Category Archives: Estrangement

“What Peace of Mind?”

“What Peace of Mind?”

What peace of mind can find a living here?
Pundits’ fantasies will not stop the tears, the midnight cries,
Incessant lies, and still the public yearns to know what we despise
From commentators and the late show comics. Do we fear
The truth and turn the other way when asked
If what comes down the pipe is truly past
Our tacit understanding? Reasons? Seasons? Are there tasks
Beyond endurance here, or is it always first and last
A matter for the courts, the press, the cold realities
That simply digest information and ingest lucid cosmic facts:
There’s them that’s got, and them that’s wracked,
The rich, the poor, the lack of morals backed. Atrocities
And blessings rank as equals, ours to fricassee, ours to fear.
There’s them that’s got, all right, and them that no one hears.

Advertisements

“The Greatest Sanctuary”

“The Greatest Sanctuary”

The greatest sanctuary saves, preserves, and seals
The last and latest treasure; final fears are entertained
And in the end repeat themselves penultimate in any age
That’s spent with nothing left to say. The morass of months reveal
Themselves as names, the briefer moments cast in isinglass,
And hung above the door as witness to emotions borrowed to defend
The journey of both giver and what it is that’s given–split ends
That pass at times for purity of desire. Consternation, then, at last
Effaced, those few peas remaining within the pod will spend
Themselves while outward bound to what is after all a dream
Or merely someone’s lunch. They groom together–the sheen
Is frayed–delay is shame when every effort to confirm or to renew offends.
Reconnoitred, what were formerly evergreens
disclose themselves as deciduous devotions
That decry their former riverbeds as puddles, watersheds of desiccated oceans
And long dead seas. . 

“I Could Have Called”

“I Could Have Called”

I could have called last night, you
Know; you’d have answered, of course, and we,
Removed, should conquer these deserted walls; the you and me
Expressing wonder and ecstasy de facto that two
Fine tunes in a single space find nothing in our words;
No lyrics, no grandiloquent prophesies, no binding ties,
No coy deception, fitting deposition, or bold-faced lies
To truss up seams, loose and dwindling ends; just birds
Of prey whose festive table breeds in fables, birdseed, curds
In whey–nothing offered, nothing taken–
Gilded fare in a God-forsaken
Intercourse that breathes perhaps in syllables, but nowhere near a word,
Stentorian sensations that somehow subdue a nightly desperation,
Declarations masked in stilted mantras ripe with endless repetition.

“The First Mistake”

Estrangement1

“The First Mistake”

The first mistake, aversion. Primal anger twists,
Isolation glorifies mortality as eternity moans;
He told you nothing of it, then, but knew the ember blown
Was his, and further, that because he’d missed
Your words and pleased himself, another deep desire–
An anger–found its voice within him and the same
Became a mirror, and again the same a mutual denial while the aim
Of what he did was never seen or heard. You kissed the fire
Together, and in that flagrant fetid moment, she withdrew
To furnaces within her breast, the abyss, the lower rooms
Reserved for her and her alone and the chasmal maw he saw
Beneath them both. Righteous claims disguise’s the cause
That borrows breath too long and suffocates within its iron grip;
The mirror of the heart then obscured, complaisance rules the lips.

…art by George Condo…

“I Don’t Suppose I’ll Ever Know”

“I Don’t Suppose I’ll Ever Know”

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know; she never told me.
I had no calling card and she had no address,
Or if she ever gave it to me, it was always less
Than what she wrote to him and could never be
Disclosed. Of course, I looked for all the world; I seemed
To be forever browsing bookstores in more or less
Abandon even wonton dedication to the kind of eagerness
That only children presuppose is happiness or glee.
It was never there, you see, and yet I was ever
At the ready to believe in terms of passages that saw her through
A time or two of something close to primacy or proximity
To what it was she never found in me—sublimity
Or something that she’d read in Keats and Shelly, severed
In the end from Dover Beach and miles from Xanadu.

† William Butler Yeats [13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939]

Percy Bysshe Shelley [4 August 1792 – 8 July 1822]

 

“Hesitation at the Station”

“Hesitation at the Station”

Hesitation at the station. She met him there,
His buttercups and bouquets to her denial;
He was quiet lavender, stillness in his soul, no guile,
No subterfuge while she forecasts in this affair
But possibles, toi, toi, toi! But they knew then and there
The harvest would be bleak, potentials in the miles
Are all but melted as they speak of exiles,
Signs and images they no longer seek, the glare
Of barren tables—little more than feet
Between them—expanses and catastrophes,
The warped and weary sets and semblances
That conjure bile and even stranger consequences;
Oil slicks, creosote, and fear of breakfast bars and sheets
To match an asset and demand that does not grow but atrophies.

“Alienation” by M

The following poem from M of strangebrew ,a site  on Stumbleupon.com worth more than a glance:

Alienation

Through windows I watch the world

Not longing for it

Removed, unmoved

I watch like a somber-eyed child

Robbed of childish wonder

My addiction to solitude a strange contradiction

To the desire of my silent heart

To be touched

M

“Decades, Fondest Friends”

“Decades, Fondest Friends”

Decades, fondest friends I will not see
Before I go; in off-appointed times
Each star appears to lead the way, divine
Appointments within the centrifuge , the siege
Of any given hour’s search for souls
Who bear hearing, to share an elemental joy,
Who bear witness to burdens nailed to every tree
within a tundra of grief, deployed
As when sagebrush in the undergrowth
Overcomes the vineyard, the goal–
Attained by twos not ones–steadfast
Forms hewn in solid granite, certitudes that
Worn become the greater victories.
Born, each in turn must then chose,
each will go his way, mysteries
Preserved, masteries revered set at last
Within an honoured niche, hallowed and adorned,
Placed duly on shelves of sixty years and more.

“The Grapes”

“The Grapes”

The grapes hang withered, the harvest
Long since gathered; what remains
Retains the trenchant memory stains
From yet another season, the weathered test
Of futures peopled with a need, steeples
Rising from the premises of the past
And doting on the future that will not last
Beyond a nightly glass of wine. No sequel
To a dream but sanctioned roots suspended
In the act of pruning; horizons in the line
Of distant vision topple hopes distended
From disuse and inadvertently atrophied; wasted
Spirits in the advertent death of taste.
The pupil clouds and nostrils to the offended
Ear are blocked in musks of sweeter youth
That knows no limit. The feet must surely slip on smooth
And smoother promises of liquids, fickle frosts and pools,
Refractions of an oily surface to rival molecules
On a glass as if nuances of insight, some private means to see
Beyond and through but not within the self. Counterfeits
And likenesses ignore both dissembling and the stuff of age
Accepts no protocol beyond the glory of the bellows to a furnace.
These young ones, tender seedlings, virile saplings
Congregate in spacious places fashioned in the hapless
Moment, centred near but not within intention with nothing purchased
Being no better than what they are or might be and what they are is gone,
As meretricious vapours of a neon evening’s whim rehearsed at evensong.

 


“But When I Got There”

“But When I Got There”

But when I got there she was gone. She’d left
No plea, no word where she’d be; I read her psalms a while,
A scribbled promissory note–revealed, not written–styled
In slashes, rushed laconic storms as if she’d dreamt,
Then scribbled some several images and icons that came
To mind, their colors, shapes, emphatic significance long lost.
But yes, of course, a cornacopia of some importance with costs
To others never mentioned, measures all the same;
Her markers, a pocket watch, a dance card, rounds again
Erased, replaced by later exponents and functions, the last
Of greater importance than the first, as if somehow all past
Positions, titles, desertions and queues were prearranged
By station assigned more than content stoked and enflamed,
And as with her I had come first, I no longer had a name.