Reflections
Each Poem is like a Snapshot of One Part of Reality
Each poem is like a snapshot of one part of reality. It is the truth but it is not the whole truth. It is like one facet of a diamond which, when it twinkles in the light, does not represent the entire gem. Therefore, any poem does not tell the whole story; it tells the part of the story which is the strongest and most relevant at the time. If one waits patiently, another part will come in another poem; and then a picture is formed – a picture which is always in formation. The poem is part of the eternal dance…
© 2011, Alan Morrison
On the First Day of This Year
On the first day of this year, I made a resolution to take shit from no one, never to settle for less than what is the best possible and always to gyrate to the highest ground. That is the first New Year’s Resolution that I’ve actually kept. So I echo it again as the year draws to a close: I will in all circumstances take shit from no one. I will not compromise on getting the best of all possible worlds in all things. I refuse to let others dictate my life for me or to let them mess about with my head with their twisted “logic” and manipulations. I will stand my ground and preserve the sacredness of my space – not on an ego-trip but so that I can be more useful to others in this world where too many try to puff themselves up and destroy the dreams of the brave. If you’ll join me on my journey I will be overjoyed!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
My Poems
my poems chart my waters blue and green
blue for bruised and beaten – green for naive
in verse i point the way to where i’ve been
i wear my skipbeat heart upon my sleeve
© 2011, Alan Morrison
I used to Believe
I used to believe I’m a writer of poems
Now I know that my poems write me© 2011, Alan Morrison
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
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
Amedeo Modigliani
“When I know your soul, I’ll paint your eyes”
(Amedeo Modigliani to his muse, Jeanne Hébuterne)
People often ask me
People often ask if my poems are about an actual person – especially if they have a love theme. They can be, but not always. Sometimes the words are a form of idealisation: I would love to be able to pin them on someone… but I can’t right now. Sometimes they are “words-in-waiting”, like a cloak waiting to be draped over some seemly shoulders, so I can finally say “This is to whom those words have always belonged”.
Heaven has no Rage
“Heaven has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turned,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorned.”(William Congreve, The Mourning Bride, 1697)
The Naked Troubadour 