Paul Klee

Paul Klee

 

I paint in order not to cry,

Each brush stroke a rebirth,

A fresh start until the last,

And a death occurs,

Who am I?

 

I draw in order to survive,

Each flick of the pencil or pen,

A glimpse of understanding,

An acceptance within,

Before one’s thoughts revive.

 

I write in order to escape,

From my own suffering,

A word from a sonnet or verse,

An opportunity to rehearse,

A feeling of belonging.

 

I create in order to exist,

For a moment as intended,

Before native patterns insert,

A coiling of clay

And one’s identity insists,

 

I dance in order not to die,

An ancient rhythm which reminds

One to stay here and now

A second more feeling profound

And then elapse again one more time

Who am I?

After Rain

After Rain

 

After Rain,

The soil smells like Petrichor,

They say,

It can be written down,

It’s shape hexagonal and round,

Relayed through books no less profound,

Than Saturday strolls after the downpour.

 

At sunrise,

Light bends through rods and cones,

They surmise,

By chemical gradient alone,

No surprise,

On majestic mounds eyes freely roam,

Because of refractive index and vitreous mass,

This way, one sees earth’s splendour, alas.

 

A composition,

Formed of fluctuating hormones and rhythm,

Their decision,

Feeling found through the anvil and stirrup’s position,

A proposition:

Musical sound a mere mathematical mission,

To hear song not through intuition,

But concept alone; the intellect’s imposition.

 

Your touch,

Transferred through neuronal firing,

Not much,

Room for kiss and cuddle desiring,

As such,

For the corpuscles of pressure,

Speak of one’s every whim and endeavour,

And the tugs on your heart we can surely measure.

 

A paste,

Forms on your lips and gums,

The taste,

Of strawberry frais and fruits,

With haste,

Calculate the sweet factor of plums,

Analyse the acetyl groups and hoops,

Which define the sweetness of your heart’s hum

The Scent of the Earth

 The Scent of the Earth

 

The scent of the earth after rain!

The sky outside now clear again!

Crisply and sweetly the breeze rocks,

Us neatly, discretely to and fro,

As we walk past three blessed hedgerows.

 

Where a mink eats a sparrow whole,

Snapped his fibrous little neck,

Stripped his feathers without doubt nor distress,

It’s splattered flesh decorates the deck,

And its chick’s chrips call below.

 

Tally ho! Jolly good day! We must invite the children to play!

Oh look!  Dove flaps its lovely wings,

The meadow lights up as the birdsong begins,

The maples, oh how I love their whistles and rings.

 

Just there a fox cut a rabbit down dead,

Bit into its soft neck and flesh,

Ripped it apart from hindquarters to chest,

Then lay by a river for recuperation and rest,

Its canvas coloured with blood trickles of red

 

Musn’t grumble, instead – a country pub!

Sit down, Matilda time for some grub!

Listen to the bluebirds twitter and bleat,

Your guinea fowl cooked rare; ready to eat,

Now wipe the blood from your plate, I shan’t repeat.

 

And now a pitch; a low buzzing hum,

A carrion call by the roadside,

Brings to our meal a swarm of flies,

Dastardly beasts! What a dastardly surprise!

Do something, ready the gun!

 

Oh to this place, we must return!

For the valley’s flowers my heart doth year!

The hillside path without a single soul around,

A blessing to behold nature’s fertile ground,

Away from the filth which resides city bound.

 

The scent of the earth after rain!

The sky outside now clear again!

Crisply and sweetly the breeze rocks,

Us neatly, completely to and fro,

Oh what a wondering world! My only refrain.

Leaf

Leaf

 

It doesn’t matter, you know,

Which way you spin,

It’s beautiful all the same,

Whether you twist due to a will within,

Or your dance a habitual refrain.

 

Sometimes it appears as though

You want to twist free,

Your precarious ropes of captivity,

At others, Hobbes could’ve plotted your path in stealth,

 Plan imposed with God himself.

 

Are you impaled by design or choice?

If freedom you desire,

Why does every jig and spin seem to serve,

The gust of wanton winds and

Nature’s every other whim unpeturbed?

 

But if dead to will as I fear,

Why do all your jiggles and flings appear,

To burst like fire and flame from within?

As although by fettled cheer,

You shuffle nature’s hymn sheet and sing.

 

What are you anyway?

I know you cannot remain a dangling thing,

A puppet that dances on a string; a leaf on a thread,

Unsure to stop or begin; a balloon full of lead,

But twisting, dancing now instead.

 

Could it be that I see you in myself?

Buffered by forces I can never know,

Marching left-right-left in wind and snow,

Myself at work and you on a bough,

Nowhere to hide; nowhere else to roam,

But I’ve seen your true face and smiled,

Your furnace grows bright tonight for a while.

 

Sometimes you buzz like a bee,

And others you hang like a bat,

You paddle like a dog and you pounce like a cat,

But whatever you do and whether you hang shy

Tell me once and for all,

Do you have through will or through chore?

Duration

Duration

It would be a shame if we,
Didn't see that every moment is a decision,
To feel the world with intuition,
That every breath is created new
One of a kind,
A chapel away from the chattering mind.

How sad to only live cordoned off in one's
Castle of stone,
While outside animals freely roam,
And the scent of earth after rain,
Invites our naked feet out to clay.

I weep for those who before sleep,
Compose only to think of what
could might or may,
And ruminate while cows outside gaily graze,
And without skipping a beat, free as a bird,
Far from abstract notions they keep.

Must we resign to tendency,
Of thoughts dependency on sections,
Chopped up and sliced reflections,
Of what was, is or will be,
And can only be seen hypothetically,
And one's own instinct regarded sceptically?

Every next beat,
Every next beat!
Is a chance,
To take mother nature's hand and dance,
To an ancient rhythm that can't be studied,
Broken into a million parts or muddied,
But known only as continuous song,
An unfolding Duration; so let's hum along.

The Invitation

 The Invitation

I called you today when you slept
The grass chopped and the soil swept
The air was gentle, crisp and sweet
With beetroot piled in a heap
And ants they tickled with tiny feet
I said that boy I’d like to meet

I felt you nearby me this day
When a young pup began to play
He sniffed and wiggled at my roots
Trod soil over twisted tubers and shoots
Whiskers moistened by ripe, softened fruits
I said let me talk to that still growing youth!

I invited you this week
With raindrops falling as you sleep
The buttercup ant, the dampened crow
Watched the storm clouds come and go
Icicles touch my frostbit marrow
I said that man I want to know

I longed for you this past year
As the maple tree began to tear
The soil and earth turned to hardened clay
Sheets of ice decorate the lakes
In a burrow the garden toad hides away
I said to that man, must it be this way

The Cherry Tree

The Cherry Tree

It was a small cherry tree
Which grew down the bottom of the garden
So far down reaching it was a mighty mission
With plant pots to negotiate and neighbours to distract you
From ones expedition
To the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden

Its splattered seeds pebble dashed
the faded natural stone tiles
black and red flesh and crushed bone like a horror movie
A footpath to an unwholesome discovery
Like a dead body wrapped in roots
And the twisted, organic fragments of a shrub
That lived nearby once in a shattered tub

The garden cat was not innocent
Stooped on the shed’s tin roof amongst the tree’s leaves and branches
ready to commit bloody murder
On the garden sparrows and blackbirds which animated
A variety of sullen stances, in a tree which sometimes swayed like
A timid figure bobbing at a family wedding
Or a cheerleader pompom at a sports gathering

There was no summer sun down there
Where the cherry tree grew in darkness
A shiver hit your spine upon touching its silver trunk
And the sap from its crying wounds spilt buckets
Like gushing trails of terrible secrets
With train track black ants scurrying, only too aware of its dangers
That lurked around every twist and jerk of the crooked bark hearse

Behind the shed temperatures were sub-zero and discarded strips of timber
Lay in rest in still shadow which sometimes splintered off into
Black diamonds of shape shifting flights of fancy from fate
Or predators that lie in wait and the panicked calls of a
Startled sparrow moving on to another dimension
In a sea of feathers and twisted shoots together, and then just a memory
of a tree later extirpated at the roots by a wayfaring stranger in steel capped boots

I knew her

I knew her

I knew her
When she cleaned the shit up off the floor,
Scrubbed the toilet bowl on all fours,
Ironed and washed soiled, stinking drawers,
Bathed his weeping, pussy sores,
But still said nothing more,
I knew her.

I knew her
When she whispered sweet stories,
Lay with me til early morning,
Wrapped me up like rare pearl jewellery,
Hot soup and cuddles when poorly,
And still no words spoke sorely,
I knew her.

I knew her
When her skin turned pink then pale,
Coffee stain blots across her veil,
Best wishes letters in the mail,
A rasping cough on the inhale
And still never told a tattle tale,
I knew her.

And now that she has lived her life
Carried on with sorrowful strain and strife
Despite all the suffering that occurred
she never once strayed or demurred
I know her know like I knew her then
Not one to gossip, never break nor bend

The Little Moments

The Little Moments

It's not the thinking of a thought,
Nor the planning of an act,
It's not the scientific process,
Nor the finding of a fact.

It's not the reading of a book,
Nor the discovery of knowledge,
It's not the bouef bourguignon,
Its not the punch of salt in your porridge.

It's the watching of the oven timer,
About to ring,
It's the pause felt in the shower,
Before your lips begin to sing.

Its the little spaces,
It's the in-between gaps,
It's the tweeting sparrows overhead,
It's the taking out of the trash.

It's the knowing what you want,
May never arrive,
And yet it's only in this moment,
That you choose to reside.

The Other Side

 The Other Side

The other side of you,
The other half of you,
Which senses me loom,
Like a lyrebird changing my call,

First loud then distant then never at all,
First loud then distant then never at all.

The other side of you,
The other part of you,
Still able to see the world,
A flickering consciousness,
Checking the brightness of it's own flame,

Roaring bright and tall then never again,
Roaring bright and tall then never again.

The other side of you,
The other slice of you,
Which opened up like a baby's stare,
Meeting the dimples of its mother's face,

Curious and tender yet drifting away,
Curious and tender yet drifting away.

The other side of you,
The other piece of you,
Like a man cut in two,
Feeling the blanket's warmth on your one leg.

A final rattled breath and you lay down your head,
A final rattled breath and you lay down your head.

Mr Waygook

Mr Waygook

Hello Mr Waygook,
Whatcha doing over there?
Nice to see you Mr Waygook
And your bright gold hair

Sorry Mr Waygook,
Do you mind if I stop,
Scan your body up and down?
I think I like you a lot.

Tell me Mr Waygook,
Why your skin is so white?
Why your nose is too long?
Why your eyes is too bright?

I'm curious Mr Waygook,
Are you just like me?
Give Korean pear at Chuseok,
Eat white rice with magkeolli?

Do you eat buchimgae pancakes
When the rain comes down?
Beer and soju in the evening,
When your friends come around?

Do you go up to the mountain
When you feeling stress?
Do you punching your leg muscles,
When sitting down for the rest?

Come on Mr Waygook,
It's not too late,
Tell me all your secrets Mr Waygook,
Our meeting....maybe.....fate?

Fine. Ignore me Mr Waygook,
Turn your head around again,
Silly Mr Waygook,
And all your waygook friends.

I guess I'll never know,
About the waygook way,
Until my eyes find you again,
On another subway train.

You Know What it Is

 You Know What It Is

It's a creamy cup of choccy coffee
Scalding hot your tippy tongue
A teeny fleck of sticky toffee
Cling film wrapped round bleeding gums

It's a big beige blob of Bradford Brylcreem
Holding handsome hair on your first date
A hairspray wash and comb regime
But just one strand still out of place

It's a little like licking limes and lemons
Instead of chewing chocolate cake
A bucket full of rind, no melon
Washed down with water from the lake

It's a precious painted pretty picnic
Broke and bent by bustling bees
It's your food pipe turned all acidic
As you traipse among the tilted trees

It's a slicing, slashing stab
Somewhere 'neath the breast bone
Dripping eyes you dry and dab
On a long drive home

It's the slitting, splitting of a suture
When the wound was on the mend
It's the contemplation of her future
Home alone with him again

Grandad's watch

 Grandad's watch

It's on my wrist it is, I wear it.
I wear it to remember the olden days
When we got swept in minor things:
Boy scout's camp;
pushes on swings
Schoolday pickups;
A bushy grey fringe
Bronze-painted arms,
Gold wedding rings
'Did you miss me Grandad?'
Through a faulty door hinge.

It's on my wrist it is,
And I wear it.
I wear it to see there
On the fold out living room table
Counting old stamps;
Battery fuse checks
Cheap pink meat;
Old cutlery sets
Urine-soaaked sheets,
Long dead pets
'Is it dinner time grandad?'
I learnt my alphabets

It's on my wrist it is
And I wear it.
I wear it to feel those
Massive mitd cupping tiny fingers
Hair turned grey-white to ginger
Pirate games;
argh, shiver me timbers!
Through the back door
The cat smell lingers
'Do you still love me grandad?'
I lost the garden sheer trimmers.

And I wear it;
Still I wear it.
With ginger beard
And forehead wrinkles
I wear it to keep the time,
And pass,
Like washing-up pans
Scrubbed from noon til dark
Sing-songs, how they gone so fast
Why goodnight kisses, they never last
'Is it bedtime, grandad?'
Your watch sounds blast.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick...

Margarie, my sweet

Margarie, my sweet

Margarie, darling,
have you seen my sticky toffees?
You're a diabetic Albert,
sit down and have a coffee

Margarie sweetie,
is this wardrobe locked?
Albert, close the fridge door,
put on your other sock

Margarie, honey,
Which milk is most fresh?
Albert leave the pepper shakers
It's time for a rest

But Margarie most precious
The clocks haven't gone back
Well Albert, a pot full of pasta
Sharn't help you with that

Maggie, little bird,
it's almost quarter to three
It's fifteen past nine Albert,
Couldnt you see?

Oh, Margarie, my mallard
Would you pass me a pen?
Albert here's a large tissue
You're crying again

Margarie you know
I really do love you so
You're my turtle dove at Christmas
You're my walk in the snow

You're my dazzling little gem
My shining light, my canoe
That would save me from a freezing lake
You're my life jacket too

You know Mags,
Whenever I'm in trouble you're always there in a flash
Like when I stubbed my toe in high school
And you bandaged up the gash

I promised I'd always love you
When we bought our first flat
Birdie, I love you more than ever;
Please remember that

Sorry Mr Albert
There's something everyday you learn
That I just come to clean the dishes
Wipe the stove and urn,

Where your dear wife rests
In black ash and in soot
Please put down her photograph
I must dress the other foot