All Hallows

Wrap me round in Celtic linen when I go,
to show the fire called the emerald and red
of my poetic pagan heart and burn me through
in ancient embers at the altar of all thought.

Entomb me in Egyptian cotton
for my soul as old as time before Time was
and sound my extant vapour into every sphere
across the universe entire of the Gods

Shroud me in a needle lace of threefold beauty,
earthed among the silken places, bound into
the Mystery by spaces where I found a truth
and graces I have yet to birth

Consume me in the breezes on an open pyre.
Let the blood and dust to dirt and constant part,
into the cosmic ether be subsumed, that in my end
shall I begin again. Next time, a little higher.

 

Good Samhain 🎃

Brexit wants what it believes

Brexit: I resent this irresponsible shift towards an anti-intellectualism that puts narcissistic populism and misplaced protest above reason and reality and then demands we suck it up because ‘Democracy’. I feel despair at the contempt for nuance and complexity; at the disregard for connection and consequence and the will to ignore the inconvenient authority of evidence and informed opinion.

Brexit. They want us to come around. See it their way. Whatever ‘it’ is. All those its…

They want us to adjust our beliefs. To invert reality. To collude in a nonsense.

They want us to stop moaning. They call it sour grapes.

They want us to stop laughing. To stop being sarcastic. Seeing the abundant ironies.

They want to see an inclusive and concerted effort to maintain the irrational and over-simplistic.

They want us to agree that unnecessary risk is necessary.

They want us to surrender. To stop criticising. Stop challenging. Stop resisting. They believe that asking pertinent questions and pointing out facts and contradictions is talking the country down.

They believe this is unpatriotic. Treasonous, even.

They believe that having respect for everyone’s right to hold and express a view automatically means that the view, itself, must be respected.

They believe we’re the liberal elite; the metropolitan elite. As if being an advocate of Liberty were now something to be ashamed of. Like, somehow, sixteenish million remain voters and the millions unable to vote were all inhabitants of a city bubble. As though those who did not vote to leave – the rest of the population – were hiding comfortably in some narrow, elevated category of established privilege.

They want to treat us as though we were the problem. They believe we are just another burdensome minority; another other, preventing them from having control over the lives of everyone who lives in their country. They want us to be the new scapegoats. They need us to be. [Given that 52% of the electorate voted for around 17 million forms of Brexit, perhaps, ironically, the 48% who voted to remain is the real majority.]

They want us to pipe down. They believe it to be our duty. Well, tough shit.

I could…

I could weep a cataract as would shame the Nile
And I could pound the wicked with a thousand mile-wide smile
Well, I could raise a thunder-clap with one hand tied behind my back
Could kill a beast at fifty feet with just a glint from one mad eye

Oh, I could draw my arm and hurl a mountain into space
And I could throw a fit to shift the planet from its course
Could charm the very lightning with synaptic force and torch this place
And I could shout an earthquake so profound the rotting dead would wake

Still, I could cry an ocean of lament and then seal up its source
And I could make a potion for a notion of the World’s remorse
And I could grow a garden for the hardened heart to ripen soft
And raise aloft a hoping over all the misery and dross

Well, I could try today to live all in and live it all the way
For I could die tomorrow on my own created cross

[Originally posted: July 2014]

Like a yesterday

“We want change”
Wants it like yesterday
Like it has nothing to lose.

But it already came:
They were the change
They wished to see

And it looked like
Tomorrow lost to a history.

passing through

Place:
Where this ageing face
And tired baggage
Slip inevitable,
Invisible as my west.
Well met, horizon,
Rising yet, as hidden
From my view, as I,
Invisible but for my
Fewer few.

Superfluous,
Wandering witness
In etheric states,
Wise to the grains
Of a World
Unrecognisable,
As old beholds anew
Of nothing new
But fate in preparation
For Eternity
Is passing through.

My infinite thread,
The tapestry to grace,
Opaque
And limit led
In purpose and effect,
Immeasurable
Of tread and trace
But trust and save
My time be fixed within its
Perfect breathing space.

Patriot schism

The heat of patriotism,
in self-deceit,
spills outright lies
upon the world;
so sins by symbolism.

Flag unfurled
in rapture
to false fealty and,
ever yielding,
wrapped in glamour,
makes alignment
under brittle banners
staked along
impassioned lines,
all hot and ready,
set to march against
all sensible expressions
of dissent.

Now come the acts
in missives, sounding
symphonies and sending
hounds of hardware,
bringing down offending
hearts and minds
until the Fatherland is primed.

 

[First posted: June 2013]