Month: Apr 2011
Losing it [poem]
the Point which one can reach
when there is little left for which to live
is like a repulsive magnet
pulling you upanddown
in the costume of a clown
while policemen narrow their dragnet
It is a mindless moth and a candle
a superglued door handle
like heavily salted apple pie
the cigarette pack which says you’ll die
like throwing up and making love
at the same time
as you lose the key
to the postbox of your destiny
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Captive Phoenix [poem]
Do it how it’s always been done!
(that is, if you want to get along).
Never rock that stationary boat!
(that is, if you want to stay afloat).
[Stage direction: Pause…
while we wait for the strains
of a grovelling applause]
Fuck the rules, I say.
They aren’t really rules anyway.
Some fossilised turds
carve their ossified words
into pseudo-granite structures
which —
at any conjuncture
of history’s golden chain —
t h e y
decide should be
the
only
umbrella
in the rain.
Y?
Y do they ensure that?
& (more to the point)
Y do we accept it?
First questionanswer
is they covet control;
they know so well how
to harness a soul
(undo its uniqueness)
and blandify its goals.
Exploiting weakness
they carve out our roles
and render our works
into meaningless ‘wholes’.
Second questionanswer
is that we love to roll
over for them
like submissive little puppies
(artworld yuppies)
lying on our backs
while they stroke
our little egos
with their
platitude placebos.
It’s nothing new this
curbing of runaway minds
which threaten the grasp
of the wilfullly blind.
It’s all so smooth
and smartly designed
to ensure that the phoenix
which soars in the heavens
unfettered and free
will fail to reach home
where it harbours the key
to the fiery breath
of the treasureful depth
of the soaring blue sea.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Only a Dog [sonnet]
[This little sonnet pays tribute to all those who are mistreated because they are different – especially prisoners of conscience who are tortured, abused and even killed by government agencies]
He’s only a dog, said the withered voice,
speaking intoned in a dark monologue.
[Only means onesome, uniquely a dog;
meaning (in real terms) there isn’t a choice].
People often ask me
People often ask if my poems are about an actual person – especially if they have a love theme. They can be, but not always. Sometimes the words are a form of idealisation: I would love to be able to pin them on someone… but I can’t right now. Sometimes they are “words-in-waiting”, like a cloak waiting to be draped over some seemly shoulders, so I can finally say “This is to whom those words have always belonged”.
The Windows to your Soul [sonnet]
If just one piece of all the sum of you
could be preserved so I could see your heart,
I know already which would be the part —
the one which for my treasure I’d accrue.
It would not be your soft neck or your thigh
(the smoothest region like a baby’s skin);
although they send my senses in a spin,
there’s something else of you for which I’d die.
Enough of all this mystery! you exclaim;
what could it be to mesmerise me so?
The answer is the windows to your soul;
to look through them has kept me whole and sane.
By now, this fact should come as no surprise:
The body part I want would be your eyes!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Hand of the Wind [poem]
Why would the wind have such long fingers?
Unseen, they reach through leafy hair,
chilling the neutral nightsome air —
the frisky daytime glare emboldened
by their
blow-by-blow
rain-or-snow
batten-down-the-shutters
flappening flow.
Heaven has no Rage
“Heaven has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turned,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorned.”(William Congreve, The Mourning Bride, 1697)
e.e. cummings quote
“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting”
(e.e. cummings)
Landslide [poem]
Yes, darling,
I’d love to play with you —
but not the games you seem to favour,
which mostly involve
a crudely parodied sideshow
of a woefully widespread
Black Widow spider.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to have sex with you —
but not if you use it, my mind to control,
ruthlessly wrapping
your clitoris round my neck
like a succulent scarf
with a scream for a soul.
The Empty Swing [sonnet]
There is something about that empty swing
which speaks to me of spaces left unfilled
by little people who no longer cling
like climbing vines nor grow like daffodils.
Some other void usurps their playful place
(where laughter once concealed the hammerblow);
now ominously haunts the interface,
while dangling hollow chairs sway to and fro.
The Naked Troubadour 