Month: Jun 2013

Daddy’s Girl [poem]

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“Come and get me”, so you said,
“and take my body to your hermit bed”.
Those were your semi-whispered words
across the thousand loudly miles or more
of wasted latent pregnant space.

Cyrano de Bergerac

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cyrano_de_bergeracMy hero. Cyrano de Bergerac. And I’m reading again the superb translation of Rostand’s original script by Anthony Burgess in rhyming couplets (a perfect reflection of the era — I think I lived as a troubadour then too). His translation was first used nearly 30 years ago in a Royal Shakespeare Company production. Then it was used for the subtitles in Jean-Paul Rappeneau’s 1990 film production withGérard Depardieu as Cyrano. My favourite film of all time. That ending is just magical, with Cyrano staggering around as he dies of what was probably a cerebral haemorrhage due to an assassin dropping a huge wooden beam on his head (truthtellers always get taken out) and lunging blindly with his sword at his old enemies: Falsehood, Compromise, Prejudice, Cowardice and Stupidity — to the last of which he says: “You above all others perhaps were predestined to get me in the end”. Haha! Indeed. Couldn’t have put it better myself. Then, his dying words, addressed to those old enemies:

“You take everything — the rose and the laurel too.
Take them and welcome. But, in spite of you,
There is one thing goes with me when tonight
I enter my last lodging, sweeping the bright
stars from the blue threshold with my salute.
A thing unstained, unsullied by the brute
broken nails of the world, by death, by doom
unfingered — See it there, a white plume
over the battle — a diamond in the ash
of the ultimate combustion —
My panache.”

“What was your day like today?”

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Someone just sent me a message saying “What was your day like today?” This is how I replied: “I get up at 5.30am because a poem is driving me crazy from the inside. I spend a couple of hours vomiting it onto a virtual page while having some breakfast (the juice of a lemon with 7.8 pH water, a kiwi fruit and some ground millet with soya milk). I practise some songs, trying to make them stay in my brain. I am still naked and will stay naked all day. Clothes are a silly disguise. I only ever wear them to console others and stay within the law. I dance for half an hour to some salsa music. I smile a little. I open the windows towards the sea and breathe in the nectarly air. The sight of all that water brings some tears in my eyes. Tears are not a sign of unhappiness but simply the fact that the emotions cannot process the elements as fast as the brain. I spend some considerable time organising music stuff, liaising with musicians for the band I’m creating, designing a setlist for the first gig. I delve some more into my teach-yourself-Spanish course. I think I’m too brain-damaged to learn other language. My late lunch is a piece of Dinkel-brot with avocado salad. The afternoon is spent in a mixture of writing my “Reluctant Angel” project and practising more music. I am still naked and will be all day. If you looked carefully you could see my soul. This evening I eat steamed vegetables with a creamed lentil sauce and then listen to the 2nd Symphony of Jean Sibelius. Music is a miracle. I absorb it like dry leaves in the rain. Now it is now and I can hear the gentle waves outside licking the foot of the cliff. Resisting diving from the top is a full-time job. How was your day?”

Sonnet Plus 2 [poem]

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It was a face I knew I’d never see again.
The only time its leaves had blown across my view
was through the window of another endless train
which, in the opposite direction, crowly flew.
No answer came when, nonplussed, I had wondered why
those eyes — of all the others in this realm today —
should penetrate the weathered piercingness of my
disguised delight and throw me into disarray.
And then I saw her tender hands pressed on the glass:
her face which (puzzled) followed mine till seen no more.
Why would she want a man who travels pirate-class —
our lives spent on a train stuck in a corridor?
I was a blaze which burned for seconds through her why.
She was a breeze which passed across my broken sky.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013

The Lighthous & The Brine [sonnet]

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the_lighthouse_and_the_brine

If I was a lighthouse and you the sea
(evaporation’s salt reveals you are)
I’d warn the vessels on your waves to flee
and head for port — ignoring every star.
You stir up storms (though tempest is the word
[+ {yo}u and {o}us]) I’d use to style your tide.
On your bed, ugly life-forms darkly stirred;
the wrecks you dashed to bits have multiplied.
For when I trawl your lure (unfathomed deep)
there is no anchor — barely can one swim.
There was a time when in your brine I’d leap
but now across your surface I will skim.
So pound my rocks with all your typhoon force.
I’ll shine my lights; let nature take its course.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013

Gagging Order [poem]

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gagging_order
A hand is firmly clamped upon this mouth.
From now on everything’s an overshare!
I’ll say no more about the undeclared
directions of this world or controversies
which swirl and curl themselves like snakes
round every lighthouse groping mind.
I think from this time forth
I’ll stick to posting images of cats
and little dogs which look like rats
or coffee draped in foam shaped like a heart
or duck-face fotos taken of my mates and me
while cruising at some party taking ecstasy
or maybe of my hero dad on Fathers’ Day
(guaranteed to wring some tears along the way)
or maybe I’ll announce a life event
for instance me linked to some hapless chick
“In a relationship” displayed upon my page
with pride (who cares if one month later
that “relationship” will quietly have died!)
or exhibit endless “selfies” from a lousy cam
— all of which will look the same
and never show me how I really am.
On some of these I’ll stick my tongue out
with a gargoyle grimace of the damned
or pretend to be some metalhead
or member of an ancient band
like Ozzie or that bloke from Kiss
the first and little pinkies raised on both my fists
a gothic mortal risen from the dark abyss
tattooed with satan’s face and pentagrams.
I’ll never let you see my belly or my ass
as both would witness all my bonus kilograms.
I’ll only proffer pictures taken aeons ago
before the years played havoc with my status quo.
In short, I promise not to make you feel uneasy
troubled or distressed and from now on
there’ll no more be such controversial views expressed
or any nasty thing which might make you depressed.
Instead I guarantee to make you blessed
with pics I’ve gathered from the net
depicting angels or some mythic creatures
haunting worlds you’ve never seen —
there’ll be so many that you’ll be hard pressed
to find a single one of me among
these captured shots from other galaxies!
Perhaps I’ll witter on about how energised
my chakras are or how enlightened I’ve become
attaining higher consciousness
and making loads of dough
through running spirit aura workshops
(funny how some people always have to crow
about their mastery of inner Ki
and various insubstantiated energies).
Furthermore, I’ll make sure only positive
and happy stuff comes from this pen.
My head I’ll bury in the sand and never take a stand
on any truthful human principle again.
No more will feeling poems flow onto this profile
from my heart. From now on I’m a fartist and
my artistry has died along with my integrity —
the greenery has dried, conscience lost in fratricide
lively vigorous debate I now declare has putrified.
Will you now finally be undisturbed and satisfied?

© Alan Morrison, 2013