The old year slipped into the new
While yesterday’s pain
is swept with a broom
Hard bristle scratch
My thoughts, my face
Dust choking
Acid soaking
The handle hands the hand a splinter
Through nail and skin
Deeper and deeper
Poisoning and malevolent
Burrowing and diving
Septicaemic
I can feel it
Arrow sharp
But not enough
To pierce my heart
So it turns on me
and burns in me
But spurs me
On.
As the leaves burn brown
and rage in a riot of red
The low, winter light losing colour
looking tired and stretched
The sun’s early rising all but forgotten
another life, another time
The soltice shroud of darkness covers all
and the frost fingers;
hard and cold
grip the earth
And its frigid breath
bites the air
As the year ends in a flurry of colour
The mirror’s image wavers before me
It implores me
“Look at me”
“Look at you”
I do
And wish I did not
The mirror’s image dances in my eyes
As you chastise
“Look away”
“Look at me”
I do
Relieved that I did
The mirror’s image shows you beside me
Love unties me
Mountains slide
Oceans rage
We are
And we will remain
You, semicolon
A dot. A comma,
a pause slightly longer
than a breath
And instead of punctuating words
they’ve punctured your heart
You, semicolon
Half remembered, barely read
Semicolon; you ran your race,
and lost your place
And in this fast-paced world
of the modern human race
You paused once too often
and became a Winky, smiley face
;o)
The sunlight for a second
Blinked
A shadow
Its shadow
By my window whispered
Or did it laugh
As I felt its draught
And shivered
My skin crawled,
then froze
The shadow passed
for now
But it’ll come back
When night falls chill
For I will give it life
In black and white
One recent lunchtime I was sitting, waiting for my quesadilla, with every intention of jotting down some potential copywriting ideas – I completed a course not too long ago and I really want to pursue that direction on a professional level. Anyway, it just wouldn’t happen; nothing came when I put pencil to paper except the opening two lines of this. Between waiting for and eating the aforementioned quesadilla, the rest of the piece followed. I suppose you could call it a reluctant poem, as it certainly wasn’t my intention to write it, but as nothing else came I gave in to the flow.
The book is open, the pencil in hand
The eyes stare at black lines on white,
waiting for the muse to turn on the light
What to write? What to write?
Perched over a fissure, under pressure
An abyss awaits, mind contemplates
I did not intend to write this,
this poem, this rhyme
This scribbled tribute to the sublime
Gift of words; the words we use
To communicate
Our love, our hate
Pleasure, displeasure
How are you my treasure?
Spoken words may be forgotten
From the written word may be begotten
A declaration; of love, of war
Of the suffering who can take no more.
Letters by sages
Indented onto pages
A permanent reminder
Of words that can bind you
That seek and find you
And you lay open the page
As you lay open your heart
With thoughts transmitted and thoughts transcribed
As into your book you care to confide
All that you feel, and can’t keep inside
The heart doesn’t flutter;
it hammers, in my chest.
On the train,
the rolling motion,
my rolling emotions,
as the station nears.
The final stop; full stop.
Months in the waiting,
weeks in the planning
and my heart beats the seconds
that pass, too fast.
Am I the only one
alive in this carriage?
This miscarriage of humanity.
Where is the humanity?
Talk to me!
You! The Ipod girl,
in front of Ipad man,
beside Facebook boy
and Candy Crush sister.
Ah! Enough of them.
I’ve been drawn to meet you,
talk to you and kiss you.
As I hold your letter.
A LETTER!
Words on a once-tree,
the Parker Pen veins
stand out, draw me in.
As you stand in the rain,
black brolly Polly,
dark as mystery,
deep as a desert night
but not so old,
nor so cold.
Sand stinging, hand wringing
a nervous encounter,
here at the counter
of the coffee bar.
Spoons clink and rattle
And our nerves finally settle.
One hundred years on and…
A brief truce broken
A steel head awoken
And glared into the night
A firefight,
Candlelight: mourners
Apparently security means a dawn raid
An air raid,
Siren
Not silent
Blaring, uncaring
The choke of smoke
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
On whose hands the blood
That puddles the street
Beneath frightened feet
Running, fighting
Toe to toe
Door to door
Calibre counts much more
A prayer for the lost
And for those who remain;
Once again
The blinding smoke
The dust that chokes
The blood that soaks
The tears that burn
Amid the fires that turn
Earth to hell
A hell on earth
Suffer little children
As men hide among you
While their enemies’ bomb you
Poor innocent souls
As the death toll
Rises
Through wars’ devices
Bodies twisted and torn
Lives shattered and shorn
Of all hope of peace
A three day pull-out
A humanitarian hand-out
Look at me
Through your blood-shot,
Blood filled
Hateful eyes
They say security means war my friend
Do you really think
It will ever end?
Sun beating, sun shining
People walking, people watching
Trees growing, green leaves
Groundsmen cutting, green grass
Lake lapping, water’s edge
Water sparkling, countless diamonds
Birds singing, birds flying
Ducks swimming, swans snobbing
Violinists playing, Mozart scales
Me sitting, listening
Not speaking, just thinking
Eating lunch in the park
![20140714_135037[1]](https://christopherfarley.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/20140714_1350371.jpg)
Another tip of the hat to Morgen Bailey and this time her poetry prompts. “the dark kitchen” immediately took my fancy and this time I had it down in less than a third of the allotted time. Once again, thanks for that Morgen.
The Dark Kitchen
The dark kitchen
The darker drawers
The still darker knives,
Each telling their story
The darkened oven
Black from the roasts
The un-cleaned fat
That spat; and sizzled.
The dark old woman
Dressed all in black
Black widow in waiting
Black venom giving
The death-grey husband
Now ever in the dark
Her dark kitchen her web
Her poison pernicious
The dark pantry
Away from the light
Locked in tight
Opened only at night
When all is black
Wavelet, gentle wavelet
Don’t call yourself
a wave yet.
The Mediterranean
is calm today
No hint of wind,
blows your way.
And you have to be brave
to call yourself
a real wave.
Rolling, roaring and tumbling
ride the tide in.
Just be content
to gently
lap the hard pebble shore
and wait for that
scirocco
wind, racing to lift you up,
white foam blowing,
to lift you up
once again.
Where be now the wind
that once blew?
Around the compass, all around;
south, east, west and north true.
Flag flutter memory
just choking on dust.
Where are you now rain,
that once fell?
Down from the heavens, drenching me;
downpour, shower, drizzle.
Umbrella memory
doesn’t dampen dust
You frost, cold and white,
that once lay.
Covering the fields, chilling me;
your kiss hard underfoot.
Winter boot memory
now walking in dust
And you the snow, you
fall no more?
Stinging my face, red cold my nose;
freezing, numbing my hands.
Sheepskin glove memory,
tracing in the dust.
From you the sun, where
can I hide?
From your lofty perch, glaring;
shrivelling, withering.
Once green world memory,
now turning to dust.
Spring morning, spring dawning.
Sparrow, starling, blackbird
in unison calling,
out their names, and
singing loud their songs.
What is the language
of the birds that I hear?
As my love sleeps,
a sleep content
and undisturbed.
Whilst I, I alone
sit with eyes and ears open,
to the coming of the dawn,
as the birds greet the morn
and each other.
“Good morning to you too,”
I say, as I open the window
and breathe in the air,
as yet untouched
by the waking of man
of cars and vans.
Enjoy the moment
though in silence
it not be.
As the break of day
not far away,
has been announced to me.
Living in a daily world of imaginary conflicts, in which the tide of others washed and pushed against him, He lived ever in anger’s twilight. The anger simmered, threatening to boil over but not quite managing to do so. In some ways it would have been better if it had.
In his make-believe world in which everything was a hurt against him, either directly or indirectly, he no longer lived; not in the true sense of the word. Whereas sensibility to his condition was heightened, other important aspects of his character were made obtuse. Happiness was an emotion felt by others. His anger would obtund any sense of enjoyment or achievement and his spiral continued downwards.
The world outside is bright
Spring fills the air
The fields and the trees are colour
Animals awaken from winter slumber
But within him the winter remained
And for him the clocks unchanged
He slivered on ice
where others walked on grass
He shivered with cold
while others warmed to the sun
He withered, his face white
when others danced with new life
He lingered in the shadows
whilst others cavorted in the long,
joyful hours of sunlight
He revered in his head
his sufferance in a world
where hurts imaginary
and conflicts obtusely
Beat him to the ground
into the dust, to be found
Where maybe hope one day
will bring him out;
out into the world again.
Depression can take manifest itself in various guises, this I know from personal experience. Whilst at the height of my chronic insomnia 4 years ago the hospital put it down to depression which, personally, I couldn’t understand as there was no real motive, so I believed. I just thought it was the other way around – that I was shot to pieces in the head, imagining scenarios which weren’t there simply because I didn’t sleep. Thankfully, with loving support and no lack of determination, I managed to untangle myself from the shadow-spectre of this awful and destructive condition.
During last 4 years I’ve started writing, which is a therapy in itself. I still don’t sleep anywhere near the recommended 8 hours but whoever recommends this probably has nothing to do all day. The above, in a very rough form, has been around quite a while, probably written during ‘recovery’ stage. Ordinarily I avoid personally-related posts, but this is different – I want that reminder there. I want to remind myself of where I was and where I am and be thankful for it.
C.
p.s. – Shadowplay is a track by Joy Division from their “Unknown Pleasures” album. It just seemed apt in this case.
Firelight, flame dance
shadow tango, flicker bright
Light, blaze and burn away
the cold, dark winter night
The cold black winter night
of frost, snow and ice
of chilled bones gently warmed,
reading by the firelight
Reading by the firelight
Shadow tango, pages white
Let your warmth envelope me
and burn away this cold, dark night
Life hanging by a thread
Cold and dark, am I dead?
This tiny, cramped space
Could it be my tomb?
Or have I been born again,
a return to the womb?
There feels like a weak spot
In the wall by my head
But I can’t move my arms
So I’ll use my teeth instead
To dig through the grey wall
And out into the light
Where I can unfold my coloured wings
Stretch, and take flight
This started out as a prompt in Writer’s Forum magazine, giving me the title. I really enjoy these exercises and they can make a wonderful change from whichever project you’re working on.
********************************
Walking together
Under foggy street light
While you wonder
How to say goodnight
How to say goodnight
Will it end in a kiss?
Or will you return home
And regret the chance missed
Regret the chance missed
As she fades from sight
Wishing you knew
How to say goodnight
January;
gloved and hatted
walk.
Frosted breath,
then, finally
the warmth.
Then cold
that condences
on glass,
rivulets running.
The dark:
getting darker, and
crowned
by white.
The cold;
to the touch,
to the senses.
How I enjoy
a pint of Guinness
In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear
but the sound goes on forever.
The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,
dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;
the screams of the passers-by;
the shouting policemen holding them back;
the wailing ambulance;
the knock, apologetic, on the door;
the crying, desperate,
left without a husband and father;
the monotone of the priest;
the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;
the sobs of the veiled
and the final, definite scraping of soil,
thrown from shovel to grave.
The shot was still ringing out.
Amsterdam; funny old town
Rain splats in the Dam Platz
Friendships deeper than the North Sea
Red light window girl for all to see
All smiles and business
Display and pay
Canal boats and bicycles
Blond girls and blue eyes
Coffee shops and red eyes
Amsterdam; funny old town
I walk alone
I walk in company
I walk directionless
I walk with purpose
I walk in the sun,
and in the shade.
Every step nearer to my destination
Every step nearer to that final one I’ll take
So I shall walk
While I can
And be grateful.
Tonight, I’m not so bright
Head full of work
Heart full of words
Writer’s block?
Doesn’t exist. Just type
Damn it, type
Anything, everything.
A heart full of words
Can be held back
Only like the sea
or the mighty ocean
can be held back
Dam it at your peril
A dam can be broken.
A heart full of words
like a heart full of soul
a heart full of song
a heart full of faith
will overcome
the head full of work
and make me bright once more.
My room is cramped
No furniture anywhere
The walls are soft
Like pillows
My cold tea in a plastic cup
My jacket fits
White, if a little tight
My pills are good
I feel no pain
In my private Bedlam
My madness is mine
And mine alone
Are you jealous of me
and my freedom?
You think I should be hidden
That I’m trapped
Soft cell prisoner
Yet every time I close my eyes
I see a myriad of worlds
Where you could never go
Where you do not exist
In my private Bedlam
My madness is mine
And mine alone
The heat
The sultry heat
Humidity
Show humility
When my temper frays
And my patience craves
The rain
The wind
And the cooling
Of my soul
The summer lust
The heat-filled dusk
The night
The tortured night
She whispers to me
the sound of the spring snowmelt
She holds me
in a snow-chain grip
She loves me
I’m pierced by an icicle
I slide unhindered
on black ice beneath me
Would you accept damaged goods?
Would you accept a damaged heart?
Not physically, at least I hope
But damaged in the wars of love
Could, or should I even offer such
What would you think of me?
If I tried to hide the pain and hurt
Pretending nothing ever happened
I’d be like the used-car salesman
Who filled the noisy transmission
with sawdust, to cover up
The damage done before
I’d try plug the radiator holes
But my pain would still seep out
The mileometer I’d try to rewind
But the miles done would remain
Monday morning, dingy grey
Rain and sleet, sleet and rain
My mood, my being cannot sustain
The will to weather the winter
I wonder whether
I will fade to grey
As will fade this winter’s day
But a ray of light, burning bright
Incandescent, infinite
Crosses the continental divide
Across the ocean, cold and wide
But wider is the chasm without love
When I look upon a grey cloud sky
I should see the blue above
Chains
Chains around my feet;
age.
Chains around my head;
thought.
Chains around my heart;
friendship.
Chains around my soul;
love.
My Words, My World 