Growth Spurt [poem]
Surprised, I noticed flowers and plants
come springing up from barren earth
around my rooted-to-the-spotsome feet.
They were not scattered there so neatly
but the roots were bedded down more
deeply than I’d ever seen before.
Commentary on “Storm Watch”
Although I have never previously done so, I have been moved to write a commentary on a poem (sonnet) I wrote and placed here yesterday, entitled “Storm Watch”. The main reason for this is because my original conception was an article; but as I sat down to commence writing, it came out as a sonnet instead. This has never happened before. There must be a reason for it. The sonnet is, if you like, the esoteric version. But the distillation of information in it is so concentrated that it could probably only be grasped by a few cognoscenti. Thus, in order to make the message more accessible, here is a line-by-line commentary on the sonnet:
“A wind blows through this bedlam world today.”
Storm Watch [sonnet]
A wind blows through this bedlam world today.
When I was young, I saw its sunken eyes —
a sprogly youth dumbfounded with surprise.
He knew its source, thus was not led astray.
Since then, though ruffled, swept in disarray,
that lad has grown some whiskers on his chin.
The wind became a gale (his discipline)
and put some backbone in his vertebrae.
However, winds will change when time has come
and history ripens for its denouement.
I bide with gladness that phenomenon
when every evil must to good succumb.
That hurricane I sense is coming soon:
All cowardice and cant it will impugn.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Locust
I just found this LOCUST ovipositing (laying eggs after drilling a hole) in the earth outside my front door. (There will be about 50 of them!). So I got down in the dirt and did a photoshoot. Such beautiful creatures! (Click on the photo to see the detail if it’s small)
A Sooning Sonnet
Acceleration’s what is needed now;
so cells can reach the tunnel’s end in time.
While standing on a worn and broken bough
all hope dissolved of finding dreams which rhyme.
Thus, noticeably washed up in disguise
the unshelled crab wept salt tears made of sea.
The only home he’d known streamed from his eyes;
his pulsing heart stopped imperceptibly.
If only you could glimpse what he had seen:
that nothing’s what it seems or where it dwells.
The lie which speaks to fools of evergreen
is anaesthetic for our fare-thee-wells.
(Waiting around to die is all we do.
The only part which changes is the view).
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
About the Sonnet to the Nightingale
THAT SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE which I wrote yesterday is the first time I’ve put pen to paper about him. Yet, I’ve always had a special affinity to this enchanting little bird. I never before felt worthy enough to put myself among those across the centuries who have composed an ode to the Nightingale. But last night I understood why he should so take my heart. First, he flies across the Sahara every April. Then, immediately after choosing a place to be in Europe, he sings out his soul in a tree while a succession of females comes nearby and tunes in to sample his song. After trying out the dulcet tones of several males, she makes her choice. In other words, she chooses the father of her children based on the quality of his song. Oh blessed tears! That is just so beautiful. But then my mind got working. What if there is one guy who doesn’t pass the audition. What happens to him? The average life-span of the songsmithing Nightingale is just two years; so half his life is wasted if he doesn’t get the girl one year. That is quite shocking when you think that scavenging baby-killers such as the Magpie can live up to thirty years! I can identify so well with the Nightingale. You sing from your soul in the hope some smart and gorgeous chick will hear who you are to such an extent that she will give her heart to you. But it’s a bit of a lottery. Not only may they all ignore you (yep, know that feeling too) but there simply may be no others of your species in the neighbourhood (yep, know *that* feeling too). Some years ago around midnight, I was walking down a lonely country lane at the foot of Mont Ventoux, near Orange in France, when I came upon an olive tree wherein a Nightingale was singing his seductive song. I hunkered down into the base of the tree and listened to him warble for the next hour or so. I must have been less than two metres from his beak. Yet, rather than be spooked by me, it was as if he sensed that I was paying him attention. His flourishes became increasingly intricate and so complex that I found myself cheering with delight. He didn’t flinch one bit, even though I was clapping and whooping and weeping and wowing – and his trills became more daring than ever. I swear he thought I was a female birdie and he was showing off. Under a bright, late April moon, it was one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. I remember it as if it was yesterday. For this reason, I always long for April…
Another Nightingale Sonnet
To pen some words on Nightingales seems crude.
It’s all been done before, or so I’m told.
The ultimate romantic poet’s food;
pastiche regurgitated, oversold.
The male birds sing at night from just one tree
while females move around and listen in
to each guy’s voice in turn, thereby to see
which one their fluttering little heart will win.
But yet you’d think his plumage would be green
or red — exotic colourful display.
Instead he’s drab brown; barely can be seen.
A cool seducer of the night, I say!
To put that song in such a modest bird
was genius — the best I’ve ever heard.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
Ruddy Sticky Sanguine Mess [poem]
As I slithered through the wormhole
which, as things turned out, was just a womb
a canal and place of vulvic charm
a voice said in my head unsoftly:
“Now your life’s an open book
so write whatever thing you want
and it will be as you will soonly see”
though somewhere in the darkness
of my unformed mind
I heard a grim alarm.
A Chisel’s not Enough [poem]
When fear hides behind a smile
then truth pretends it’s on the stage
held hostage to some understated
subterranean fairground barker’s
ageing clothes or costume of an
underrated acrobatic clown
A happy-fronted person might as well
affect a frown or leak some tears
For covering our fears takes no one in
but fools — whether with a grin
or other phoney face or gruelling
sojourn through the local loony bin
The Panoply of Time [poem]
A little speck of cosmic curiosity
buzzed wilfully across a page of tyme.
First one and then another leaf
was flipped with serial intrigue
against the passing clues and signs
secluded ersatz finish-lines
The Naked Troubadour 