Month: Jan 2012

Was it ever Love? [sonnet]

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was_it_ever_love

[For Viva]

When what we think is love does turn its face
towards a nightmare shadowed from the sun;
then tenderness and joy it will displace
with laughing masklike fury’s smoking gun.
For love is not the same as naked lust
(although it sings with mimic tuneful sighs).
The first one gives — the other’s base is thrust;
but power to heal will never brutalize.
How can it slake your soul when fists hail down?
(But yet some strange attraction draws you in).
You’re both his puppet and his random clown
unless you cauterize him from within.
When dust has cleared revealing light above
the question thunders: “Was it ever love?”

© 2012, Alan Morrison

The Party is Over [poem]

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the_party_is_over

Imprisoned thoughts dribble down my face
while forming patterns damply drowning
like the long-awaited swollenness of
babyfaceless not so darling gentle
crowning from the queen of hearts

Continue reading…

Not Easy going through the Wilderness of this World

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It’s not easy going through the wilderness of this world when one is chock-full of expressive passion. Either it is completely misunderstood, greeted with cringing embarrassment, ridiculed or aggressively rejected. Fortunately, far from negating it, this merely makes the passion stronger, deeper, surer and even more poignant…

Learning so Much

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Learning so much. So much to learn. Every day brings dozens of lessons. The old saying “When the pupil is ready, the teacher will come” is soo true. And that teacher can come in many forms: A book, some person one ‘bumps’ into (even for just a minute), a piece of music, a poem, one’s uncanny life process, a painting, a dream or even an actual teacher! Sometimes we have to look for the lessons. If we want them, we’ll get them.

The Dark in your Heart [sonnet]

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the_dark_in_your_heart

You thought me conquered by your silken limbs
and for a while you had me by the throat.
Into my head a thousand acronyms
like ‘false love of a trespasser’ did float.
Bedazzled by your frontlights on my road;
transfixed by mouthish muscularity;
your mountains gripped my membership payload
and drained my horn of masculinity.
And yet you wonder whitely with dismay
how come I through your pantomime did see?
Why not seduced by your sweet cabaret —
your presentation done so adroitly?
Despite your aptitude to hypnotise
I saw dark in your heart without my eyes.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

War of the Words [sonnet]

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war_of_the_words

The scout returned and broke the wretched news:
The citadel of dreams was breached by those
whose cold prosaic manner misconstrues
the warm Arcadian heart which overflows.
They stormed the walls with ordinary ink
(for that was all they wielded in their quills).
They thought into that city they could slink
with rubber stamps gained from diploma mills.
Yet, though the walls had crumpled from their weight
(for they were legion, marching in a line)
that city they would never arrogate
nor could they its true dwellers undermine.
Espousing shallow intellect in verse
is in this world a sickness and a curse!

© 2012, Alan Morrison

No Other Way but Deep [sonnet]

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no_other_way_but_deep

“Your trouble is you think too much,” they said
to me at school more times than I recall.
“There’s too much going on inside that head
of yours; you try to run before you crawl.”
They didn’t say it kindly or with care;
their only aim: To make me just like them.
So long as kids were dull and unaware
there was no peccadillo to condemn.
Yet more determined I did then become
to swim upstream with underwater strokes.
Although those forces still are meddlesome;
to dive down from the surface it provokes.
It’s true one can live lightly on the cheap.
For me there is no other way but deep.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Scarf of Glory [sonnet]

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scarf_of_glory

[for Susanne]

She wore a scarf but not around her neck;
it nestled gypsy-like upon her head.
I looked but had to do a doublecheck —
the colour of her face filled me with dread.
Tressed and formerly flowing locks of hair
were chemically taken from her skull.
The tear-inducing fragrance of despair
my sunny day of joyfulness did cull.
But when I took a closer look at she
whose loveliness had still come shining through
my heart rejoiced at what there was to see:
A gorgeous princess then came into view.
For though some cells within were broken-down
that scarf she wore on top was like a crown.

© 2012, Alan Morrison

Sonnets

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I swear that one can make any thought into a sonnet. (14 lines, 10 syllables per line, various patterns of rhyme, though I prefer the Elizabethan model (abab,cdcd,efef,gg) invented by the Earl of Surrey in the early 1500s. There are love sonnets, protest sonnets, propaganda sonnets, surrealist sonnets and even sonnets about sonnet-writing. Francesco Petrarca wrote 366 sonnets – all of them about one woman called Laura who he happened to see one day at a church in Avignon in 1327 and to whom he never spoke. Personally, I have written more than a hundred; so I’m catching up on Petrarch. There is something ravishing about Iambic Pentameter!

Complementary Creatures [sonnet]

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complementary_creatures

We’re equal, spat the woman to the man.
Whatever you can do, I also can.
We’re just the same, she said, with venom voice;
the only difference is I have less choice.
He gazed at her with kindness in his eyes —
which she thought was a patronising stare
for men to her were something to despise —
if only she could see how much they care.
For deep inside her heart he saw a hurt
and damaged soul — her pain she had transformed
into this sharp unkind abrasive curt
self-righteous creature, whom he now informed:
Although we’re equal beings on this earth
We’re here to complement each other’s worth.

© 2012, Alan Morrison