findingtimetowrite

Thinking, writing, thinking about writing…

Archive for the tag “mind”

Pinched

Two thumb toes curled, eight subalterns squished

retreat in shoes too tight, rules too rigid.

Brain we mangle, stunt all words

to grape in odd clusters ’round harboured thoughts.

 

Don’t frighten the horses!

 

Heart stripped to stumps and cords,

lumpen mass, still beating,

confined to a love no longer felt,

a marriage of minds no longer true.

 

 

The Ballad of Night Anxious

Image from http://homepages.tcp.co.uk/~nicholson/alice.html

What does it matter where my body happens to be?  My mind goes on working all the same.

I’ve done it again. Unwitting, unwelcome,

I’ve woken up Knight Anxious,

all creeping worries and lingering thoughts,

all lists and fears, tapeworms,

my warts magnified fivefold by the conjured dangers of the night.

 

He heralds tumbling tonefalls, a rain-soaked day ahead.

Regardless of the weather, he never cooks the pudding,

yet proud of his invention, he harrumphs on horses high,

failure denigrated, unhinged from little pleasures,

unwashed with median joys.

 

He watches, waits, then pounces, always the live menace,

but always unexpected.

After all this time

I still can’t find the trigger

nor welcome him sagely

nor sluice him off like wet reproaches.

I hesitate just one second:

each time the haircracks multiply,

he seeps through, sucking

all air from the cave of my lungs:

infallible gravity.

 

We soldier on, we soldier on, mounted or on foot,

no end in sight, no redeeming dawn,

we balance, we teeter… and some of us fall.

Instead

The pink whistle wearing thin, they settled on the mauve.

When boxes threatened  overload, they cut out carton flags.

Ideas tumbling in hazen rivulets were picked off, one by one,

With shotgun polished, wit so sharpened.

 

May the treasure hunt of the mind commence!

 

Still, the crack at the very centre, silent foe, widened each day,

Till they no longer could bear to step forward

And peer at the abyss one wrong word away.

Guess the Title

The challenge for this poem, should you choose to accept it, is guess the title (or the ‘subject’ of the poem).  I know, I know, sometimes a poem isn’t ‘about’ anything, but this particular one was written in response to a very specific fear (some might say I have too many fears in general).  A much earlier version of this poem appeared in the online multilingual literary (and arts) magazine http://www.respiro.org/

First the little slip.

Name much praised

remembered slightly aslant

like a jigsaw piece chewed and frayed

not quite fitting in its groove.

 

Then a petulant rewrite

of yesterday’s events:

a pout of a travesty

bearing no semblance, no cause, no fruit.

Too stubborn to admit all is haze and indifference.

 

Next, the heartbeat stop before mad scrabble

and dig and delve

to capture that elusive frame

in the broken film of the mind.

 

Finally, the chasms beckoning:

throw self in?

chuck pretence out?

make way for shadows,

population of yesteryear?

 

Darker and darker the woodland cover

hunched, stop-cock breathing,

waiting for the elliptical, haphazard flux to cease

the lynx-bared jaw of foaming bite

those fixed clear eyes of poison fire.

 

Precarious rock after rock

the chamois cleared.

But only just.

 

Next day

next week

its foothold less secure

chasms will close in-

to beckoning pools of blankness.

 

Hush

There is a quiet deep down things

I cannot rumble

Will not shake.

There is a beauty among the bricks

That, contemplating,

I might break.

There is a tension, and the trigger

Is sometimes bold,

At times hair-thin.

Do I feel part of something bigger?

I cannot fathom.

May never win.

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