Year: 2011
Hermann Bahr
“They hate everyone who tries to be true to himself. That is what they cannot bear. They cannot bear someone to have an opinion or will of their own. They cannot bear the idea that someone should try to be free. Yet they wish they were free themselves but they do not dare. They are secretly ashamed that they are so cowardly so they avenge their bad conscience on the brave”
(Viennese music critic Hermann Bahr, 1909)
Bahr wrote this in his diary when he observed how the independent-minded, iconoclastic composers and artists of his time (such as Gustav Mahler and Gustav Klimt) were denounced and ridiculed in the press and had lies and smears spread everywhere about them. His observation about the secret jealousy of these slanderous critics is most insightful and applicable for all time.
My definition of a True Friend
“Someone with whom you can be yourself COMPLETELY without any condemnation”
© 2011, Alan Morrison
By True Friend I don’t mean a Fairweather Friend (who only sticks around when things are good), or Friend Lite (who will never go deep with you), or Fantasy Friend (who has idealised you). I mean the one who never judges you or scorns you or rejects you or betrays you but who will stand by your side forever
My Little Sieve [poem]
I’ve got a little sieve
and it’s sitting on a shelf
in my mezzaninal mind
where it works its sieving ways
keeping fruitlessness at bay —
interference left behind
It’s an automatic sieve
so I never have to force
such a little sieve to work.
In fact the sieved-out parts
make it function with their hearts —
their sievedoutness well-deserved
I am of the Street [poem]
[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.
Ignorance
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]
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
Missing [sonnet]
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
Baggage Class [sonnet]
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]
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
“When I know your soul, I’ll paint your eyes”
(Amedeo Modigliani to his muse, Jeanne Hébuterne)
The Naked Troubadour 