least our nation)

today we heard a clock chime
and it was clearly an utter trouncing
of those considered to have been remiss
in even their lip-service to the formerly out of fashion
but now suddenly trendy ideology of frustration

enemies identified as rapidly
as a blind man spots an indistinct patch of colour
or a deaf man gives a pitch perfect recitation
and with a joyless howl of approved revolt
gazes drifted into the blue yonder

speeches flowed; though they were vapidly
constructed and delivered, even duller
than reading endless rows of multiplication
tables, to the true believers they struck like a thunderbolt;
articles of faith, no cause to doubt or ponder

so it is that cults acclaim a new Messiah,
watch him strip the flower from the rose,
leaving them the thorny briar,
promising that he'll depose
their enemies, raising them higher,
and on their foes he will foreclose
to grant them all their heart's desire

their would-be saviour
is cheered as he stands on the pavement,
promising behaviour
conducive to their perpetual enslavement

[ladylinda]

Sweet surrender:

to yield is not to show weakness,
nor is it that with some fastidious distaste
I wipe away the dirt and sweat of me
after our entwined bodies
have shared their passion

each face glows and shimmers
through the dark room,
shining eyes dazzle like precious gems,
set in the plainness of our ordinary flesh,
our smiling silence a symphony of music

there's no neglect
of selfhood, nor any failure to grasp
the essential otherness we have,
even when we merge ourselves in one
in the sparkling ecstasy of union

there's no contempt for either,
no falsehood of feeling, counterfeiting love,
and in ourselves we are more truly alive
when each to the other gives
the little death, our cries piercing the night

our exhausted passion still glistens like an emerald,
the sheen of our sweatt luminous as ice,
and we emerge out of the storm's lightning
into a quiet pool where we lie still,
the light of our candle snuffed, that we may sleep

my yielding is no cowardice,
and when the thrust of you enters me
I am not violated, conquered by you;
I rejoice in your invasion
as your erect sentry liberates me

[ladylinda]

Lament for the victims in Oregon:

in the school of hard knocks
the doors have no locks

love is the unpardonable sin
and burns the hand that seeks to enter in
the room where the vicious east wind
tears out the heart of everyone that's kind

there is only darkness over the face of the water
but it is not the spirit of God moving towards slaughter

the rust beats its metallic tinkle
on the barren earth like the indifferent sprinkle
of a garden hose, watering flowers and weeds alike,
and the stone inside what was once a heart plunges like a shrike

it is time for the killing fields again,
time for the smoke of hatred to inflict pain

dirt and greyness and unbearable heat
crouch to the trigger; from his judgement seat
he deals out death to those who stand for love,
blasting young lives with his dogmatic shove

in the school of hard knocks
there are no lessons, only endless shocks