Month: Jul 2015

You are not the Painter but the Brush [poem]

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As I sat me down within the shallow foaming sea
and splashed and flapped my upper body parts
(observing how the weave of blue and silver filigree
reminded me of women’s clothing in renaissance art)
a voice came from beneath the waves with naked joy:

«You think you are a painter but you’re not.
That’s only how it seems to you with blinkers on
from deep within your self-made jewelry box»

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Subtlety [prose poem]

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That is something I love more than so much else in this kitschly oafish world. I’d rather have a ripple than a swell — an aroma rather than a smell — an understated presence which unobtrusively waits with calmness to be seen (knowing that it will, by those who are attuned to its gentle shower’s evergreen). A cultivated hybrid rose cannot outdo a wild and meadowed flower. A patient talent doesn’t crassly bang its drum (because it knows what placidness will help it to become). A dynamic whisper rather than a yell (sleeve-tugging propaganda always rings a tawdry bell). The flicker of a smile instead of cheesy grins. The delicate and unposed face which you can wake up next to every day without becoming bored. (Love-letters writ in lowercase will much more likely strike a chord). The quiet confidence of self-composure rather than the swaggered boast of self-exposure. Subtlety: the lost art of today. How much more attractive is nuance rather than noise — Nestor rather than Narcissus! — openness over plots and ploys. Such will be the character of the phoenix world to come, whose strings already here I strum for we can live the future now as the gentle vital avant-garde — no more we’ll have to slip and slide on gore within this bloody abattoir. But what I love above all else about the touch of subtlety is that it makes you look and listen with far more than merely eyes and ears (though first you need to understand your darkness and your fears). It expands the imagination, nurtures sensitivity, encourages creativity, takes away all bitterness as well as helps you love the moon (identifies the secret tune you play). Subtlety is the door to the art gallery of wisdom.

Choose your Side [poem]

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In the beginning there was no beginning
for the beginning was a has-been blank page
blinding light-beamed stowaway
arrayed in random stardust
blowing on a wind of ceaseless change
without inception
outside human stuckintime conception
made of matter darkly hued
infinitely airbrushed out of sight
and view and mind or any other signs which
under normal circumstances anyone can find
so only those determined to apprise themselves
would reach inside the clues.

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Reception [poem]

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Welcome to this world of mine
which tries with all its heart
to intertwine round every
perfume-scented wind of change
in hope that love and coloured light
will be diffused across your stage
where lessthanloveslight lurks
in darkened corners underlaid
with childhood hurt and primal pain
the fruits of which have never
brought a grain of beauty’s breath
to the banquet richness
safety net of friendship —
only death

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No more Love Songs [poem]

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It’s official !
At last, romance is dead.
After aeons of prevarication,
I’ve had my fill of empty dreams,
false promises, unwanted luggage,
ultra-freaked-out BPD (or NPD),
or things not being what they seem;
and now I saw the welcome light.
At last, romance is dead;
and with one fatal booted blow
I got it in my line of sight and
kicked it soundly in the head.
It’s overrated anyway —
especially at this earthly time
when entropy takes precedent
permittedly (temporarily)
over logic and intelligent design.
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The Empty Shirt [sonnet]

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A shirt blows in the wind; its sleeves on fire;
the outstretched arms are crucified with steel.
Around the collar, circles of barbed wire
bring light which safety’s comfort can’t reveal.
I left that empty shirt behind like scales
of useless skin which wasted clean away.
A secret whisper then with zeal impales
itself on all that’s left of me today.
There comes a point you realise you’re you
and no one else; you’re wholly on your own —
just you and all your cells, which slyly grew
& now you’ve found you’re more than flesh & bone.
Each day I’m getting closer to the source
Now that the shirt has gone, I feel its force.


© Alan Morrison, 2015

Last Night I found the Girl of my Dreams

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LAST NIGHT I found the girl of my dreams. She was smart, svelte, sorted, funny, curious, quirky, unconventional, endlessly interesting, comfortable in her skin, mature but youthful, resourceful, fearless, courageous, faithful, loyal, talented and she played alto viol in a consort of viols. Yes, last night I found the girl of my dreams. Only thing is… it was literally in my dreams! Yet, it was so real. The setting was the late 17th century when I was living as a fugitive poet and had been offered sanctuary in the house of an off-beat nobleman near Pau in France. It was midday and I was shown into a room full of people discussing music prior to an evening of concerts. In the corner by herself, quietly studying drawings of viols in various states of repair and manufacture (I discovered that her father was a luthier) was this girlofmydreams. I was drawn to her like a magnet and, feeling shy, I sat down silently near her. She looked up and I was burnt to a cinder in an instant. That’s the only way I can describe it. Next thing we were lying on the grass outside surrounded by music partitions and talking about everythingunderthesun. It was a conversation that I wanted to last forever. Her smile! Her laugh! Her searing expressions. I had arrived. I was at home. That was where I belong. When I then awoke (due to neighbours moving furniture upstairs at 7am!) it was as if a whole world had been wrenched from me. It was the most vivid dream I have ever had. All day long I have had the mixed feeling of a yearning ache within and a consummate fulfilment. It has all been very strange. And wonderful. The End.

The Myth of Independence [triple sonnet]

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Sonnet I

You speak of “independence” on this day
as if you live a life of freedom won,
then fly your flag — a mere rag on display.
(You’re only “brave” when crouched behind your gun).

Self-righteously you point your finger at
those nations which you deem not to be free;
then run around the world — a bully fat
on plunder — reeking with hypocrisy.

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