Month: Jun 2011

I am of the Street [poem]

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i_am_of_the_street

[Dedicated to Mike Robinson, poet & philosopher]

“I am of the street”, said he,
excusing what he thought to be
his uncouth background’s
strain of dark vulgarity.
“Vulgar” was the term he
(over)used, esteeming his fine
self to be devoid of lakeside
views and tender music’s
much-refining me-defining
ever-shining undersea.

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Ignorance

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There are 3 kinds of ignorance: 1) Happy ignorance, which is okay, as there are some terrible things in this world, about which it is better for us not to have the details. 2) Simple ignorance, when we don’t understand something yet — not a problem if we’re willing to learn. 3) Wilful ignorance, when we deliberately reject important or vital information, knowing it to be true — heads in the sand, a dangerous attitude

© 2011, Alan Morrison 

If [sonnet]

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if

A disembodied voice was in my ear
with layered tones I never did expect
to come from her. Its sound was full, sincere,
with laughter there and always star-bedecked.

To dance upon those suns in playful praise
produced in me a joy I hadn’t known
for many moons of empty mournful days —
at last, my melancholy overthrown.

But while that fluted palette fills my mind
some other, lower, thought assails my smile
(becoming with our tryst now intertwined)
which will not with desire be reconciled:

If she were not now with somebody else
I’d gladly give to her all of myself.

© 2011, Alan Morrison

The Empty Page [poem]

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the_empty_page

there are some who will say
(in a desolate way)
there is nothing more intimidating
liquid thoughts eliminating
undermining self
than a blank new sheet of paper
which is laughing in your face
without the smallest trace of
mercy in its woven empty space

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Missing [sonnet]

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missing

A hole exists beyond all ozone thoughts
which, I confess, did take me by surprise.
An empty iceful chasm come to naught;
I watch and gasp but won’t believe my eyes.

The more I look the larger it becomes
but not because it merely seems that way;
no optical illusion to be shunned,
no magnet pull to make me want to stay.

I thought the hole would boundlessly be deep,
chock-full of treasure trove and ancient dreams.
Instead I found it strangely incomplete;
no waterfalls or mermaids — just Snow Queens.

Although there’s beauty, vast amounts of space,
grace and passion are missing from this place.

 

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Anger Mismanagement [poem]

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anger_mismanagement

If life was a Happiness Workshop
we’d all be waging inward war
with every little knock upon
the door of mistook opportunity.
For happy[ is a fleeting flash
of nothing]ness in children’s
trashy fairy tales is an ever-after
dreamlycheating scam[bling
face to hide our pain behind]

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Baggage Class [sonnet]

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When frightened people run this broken world,
this broken world will not remove their fear;
for fear accumulates and, like a pearl,
in secret grows until it domineers.

When frightened people feign to be one’s friends,
that friendship will not take away their dread;
as phobic apprehension never ends
but yeastifies like sour unleavened bread.

However big your axe-to-grind becomes,
your shoulder-chip it will not hack away.
The fact remains that we cannot be chums
until you can embrace the present-day.

It’s not the baggage size which spoils the freight
but if what’s packed inside is out of date.

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Flyless World [sonnet]

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flyless_world

So, one by one they drop away like flies
without a chink of respite in between.
They fall down lightly not from starlit skies
but through electric-lady shock machines.

Bemused, I dangle, arms outstretched and bare
while silken angels hover near my throne
to watch the sorry show and then compare
their axe-free observations with their own

delightful   flyless   sane   and   loving   world
where lies and disingenuousness die
where women would not feel ashamed as girls
nor reticent to flirt and mystify.

If only I could change my universe
to one where friendship’s lure was not a curse.

 

© 2011, Alan Morrison

Amedeo Modigliani

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“When I know your soul, I’ll paint your eyes”

(Amedeo Modigliani to his muse, Jeanne Hébuterne)

The Turning Coat [poem]

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the_turning_coat

I never knew what turncoat meant
until I met you
                       r alterego
                       other half

posing proudly like
   a stained old scarf
draped around my
   stranded neckline
             bent
         out of shape by
                  treacherous plotlines
your face (like your coat)
a looming warcrime

That ability to turn yourself
with gusto into someone else
that others want to see
even at the expense of trust
between you and me
is bowdlerisingly
bruised and
blessingfree

The way you become
someone altogether other
when you feel under threat
or imagine that you're
vertically smothered
is kissofdeathingly
drownful
for lovers

The reversibleelbisrever lining
on your coat has, I see,
shiny-textured
brittle buttons
beautifully turnéd out
                                   wardly
                                   in order to mask
                                   so cloakingly
                                   the seams which
                                   should have
gone in
            wardly

Some years were spent in
deskbound dread in case
that lining would be spread
through such indelicate
weaveless ease
with freezeful woes through
polyester's painful loveless
undertows
across my sizely shoulders
broad and burdened
ever-ready to receive

but all I saw were Autumn
leaves and limestone boulders
not a stitch to which a searchful
man could rightly cleave
in time to save a lonesome one
nevermind a nonesome nine

O
how
I longed
to see that
garment lining-free
as it should be with you
and me just running free
bedecked in sequins nothing
hidden undersea it's train behind
us flowingly while growingly we learn
to venture nakedly our skin for coats and
all the while ensconced by love without debris


© 2011, Alan Morrison