Sunday, March 15, 2009

A Humble Statue

Cries of screeching birds
Over a lapping shore
Rocks glisten, smooth in black
Moss growing beneath my feet

Still Steady Unmoving
The mist flies over the rocks
Little airplanes screaming to war
Chaos, Brownian, in the desperate pleas
To die and kill
Or to survive and somehow, in some way
Return to normal?

The closer I move
The tougher it is
The waves block my vision
Spraying endless shrouds over my eyes

But I see

The vast plains of water
Constant in all directions
Mild approbations appearing as waves
Mobilis in mobili

Across the miles a ship rises
Sails bellowing against a wind
What does he shout that fisherman?
Hark, perhaps, or a dare!

It is a different harmony created here
Beautiful in a cacophony
The sounds make no sense together
Except to distract thought.

I wonder to myself
How would these places go
If I don't ever leave
If I come back everyday
If I stay in this body
Just like this
Unmoving Steady Still
By this shore
For ever in this mind
Right now.

What then?

Friday, March 13, 2009

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Song And Lyrics

Pain is not what you feel when someone hurts you. It can't be inflicted by someone else on you. That happens when you accept that defeat.

Or maybe it is pain. But it's a different kind of pain, then.

But in my mind, real pain is when you really want something, or do something, and it is your own self that confines you. To me, that is the greater pain. I know what it is like. You feel like a tragic hero, a Greek opera plays, but none of it is funny in its silliness. Real pain is in real shame. Real shame is in admitting, to yourself over everyone else, that you cannot do this.

You can strain everything you have, and the muscles on your forearms and your back may be taut and pushing your body to its brink of life, but you still won't reach it. Fingers stretched, the nails just scraping the surface, just almost but never quite really. You can stretch to reach it and your strength pushes from inside. All the glory and the pressure of past achievements come in for a final shove. Pride rushes to inflict a horror of failure - every little thing that your mind can conjure to send you screaming battle-cries into the field of war.

The moments lead on and build up to a climax, where strength fails and the muscles cannot stretch anymore. Only will can push you on further, and that for a few more moments. If those moments magically work, it's determination you have. If they do not, as they do not usually, your arms sag and you let your head fall.

Sometimes a person can smile and cheer up about it. Let it go. Be happy with what he has and that's a good thing too. But there are times and there are goals that you cannot let go just like that. And then you feel worthless and that shame and that second type of pain.

It happens with me when I try poetry.

"Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you…and that's why poetry appeals to me so much – because it's so eternal.

As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue." - Jim Morrison.