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POEMS-3: MORE INTERESTING POEMS BY JAMES MORROW (Submitted January 2006) |
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THE CONTENTS OF THIS PAGE RELATED PAGES
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If <>()<> Keep on turning, turning, turning, Through the memories of our minds, Keep on learning by a wayward path New images of our kind. If the world could be a body Then we would be its soul. If the soil a tender moonlight, Then we would be its shadow. If each tree-trunk was a waving hair, The wind would be its comb, And the sea a tender teardrop For the dead and those forgotten, And the world would keep on turning Through an emptiness of sky. <>()<> ©
James
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A Backward Body <>()<> He lumbered on, through rich green scenes; Torn trails of creepers the last vestige of his passing. <>()<> His forearms brushed along, over the undergrowth, And suddenly, with a start, he felt something brush across his fingers. <>()<> The stone nestled in his leather palms. It was something new; he rolled it over, <>()<> Turned it slowly ‘round, and smelled the blood From his own fingers. <>()<> It was sharp. His eyes quietly brightened And he grasped at it again. Again he was cut. <>()<> He yelled; echoed through the rustles Of departing creatures, far beyond, into the darkness. <>()<> Now he had his own claw, his own hunting tool. He ripped the bark of trees, grinned in delight, As the sap flowed strongly to his hands. <>()<> He smoothed one end, and his hand was cut for the last time. That was enough work, for light had filled his world Eight times since he had first discovered. <>()<> And now he made more tools, weapons and implements. He cheated evolution by an inner evolution of extensions. He made discoveries, he taught his own kind. <>()<> But now his mind is filled, and he is trapped in a ludicrous body. Still he can pick up a stone, and whether it’s the same stone or not, It’s the same body. <>()<> ©
James
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Autumn Leaves <>()<> Yes, a year now has gone by, And as we watch each autumn leaf Wither and die, We count the years ‘till we too turn To dust. And each piece gently mingles with The earth, and other animals Can enrich the soil. But when they die, they are forgotten, While some of us, the lucky few, Made famous or notorious by action Live on, Immortal in a book, The leaves of a book. But these leaves often fall On deaf ears, and deadened souls: Autumn leaves. <>()<> ©
James
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Imprinted Lifetimes <>()<> His eyes faintly shone Behind the opaque greyness Of old age. A full five score years And two had crawled across his face At first, And then had hurried by, Faster and faster, Eroding freshness with wrinkle signposts, Implanted on a human history A history of life, his life. Each smile ticked off with the others, And written on the corners Of his eyes and mouth; Each frown emblazoned for all to see, On an uneven forehead; ’Till death his only destiny Looms up, high and huge, A tunnel long and black. He saw its beginning, But when will it end? He’s pensive now, they say. It doesn’t matter now to him. His last remark is plain to see, A smile for immortality. <>()<> ©
James
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Lunar (Life) <>()<> So it’s a blue eye you have, sir? No; you’re not sir, you’re too small, Aren’t you? Yes, you think you’re great up there, All alone, watching all of us. But we know you; You’re nothing, just dead, The dead part of us. Now we, oh yes! We have air to breathe, And much more weight to feel. We live, our surface changes; Where are all our craters? Oh, covered up long ago, But your viewless eyes alight, When our wings flit across Your hardened surface; Yes, we’ve come to visit you. Wasn’t worth our while. Why don’t you answer me; Is there anybody there? Well goodbye ol’ blue eye, We’ve gone again. <>()<> ©
James
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The Aged Oak <>()<> Owlish nights, The hawk is black-burnt On his perch of stricken green, So hardy hunting shadows Melt into the textured grass. Curled and killed, Knurled and stilled, An oak sweeps majestically, Across enamel sky, And withered leaves listen, As embalmed in dew they glisten, To hear their tree Swaying, Breaking, Cringeing, Sighing, Dying. <>()<> ©
James
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A Star Called the Sun <>()<> It burned, Tormented a silent atom, whiplashed Into a higher plane of existence, And more, yes many more. <>()<> A burning cloud of gathered energy, It tore across the restless sky, And no-one knew of it, as Over the last reaches of oblivion it trod. <>()<> Rolling into a warm bright chasm in its darkness, Sending its first searing tendrils though the fields, Waking the blades of every grass, with warmth And kindness, love and nourishment. <>()<> The steam rolled and rose, gently freeing The encapsulated millions in their own small worlds. Every flower, every stem, everything that knew life, Turned to its enchanted beckoning, Its kindness being their life. <>()<> Who is this round white being? Who lifts our hopes, on whom our lives are made? And trundles slowly overhead until its fragile end. When will the spell of life be blown away, The cobweb of a last decaying moment in our knowledge? <>()<> But many million times have worlds existed and decayed In our helpless imagination; And who are we, but organisms which live and die, As day by day the clock of time rolls on. Life is fragile, but may our short existence be remembered; Our pattern in this sea of elementary turmoil. <>()<> ©
James
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A Human Albatross <>()<> The Gossamer Albatross was the first man-powered aircraft
to cross the <>()<> To lift ungainly mocking into flight, Be on its melancholy way, e’en too short, And pumping pistons steel his grip On aluminium handlebars. <>()<> His sucking breath drawing in An ever-decreasing circle, As across indignant air swipes The massive balsa blades of meaning. <>()<> This cellophane creation claws its weak-willed way, To hop across the air, sometime one foot, sometimes ten; And gentle breezes shudder through its taut tubing. <>()<> It waves and wavers, gently drift away and let it past, And so our breath is still enough To burst its dreamy bubble, where we can fly, Until our wings are clipped by some lazy breath of wind. <>()<> To go straight forward, not around, but through to fly, As plastic ripples, and water droplets run towards His soaked feet, steam condensing in his view. <>()<> This frail freakish frame balances precariously On flapping, flailing legs; spinning on, And on, forward through the sunlit skies, Forward to a destination invisible, below his horizons. <>()<> ©
James
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Concorde <>()<> Let you swift as bullet fly across our skies, With deltoid wing, shining clean and crystal clear, To slice its path, and leave behind the absent scene, Waiting to convey its gentle message, across to those Who cannot tell where it has gone, and what has been. <>()<> To swoop to success, to slowly lower your gaze, And peer with eager brilliance, as you devour our lands And seas, and time is only fleetingly fit For us to see. <>()<> It is here and gone, and that will be no more, To make a claim to glory which will never be forgotten, Oh most revered, but such poor justice To your lithesome frame, and handsome Shining sleekness is to no avail, But for beauty now to rest your tiresome laurels. <>()<> Then you were made to fly, and fly you must: To escort us through discomforts of an alien travel, Flying far beyond the realms of human capability, Insulated in our own small island, And isolated from our steady counterparts, Who live below to hear our gentle roar. <>()<> But now, maybe the last we have, This chance to show a beauty which could do so much, But is abandoned, left to mourn its own passing, In some pent-up store. <>()<> An art masterpiece in a museum of technical wizardry. Now the owner of physical harmony held captive, Its straining bonds are red-hot irons, And tears spring gently to her eyes. <>()<> She looks up, through yawning portholes in her cell, To skies of blue and bottled brilliance, In heavy air she slowly suffocates In her own deep dark well. <>()<> ©
James
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High Windows <>()<> So make this housing block a spiral tall, House on house, human building blocks With shining windows, smooth and lean, And potted window gardens Hanging out in concrete space, A pathetic row of brightest plant, But poor illusions they create Surrounded by stark contrast. <>()<> Squares and rectangles, black And white, and grey, Monotonous echoes down their corridors Of right-angles. <>()<> Railings and pillars, Wailings and frustration, On looking far below, To see a small bungalow, <>()<> And lush green vegetation, With petals and soil, flowers and roses, Space and loving care. We have our loving care, But nothing can we show As good as that below. <>()<> On closer view, A potted plant inside the window, Where ours would be out, An armchair and a cosy fireplace, Flickering above, the invisible smoke Sweet to our senses. <>()<> But no-one sees the flaking paint, And rotting wood, distorted glass, And cracked pane. No-one sees the hasty brush-strokes From above, and polyfilla sills, Are clear, and white, clean and fresh, To eyes from high above. <>()<> ©
James
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Evenings <>()<> A musk of light hung over the street, As one old man tapped his uneven Rhythm out on smooth-worn pavements. His stick bowed and creaked, And shuffling feet scaled each kerb, Then slightly faster on. A child bobbed past, round the corner And gone. Old man so soft, but hardened skin, His dull grey eyes lighting, Faintly burning smoldering coals Behind a wooden log, knotted and gnarled, As he saw a window-sill On which to rest his twisted elbow, Gently breathing in, and out. In and out. He levered himself off his wall, His piece of spruce still young, And shuffled on, melting into the distance Till we could hear his breath no more. <>()<> ©
James
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Sea-Wind <>()<> Sea-Wind The wind rose free, Across the top of new hedges, Clawing their huddled lives into the ground, Their splitting nails carved back, Chastised and only cast away. <>()<> Away, the very word Flits from peak to peak, From hedge to tree to grass To open rock, bare-faced and defiant, And on, into its dark isolation. <>()<> An island of wind-whirls, And froth-burnt waves curl back, Lashed in motion, whipped to life, Their pain screaming from angry gulls, Tearing through their crests. <>()<> Reverberate across inanimate, Malleable distance, pulled and torn, Slowed and pushed, Created then misused, To a silent ending, A whispering gentility. <>()<> ©
James
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A Winter’s Day <>()<> A Winter’s Day The snow is cold and white; But smiles crisply up at wool-clad toes, As the sodium light burns on. Further than the night is spread the blanket, Wind-whipped into pinnacles and pirouettes, Concave forms, and bulging glistening domes Sweating in the sun. <>()<> Each shape is muffled or enlarged, Exaggerated or diffused. Some joined in wanton chains. Alternate pressure pads across a sparse forest, As the birds’ feet pull still more, And in the cavities of footsteps Dwell the sparrows. <>()<> © James Morrow 8/6/1980 |
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Echoes <>()<> Echoes. Chains of events, echoes. Echoes of sound, echoes of time, Memories of yours, memories of mine, People we knew, places we’ve seen, Passing again and again. <>()<> Footprints. The voices of the sands, Swaying across the land’s Imprinted patterns. People have been, places were seen, And nothing now, but echoes. |
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Slower Now <>()<> Time; time. I mustn’t mutter on so. What was that? Yes, I mustn’t. <>()<> Age; old age. You mustn’t flutter by so. Where are your reins That I may pull them back? <>()<> Cloudy; cloudy skies. Minds can be clouded too, you know. Words can be locked deep within Eternity’s vaults for just one second, While still the mind gropes for the reason. <>()<> Oh get back, old man; Get back to your work. They think you are an old fool, But no, no. <>()<> © James Morrow 10/7/1980 |
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Changeless <>()<> It’s hard to change the world we know, It’s hard to change where shadows grow; It’s hard to change where dewdrops flow, But still we try, still we try. <>()<> These echoes of existence ripple deep into our minds, And the worlds of our inviting never live, and never die. But when forests glisten in the sun, And dewdrops fall on one and all, I remember when lives had just begun, And watch the summer evening turn to fall. <>()<> © James Morrow 7/2/2001 |
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Thoughts <>()<> Goodbye. Goodbye; Silly, isn’t it? Yes, I agree, as the word needs no meaning, Only expressions. Time is the dimension of meaning, Space is the dimension of _expression. Light is the medium of all, A transcendor in all, And the follower of all. Could you really mean it? In one way you do, Yet, in another, you state it, More clearly than any other; Goodbye …..
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Streetlight <>()<> Iron pillars run through concrete masses tall, Yet small in true dimensions. Hexagonal prisms of rain, encasing Clock-times and simple switches, Old black wires and simple locks, Perspex covers and ‘Smith’s’ clocks, Bottling to a metal casing, And soft milky plastic enshrouds Its ultimate goal, defenceless purpose, To shed its seeming glory upon the road, While sunlit torrents shroud the stars, In far off places, long ago, Mountains of imagination cascade out of the shadows, And fall, filtering swiftly through the ground’s, Wide open, welcoming arms. <>()<> ©
James
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Molarity <>()<> 6x1023, or Avogadro’s number, converts an atomic mass into a reasonable quantity in grammes. By coincidence, this is very similar to the believed number of stars in the universe, and so is an integral part of the probability of the existence of life on earth. “This man is wise” they said, But how do we know that he knows What he may know, if we know less than him. Our aspirations are ourselves, for we are What we want to be, and we can be What we want to become, as only a Flighty dream of a dream we know, We are each ourselves, and everyone Is nothing but what he has known And seen, felt and heard, Or been told to imagine. So our dream must also be our Reason to exist, in which must Also be the centre of our knowledge, And who are we to look out Beyond our frail horizons Where, oh so grand, a massive scale exists Of time and space and mass. We are only entities to ourselves, And memories of ourselves, And the writings by ourselves; Who are we fooling, for we cannot control That which was then, for all this will be, With us or without. <>()<> © James Morrow 19/5/1980 |
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Forgotten Lifetimes <>()<> The pen lay flat, an anchor to his leaden hand, As slowly burned the light across his ocean, And somewhere, a light may shine to welcome him, For he is old, and his room is suspended At the top of his dark stairway, And worn carpets lead towards his kettle, Which even now waits in the darkness. <>()<> The sky is clear, and deep and black, and empty, As lace curtains shield him from the bitter night And cracked windows rattle to the howling wind. He shivers, and coughs quietly through the darkness But every wall can hear it, every stair can feel it, On his small island. <>()<> He shuffles out of his wicker chair, and parts the curtain. For one brief instant, a shadow flits across his mind, But hurries away, until he is left again; in silence. His hoarse breath rustles through aged lungs, And racking coughs cut through his room, From wall to wall, but always back and none got through, As gently the wind rose free. <>()<> He fell into his chair and shouted loud his silent throat To a silent world; and shivering. For he is old and alone, with nothing but his words to keep him still And even now the pen lay flat, And fallen to his side, his withered hand. <>()<> © James Morrow x/x/198x |
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Futures? <>()<> With nations armed and ready, We turn our children’s playgrounds into battlefields; Their innocence into twisted facets, Their minds into oblivious denial Why should our children fight our battle, Where fantasy and fact divulge the filthy secret? Only imagine, but think real, for reality is more. The adult partnership of coupled wars, While scolding children for arguing, Schooling children in definitions, theory, While inhuman practice lies just around the corner. <>()<> They must feel something. What do they know? Do they accept hatred as life, Greed as ambition, Souls of reason as extinct? Or are they just waiting, to lead the true way? Their philosophy must be extreme, different, An unimaginable viewpoint, An indelible decision, A wasted heart, a lost soul, A delayed start, a battle most foul. <>()<> |
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The Window <>()<> The streetlight echoes filtered through the cracked pane, Moist crumbs of the weather on the crumbling white sill, Mingling with the flaking crisps of paint, Coated rust and mud. <>()<> The loose latch rattled with the wind, The ghostly net curtain billowing branch shadows Through the coarse, tawny cloth. <>()<> The drizzle creeped down the crack’s crystal smooth edge; Globes of water, with specks of soil moving lazily, Until a gust of wind set them off again, in a delayed action. <>()<> The inner sill sloped towards the rough wooden window ledge, The pool of still water grew ever deeper, Spiders making pinprick breaks in its mirror, Their legs buoyant on its surface, Scurrying to nowhere in their haste. <>()<> It was cool, but not as cool as the humming wind, Waiting for the howling wind to set its elasticity in motion. The streetlights seemed sharper in it, The images from outside, where you could drown in them. <>()<> Looking deeper and deeper, until the wind broke everything, The silence of your eyes. Only then could you rediscover The carved wood, pulped and split with streaks of muddy black. Only then could you hear the bats and crisp-trees hissing outside, While you feel the net curtain tickling your hand and cheek, The curtain pushing you towards the night. <>()<> Suddenly the water seemed much colder, Clinging to your hand, while the cool air circulated through The rattling catches space, cooling all your hands and face. <>()<> You moved back, drawing the night back in with you, Then hidden in nets it blurred, to become a rectangle, Of rippling, coarse, tawny cloth, hung on the wall of the still room. <>()<> |
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