A single leaf.

I am a leaf.
A single leaf, green.

The last of my days,
   sun scorched, wind beaten,
   full of the unquenchable thirst
   age has for the waters of youth!
   Dry and brown
            will I drift…
                                                               Down from this tree.
Softly, maybe, on a cool breeze. If I am a lucky leaf,
           within the whirlwind of storm!
           Raging!
           Will I fall!
                              Fall…
                                         Fall.                                                                                               Down.
To the soft earth that bore me.
Me, a simple leaf. At the foot of my mother.
A single leaf,
    Into the green again.
A leaf, into the cool darkness of soil.
A single leaf.

(I have had a particular image in my head for some time, and whilst this is not nearly my best work, I like that it conveys something of that image both in form and through metaphor. It is also, I might add, a direct result of an article written by Robin Artisson, Veratyr’s Precious Gift,which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the ancient religion of the Norse.)

Little Things

Little Things

The inside of a wrist
Eyelashes against a cheek
Teeth like pearls set in a silver mouth
Tongue against another

Finger tips
Breath on a neck
Skin like silk with bone button nipples
And just licked lips

Hip bones
The small of a back
Hair like wild grass after a shower
And flushed red flesh

Sweet Peas
Surprise gifts
Slow dancing
Shivering

The smell of rain

The Lady of Shallot

Lady of Shallot - John William Waterhouse

Fabulously humourous version of The Lady of Shallot shared by housemates this weekend past. Enjoy! I did…

Pt I

Came Arthur, riding ‘pon the sward
In armour gleaming, and with sword
Raised high above those shoulders broad,
Loved ‘cross all Englande, yea adored;
   from out of mighty Camelot.
Then sat he, proud, on England’s throne
For pulling magic sword from stone,
And burning neither cake, nor scone
   Unlike that Saxon clot.

T’was days of summer, nights were short -
The time when squires and damsels court.
But Arthur fancied rougher sport:
With buxom farm girls he’d cavort
   In some secluded rustic spot.
But finding that the sun shone fierce
Its fiery rays his eyes did pierce;
He spied ahead thru blinding tears
   The Island of Shallot.

So plung’d he t’ward a verdant glade
And sank into the lethe-ful shade
But ere he slept, a mirage played
Before his eyes – a wondrous maid
   Was this the Lady of Shallot?
So swift did he his pose adjust
As from his loins, a prick of lust
Deep down into his soul did thrust.
   He liked her quite a lot…

But ere he could his hunger sate
The mirage it did dissipate
The lady fled with quick’ning gait
And left the king to Onan’s fate
   And yea, indeed he Camelot.
Up rose Arthur, sore at heart
And sore in yet another part
He’d pulled his arrow, fired his dart,
   And now his bolt was shot.

So hastily his blade he’d pulled
His armour and his ardour dulled.
And though his lust for now was lulled
The Lady still remained unpulled -
   A fact not easily forgot.
So turned he home, with heavy tread
Along the winding road that led
To teddy bear and comfy bed
   in cosy Camelot.

Pt II

Yet sleep came not, he tossed and turned,
upon his inner vision burned
The face of she whose touch he yearned;
Until whose kisses he had earned
   In unrequited gloom he’d rot.
So mutt’ring noises loud and queer
Unable now to venture near
The comely Lady Guinevere
   Whose bed he entered not.

Now Arthur, mighty king of fable
He whacked his pony in the stable
And beat his meat upon the table
Then pulled his pudding all he’s able
   And all but filled his chamber pot;
But still he could not free his mind
From thoughts of the lascivious kind
That linger’d on her sweet behind
   That juicy apricot.

Poor Arthur, for relief he searched
And from his stiffened sheets he lurched
Toward the sanctuary of church
And on the oaken pew he perched
   And to the angels prayed a lot.
But from his lusts he can’t away
In anger all his priests he’d flay
and beat his bishop night and day
   In sticky Camelot.

In chapel, down on bended knee
With one hand deep in hosiery,
Arthur, in despair cried he:
This prayer I shall compose to thee
   Just render unto me Shallot :
“Oh Mary, maid immaculate
Grant when I next ejaculate
I can myself congratulate -
   I’ve laid she of Shallot”

Pt III

With Arthur sunk in his morass,
Across the scented meadowgrass
This ravishing, unravished lass
Gazed deep into her looking glass;
   And, merry-me, what did she spot?
From upstairs, in her tower high
A handsome princeling she did spy
So broad of chest and firm of thigh
   It was Sir Lancelot.

This noble man, from war returning,
Could set a lady’s head a-turning
Or send a page boy’s heart a-yearning
Until his cullions are burning -
   It mattered not to Lancelot.
He was most wondrous of sights:
Accompanied by sturdy Knights
In sparkling mail and clinging tights
In prettie polka dot.

The Lady, rouséd deep within
Did smile a lewd salacious grin
And contemplating carnal sin
She mused how she could lure him in
   For fevered frolics, fearsome hot.
And yet she tarried, for the curse
Spelt out in Tennyson’s bad verse
Could make life difficult, or worse
   For ma’moiselle Shallot.

So even as her cheeks burned red
Her thighs, desirous, trembléd
She hung the mirror o’er her bed
And pleasur’d she herself instead -
   That curse she would awaken not.
Her passion spent, she fell to slumber
Alone, with just the sheep to number
Her only love a cool cucumber
   Poor Lady of Shallot.

Pt IV

At table round, each in position,
No knight sat there above suspicion
Each one subject to inquisition
A victim of the king’s condition,
   As envy coloured Camelot.
He was, by jealous fears, drove mad
That they’d all lain where he’s forbad
Sir Lance a lot, Sir Gala had
   The Lady of Shallot

Cried Merlin, thou art Arthur, Brave!
Is this how noble kings behave -
To mope around as Cupid’s slave?
Go! Wash your face and have a shave
   And ride direct down to Shallot.
Knock firmly thrice upon her door
And speak unto thine paramour
That thou shalt claim droit de seignior
   Upon that very spot.

‘pon hearing this, from wizard gifted,
That shadow from the king’s heart lifted,
No more on sea of love he drifted,
And fleeting swift his arse he shifted
   Along the lanes of Camelot.
Through tossing heads of barley tan
Dashed the resurrected man
And clutched his sceptre as he ran
   Its point toward Shallot

The Lady at her glass sat gazing,
And watched the sheep in meadow grazing,
And drowsie bees at flowers lazing
When lo! she glimpsed a sight amazing,
   Bearing down upon Shallot.
From beyond the willow weeping,
Past the weary shepherd sleeping
The king of Albion came creeping
   The silly idiot.

Through thorny hedges he did blunder -
Then split the tower door asunder
With one great blow that fell like thunder
(and hurt his hand, I shouldn’t wonder
   although the pain he felt it not)
He cried, sweet lady be my saviour,
And please forgive my bad behaviour
But wills’t thou grant thy sweetest favour?
   …Alas the lass shall not.

But Arthur would not be denied,
Cast doublet, hose, and vest aside
Alas! One flash of that backside –
The mirror cracked from side to side!
   Oh, cried she, well thanks a lot!
You’ve done for me! the lady said,
You’ve brought the curse down on my head
You’d know about that if you’d read
   The Lady of Shallot.

With this tale’s end, you’ll be acquainted -
Her final journey so oft painted:
The lady, in the boat, dead-fainted
Her beauty, by death’s touch untainted
   She’s drop-dead gorgeous is she not?
And now our legend is near ended
With Alfred Lord’s great tale amended
And if by this you’ve been offended
   You’d hate my Walter Scott.

 by tightwhitepants on deviantART

Children+clumsiness=disaster

I have recently returned from touring the beautiful island of Tasmania. I had the pleasure of being guest to two of my dearest friends, who, knowing my deep love and appreciation for things dirt cheap, dirty and any and all things made of paper, took me to the quaintest shop I’ve ever been in! The Tip Shop. What, you ask, is the Tip Shop? It is as you might have suspected a retail outlet located at the local waste disposal depot.

I’m from Sydney, so I don’t know anything about garbage. I put it in a bin and then wheel that bin to the front of my property once a week as specified by important looking documents I receive from Council Departments. I have theories about what happens to the rubbish that miraculously disappears from my bins once a week. But in Tasmania, being that it is the Land of Rainbows they do things I have never seen! But enough of that rubbish.

For 50cents a piece we bought a box full of second hand books graciously gifted to the Tip Shop proprietors by people who were ignorant enough to think them worthy of disposal. The following is a piece from Modern Poetry edited by Guy N. Pocock, M.A., printed in 1921.

Part IX-A Note on Futurist Poetry

When a new movement in Art attains a certain vogue, it is advisable to find out what its advocates are aiming at, for however far-fetched and unreasonable their tenets may seem to-day, it is possible that in years to come they may be regarded as normal. Such things have happened before. Moreover, one cannot shut one’s eyes to the very significant effect of these modern ideas in the matter of painting and music.

With regard to Futurist poetry, however, the case is rather different; for whatever Futurist poetry may be- even admitting that the theory on which it is based may be right- it can hardly be classed as Literature.

This then, in brief, is what the Futurist says: that for a century past conditions of live have been continually speeding up, till now we live in a world of noise and violence and speed, of trains and motorcars and wireless telegraphy, of aeroplanes and giant howitzers. Consequently, our feelings, thoughts and emotions have undergone a corresponding change: we live ten times as fast as our great-grandfathers did.

This speeding up of life, says the Futurist, requires a new form of expression. We must speed up our literature too, if we want to interpret modern stress. We must pour out a cataract of essential words, unhampered by stops, or qualifying adjectives, or finite verbs. We must leap from one idea to another without check, using plus and minus signs instead of full-stops and semicolons; regulate the pace and tone by musical signs, such as rallentando or crescendo. Instead of describing sounds we must make up words that imitate them; we must use many sizes of type and different coloured inks on the same page, and shorten or lengthen words at will.

Well, they may be right; and certainly their descriptions of battles and so forth are vividly chaotic. But it is a little disconcerting to read in the explanatory notes that a certain line describes a fight between a Turkish and a Bulgarian officer on a bridge over which they both fall into the river- and then to find that the line consists of the noise of their falling, and the weights of the officers: “Pluff! Pluff! A hundred and eighty-five kilograms.”

Perhaps we may explain what is meant by making up an example. Suppose the poet set himself to rewrite the Nursery Rhymes, the famous adventure of Jack and Jill might appear in this guise:

Children+clumsiness=disaster

Jack+Jill incline 1 in 8 puff pant summit+pail Bubble-bubble-splash incline 20 degrees+carelessness= biff bump rattle SPLOSH Jack minus water plus crown +abrasion of epidermus+Jill weight 4 stone 2lb. = Misery.

This we feel, though it fulfils the laws and requirements of Futurist poetry, can hardly be classed as Literature. All the same, no thinking man can refuse to accept their first proposition: that a great change in our emotional life necessitates a change of expression. The whole question is really this:  have we essentially changed?

My dear Mr Pocock, not a single bit.

And to think, someone THREW THIS BOOK AWAY! As relevant now as ever it was.

On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour

On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour by John Keats

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
  On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
  Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
  And let there glide by many a pearly car
  Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
  And as it reaches each delicious ending,
    Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
  For what a height my spirit is contending!
    ‘Tis not content so soon to be alone.

For you this night.

For you this night.

I reach for you,
     for hours in my dreams I see you, still and waiting.
Peace escapes us both in the half light,
     waiting for a thousand tongues to speak a thousand words,
     to taste the living flesh.

The doors are locked,
     and inside this sacred space I feel you.
But we are breath and dust,
     waiting for the incantation to shake the bones into being,
     to make the shadows speak.

For you this night,
     do I pray and weep to deaf Gods.

Tonight the oceans seethe and blacken;
Tonight all things are charred and broken.

Oblivion

Oblivion

    Stroke softly the bitch at my feet,
       one quick movement and, oblivion.
Now, speak to me of God’s thoughts.
   Take the match and light the pipe,
      one long breath then, oblivion.
Now, show to me your Magic fire.
   Take the pen across the page,
     one word and then the next, oblivion.
Now, tell me of your Cosmic order.

My eyes water from too long indoors.
I shake out this fair mane of mine and scratch with long nails.
There are too many days behind me spent free of the forests
   that clip the claws and fir.
My mouth is parched and my teeth are dull.
The smell of my own blood turns my weak guts.

   Now, speak to me of your terrible Hell.

My eyes will find out my path in the darkness.
Blonde locks and sharp talons will catch the moonlight
   and I will run again.
The forest will embrace me, the forest always hides me.
I will drink again from the clear waters and break bones.
The smell of blood will reveal weakness.

   Now, speak to me of the Divine.

I placate the Wolf.
I diminish the Fire.
I still my Sword.

   Now, let me tell you, they know not oblivion.

Hiatus / ‘The Cinnamon Peeler’

Determined not to let a whole year pass without actually posting on Bella I have taken to sorting and going through the myriad of drafts, half posts and poorly written poetry accumulating in My Documents. It’s all rather naff and one has to wonder what exactly I have been doing for the past year…

 

So instead I am going to share.

 

The following poem was gifted to me by my friend and the author of Davar Akher, Simon Holloway, some time ago after another long email conversation regarding poetry and the reasons one writes at all. Now one of my favourites, I’ll argue with any who thinks that Michael Ondaatje’s The Cinnamon Peeler does not perfectly exemplify both the Art and the Muse.

 

The Cinnamon Peeler 

Michael Ondaatje

 

If I were a cinnamon peeler

I would ride your bed

and leave the yellow bark dust

on your pillow.

 

Your breasts and shoulders would reek

you could never walk through markets

without the profession of my fingers

floating over you. The blind would

stumble certain of whom they approached

though you might bathe

under rain gutters, monsoon.

 

Here on the upper thigh

at this smooth pasture

neighbor to your hair

or the crease

that cuts your back. This ankle.

You will be known among strangers

as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

 

I could hardly glance at you

before marriage

never touch you

– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.

I buried my hands

in saffron, disguised them

over smoking tar,

helped the honey gatherers…

 

When we swam once

I touched you in water

and our bodies remained free,

you could hold me and be blind of smell.

You climbed the bank and said

 

this is how you touch other women

the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.

 

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume.

 

and knew

what good is it

to be the lime burner’s daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

 

You touched

your belly to my hands

in the dry air and said

I am the cinnamon

peeler’s wife. Smell me.

There is peace

There is peace
and woe
There is a woe
born in peace’s swollen reflection
I would draw them both out for you

There is love
and hate
There is hate
born in love’s loss
I would stir them together for you

In amongst the soft and clingy
unkempt grass
out in the barren yard
Grow wild the thistles
and the lions and tigers and bears
full of lolly tongues and spared words
with no reflection

Everlasting

The following is an excerpt from a wonderful story about a Priest happening upon an injured and dying Satan. At first the priest rejoices and praises the Archangel who has wounded Satan. And then Satan has his turn…

“In Babylon, the people bowed seven times in worshipping before a priest who fought me with his chantings… In Nineveh, they looked upon a man, who claimed to have known my inner secrets, as a golden link between God and man… In Tibet, they called the person who wrestled with me The Son of the Sun and Moon… In Byblus, Ephesus and Antioch, they offered their children’s lives in sacrifice to my opponents… In Jerusalem and Rome, they placed their lives in the hands of those who claimed they hated me and fought me with all their might.
“In every city under the sun my name was the axis of the education circle of Religion, Arts, and Philosophy. Had it not been for me, no temples would have been built, no towers or palaces would have been erected. I am the courage that creates resolution in man…
I am the source that provokes originality of thought… I am the hand that moves man’s hands… I am Satan everlasting.
“I am Satan whom the people fight in order to keep themselves alive. If they cease struggling against me Slothfulness will deaden their minds and hearts and souls, in accordance with the weird penalties of their tremendous myth. I am the enraged and mute tempest who agitates the minds of men and the hearts of women. And in fear of me, they will travel to places of worship to condemn me, or to place of vice to make me happy by surrendering to my will. The monk who prays in the silence of the night to keep me away from his bed is like the prostitute who invites me to her chamber. I am Satan everlasting and eternal.
“I am the builder of convents and monasteries upon the foundations of fear. I build wine shops and wicked house upon the foundations of Lust and self gratification. If I cease to exist, fear and enjoyment will be abolished from the world, and through their disappearance, desires and hopes would cease to exist in the human heart. Life will become empty and cold, like a harp with broken strings. I am Satan everlasting.
“I am the inspiration for Falsehood, Slander, Treachery, Deceit and Mockery, and if these elements were to be removed from this world, human society would become like a deserted field in which naught would thrive but the thorns of virtue. I am Satan everlasting.
“I am the father and mother of sin, and if sin were to vanish, the fighters of sin would vanish with it, along with their families and structures.
“I am the heart of all evil. Would you wish for human motion to stop through cessation of my heart-beats? Would you accept the result after destroying the cause? I am the cause! Would you allow me to die in this dessert wilderness? Do you desire to sever the bond that exists between you and me? Answer me clergyman!”

Excerpt from Satan Kahlil Gibran.

So often the truth is simply a matter of perspective. What is the day with out the night after all?

Gustave Dore Satan

Paper Hands

I should be reading, or better yet, sleeping. But I’ve found myself awake in the small hours of Sunday morning writing and playing about with some of my poetry…

Paper Hands

The darkness hides
the small imperfections
and the orange candlelight
improves the pale skin

See clearer.

Complete loss of vision
brings clarity afresh, renewed
X-ray dreaming
and a second sight
at the decay beneath the surface

There are so many mice.
Too many to be quaint.
There are too many ants.
Too many to fascinate.

In the fire, everything flashes
Then the water leaves it dank

Into the rubble the paper doll sank;
into the mess that paper hands make.