Amarok

 

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

birthing in a hut reeking of resin?

How could they live in a place caked in crud?

Plainly not the first time she was pregnant –

even more plainly she needed succour.

Clutching on the crucifix to lessen

the pain – also biting on that bark spud –

the outgush of humours was incessant.

After a moment he had to demur –

she had to hush for he had to listen:

only the carmine dripping on the mud

could be heard: the babe had fallen silent.

'Course death in this hovel had to occur,

with food not even fit for a raven!

The last straw was this unending red flood –

the master'd tarried helping his tenant.

He grimaced sullenly at how things were –

there was no way on earth and in heaven

his wooden clogs weren't spoilt by black blood –

God his witness he hated this peasant.

 

Kraken

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

something along the lines of c'est la vie,

that there is prestige in being a bride,

that she need not the fate of boys envy.

Some girls are born without any favour,

some women are sold into slavery,

she should feel lucky, not feel mortified:

tonight at last she'll be worth each penny

her folk saved for her, for land is silver.

She should see too the fate of the slutty,

she should ask her folk: there's nowhere to hide,

and less favoured than her have no dowry.

He'd seen men swap coins like a connoisseur

for whores for no one likes an amputee –

no woman was by nature dignified –

she ought therefore to take marriage gently,

she ought to see it as a life-saver,

life here for eight-year-olds can be shitty.

Besides, it wasn't for her to decide.

Tonight, she'd no choice but to be ready.

 

A poet's job

"Voilà bien la seule création permise à la créature. Car, s’il est vrai que la multitude des regards patine les statues, les lieux communs, chefs-d’œuvre éternels, sont recouverts d’une crasse qui les rend invisibles et cache leur beauté. Mettez un lieu commun en place, nettoyez-le, frottez-le, éclairez-le de telle sorte qu’il frappe, avec sa jeunesse et avec la même fraîcheur, le même jet qu’il avait à sa source, vous ferez œuvre de poète. Tout le reste est littérature."

Jean Cocteau, French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic (1889-1963), in Le Secret professionel (1922) p. 509.


"Here is the only true creation allowed to the creature. As it is true that statues are worn out by the multitude of gazes, the commonplace, though eternal masterpieces, are rendered invisible by a covering grime which masks their beauty. Take a commonplace, clean it and polish it, light it so that it produces the same effect of youth and freshness and originality and spontaneity as it did originally, and you have done a poet's job. The rest is literature."


Precisely my point developed here.

Colossus

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

except he felt like he had been cheated:

of his wife, life, and masculinity.

No law said he should be thus castrated.

Women's flesh was weak, the great saboteur –

she sure had rights, but these were conceited,

erecting women to divinity,

leaving men in the dirt, amputated.

Only final truths remained to proffer:

no equal law would stand undefeated,

no law would strip him of his dignity –

he'd have his woman's body till sated,

yes, till he was content, oh yes mister,

and the full extent of his rights seated –

consent was his droit to stability –

her body his as oft demonstrated –

for all men a tacit droit du seigneur –

peace of mind finally re-created –

no fault innate in men's virility,

his banal missteps thus vindicated.

 

Organised Chaos

"Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still."

T.S. Eliot (1888-1965) in Four Quartets, Burnt Norton, V (first published 1936).

One needs not wrestle with words. One needs to be patient, and release the tension, shine a different light, clear the dust, the mud, the mortar, perhaps give them a polish, a wash so chaos can be understood as it reforms. One needs not order with words. One needs at keen eye to see where the threads form, bond within, and attach without. Words evolve, mutate, adapt to their environment. One needs to figure out the organisation to see the point.

Titan

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

he never did – and never would, of course.

He would always have that knot in his throat,

he would always be staring at his shoes.

Her perfume flooding the elevator,

her elbow brushing him made his voice hoarse –

like most women she was the antidote –

this kindled his heart and beat out the blues.

Next step was daydreaming his life with her:

her daily dress a plea for intercourse,

begging to be fucked through her petticoat,

her conniving eyes one of many cues.

The fire stoking his groin made him purr –

entering their office like a trojan horse –

hiding his bloated sex under his coat,

for every case he had devised a ruse.

But he'd never act – he'd be a crass cur –

and his wife would rightly file for divorce,

him the perfect husband who would devote

his mind to a life he'd be dumb to lose.

 

Goliath

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

how fast it escalated was her fault,

she should take a look again how she dressed –

even top gentlemen would be distraught.

Always he strove for the ladies' favour,

his body and his brains with no default –

so it was etiquette to let the best

of the ladies know they were food for thought.

Yet she didn't think him a flatterer –

now he would have to go file for assault

as she whistled back, crossed the street and messed

with him when she added she could be bought.

Why so hostile, making him a poseur

while he would only peace and love exalt?

His parents had brought him up with precepts,

rules like respect and restraint had been taught –

so her shouting at him slur upon slur,

telling him he was reason for revolt?

that he was all girls would ever detest?

Never was such an unfair lawsuit wrought.

Behemoth

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

all of this had gone so wrong so quickly –

no, it had taken years to come to this –

yet who could say any of them was guilty?

He knew no word could ever cure cancer –

yet saying nothing made him feel sickly,

he wished he could perk up his lovely miss

who today wore her best dress, so pretty.

He listened to the guy say he'd beat her

pretty bad, so much he became prickly –

but that plainly was his dad's fault, not his –

he'd tell them had his mouth not gone silty.

He hadn't meant it, and not one would hear –

he'd explain but he'd speak out too thickly,

he'd say he knew their marriage wasn't bliss

but the glass box he sat in went misty.

Why on earth would nobody tell him where

his stillborn son'd been buried? He really

wanted to hug him, and her, and to kiss –

tell them so they'd then see and feel pity.

 

Well-meant

For once in your nifty, pitiful life

stand up for yourself and not for others –

stop poking that damn wound with that damn knife –

focus on you, not on your friends' bothers.

You have helped, for sure, and will help again,

shoulder people up one step at a time,

but on the long run there's more loss than gain

because your friends do, yet you do not climb.

Look again in the mirror, darling dunce,

see the good this great, dumb guy could still do

look again in the mirror, and for once

let this guy help out, and let it be you.

 

To Hell with your carpe diem

"Freedom is not the absence of commitments, but the ability to choose - and commit myself to - what is best for me."

Paulo Coelho, Brazilian lyricist and novelist (1947 - ), in The Zahir (2005)