Twelfth House Moon [poem]
A twelfth house moon fills up my view
and itself too
and fills the space between the forms
of me and you.
By you I mean not just a single soul
but every written scroll who ever lived
(for that is what we are —
some holy words breathed into flesh
from where we lose our way
our minds enmeshed
in mercenary dreams
and acquisition’s
jaded schemes
unless we let
the moon’s
unspoken
light into
our mind
and find
that we
are just
(in spite of what we may believe)
reflections too.
The moon
the mirror of the sun
and all of us
a shaft of light
each one.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
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Professional Jealousy
One of the more unpleasant smells in this world is professional jealousy. The symptoms are always so obvious, yet the person emitting the odour is generally completely unaware of his or her attitude and usually even justifies it by blaming the person of whom they are jealous. This is a very common problem in all walks of life. However, I think it is especially unpleasant to find it in fields involving the arts, where sensitivity, empathy, self-awareness and even love should prevail.
A Tennis Player called Andy Murray
A TENNIS-PLAYER CALLED ANDY MURRAY will apparently soon be made a knight by the Queen of England because he won a few games of tennis resulting in a few million people feeling “awesome” about it. But he won’t be a *real* knight, for he cannot measure up to what it takes for that. The entire “honours” system in the UK is a stitch-up involving nepotism, toadyism and outright bribery. It is a complete farce. In a speech to the Churchill Society in 1998, John Lidstone said: “Every stone I have looked under in the history of our present honours system is a history of bribery and corruption”. Going right back to prime minister Lloyd-George (who, between 1917 and 1922, made a personal fortune of £1.5 million from the sale of honours) through Harold Macmillan, Harold Wilson, Margaret Thatcher to Tony Blair, he showed how honours in the UK have been bought by and sold to party donors, friends in high places, “luvvies” in the entertainment world and other undeserving characters. I agree with Lidstone when he wrote in an article (29/12/2005) in The Independent: “Honours should be awarded to two categories of people only — those who have done signal deeds beyond their job and duty, and those who perform acts of heroism in civil or military life — and to no one else”. That would rule out Andy Murray, as he was merely doing his job and that is not a worthy justification for a knighthood. A knight is a hero who exceptionally steps outside ordinary human behaviour in the service of others — self-sacrificially, courageously, without a thought for self-preservation. With the occasional exception, the honours list in the UK takes no account of that whatsoever. It is as redundant and corrupt as the now propagandist Nobel Peace Prize awards, whose recipients include war criminals and people (or organisations) who have done nothing of any value whatsoever. (Nobel’s original idea was that the awards should go to those who were actively engaged in dismantling militarisation and the system of war). One thing one learns in this life is that those things which are most valued and lauded by governments, the media, the film, music, literary and other arts industries are generally of little or no lasting value; while the real heroes and achievers of this world work on in obscurity, going beyond the call of duty and fulfilling the call to selfless greatness.
One of the Principal Roles of an Artist
One of the principal roles (one could even say duties) of the artist is to be a voice for those less able to express themselves. For the artist is able to put into words or pictures or song what others cannot (or maybe dare not) say or feel (or maybe have not even yet thought). In this way, s/he can encourage others to find their voice (and maybe even their thoughts). Through the artist, people are empowered to see and feel and think and speak in ways they never knew before. Thus, the true artist becomes a creative conduit for the dreams and inner longings of the mass of souls — a magician of the heart and mind, an alchemist transforming dull grey matter into floral patterns and filigree frescoes which issue in fiery deeds. Dictators, despots and corrupt governments know this only too well. They feel threatened by the very existence of such artists (and other thinkers); which is why they will set out to remove their influence from the world — either by ridicule, defamation, incarceration on trumped-up charges or assassination (ask John Lennon, Michael Jackson and many other highly influential artists who knew what was really happening and paid the price). Never has the world needed true artists as much it does today. People who will speak out and educate, stimulate, regenerate and elevate the sleepy human mind…
Fashion
FASHION in any sphere of life is formed in two ways: 1. By vested interests dictating to people what they are going to like. 2. By taking what the least adventurous people in the world have come to like merely through habit and mediocrity and spreading such crippledom to others. Thus, the tyranny of fashion destroys personal creativity, suppresses development of self and discourages individual adventurousness. (And I’m not only talking about clothes!)
Puffballs [sonnet]
Please give me one sincere and from the heart
admirer who has honour flowing deep
(dreams huge) – whose praise does not intrude, depart
or flatter sycophantly (talk is cheap).
For that is worth one thousand hangers-on
who never last for long and come in lights
and with a bang – next moment they are gone:
those fickle fulsome fawning harassites.
Yet only on the fingers of one hand
can loyal steadfast friends be counted clear.
So few and far are those who understand;
who with you in your dark will persevere.
When two-faced fleeting puffballs effervesce
I covet constancy and faithfulness.
.
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© Alan Morrison, 2013
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Cellulite in Blue [song lyric]
Her skin was smooth as silk
and her hair a crown of gold.
Asked her mirror (always would tell).
Clothes cling and slide into place.
In those days she’d thought all was well;
cruel lines not etched on her face.
She screened her face from sun;
hid it mostly from the light.
Preened herself for someone to feel.
Loved how his hands searched her cells.
Blossomed through her sex appeal;
pheromones and scented smells.
Daddy’s Girl [poem]
“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
My 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?”
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?”
The Naked Troubadour 