Wow. I haven’t written any poetry for the last year or so. I was on some hopeless quest to unfind myself by delving only into prose, can’t say I’ve achieved what I set out trying to do. Don’t even know what I mean by ‘unfind’ myself. Too much Pessoa speaking? Anyway, at least I got to finish the first drafts to 4 novels, THE AWAKENING, HOUSE OF DYES, SUICIDE CLUB & APOCRYPHA. No more novels for me this year, going to polish up these four and get them published. Hooray!
Considering how I much I have abandoned other writing endeavours, poetry mostly, I’m going to focus on that a lot, this year. Screenplays too and shorter prose pieces.
This is the first poem I’ve written in eighteen months or so, it’s a bit rough, but I hope there’s still enough of the poet in me resurrected here. Please tell me what you think.
There are things fixed in this world,
that though unrooted, could never be uprooted.
Then there’s things which are wrought
by the brittle heel of old mythologies
I don’t know which part my love for her falls —
Maybe halfway in the shadows of both.
Or maybe it’s the sun casting a shadow where there’s no light
or light where there’s no shadow —
All I know is, I’m a fool caught in the eyelashes of a blind world
For, love is blind and all that.
Love is also death,
dearth to the enterprising nakedness
of my crass naivety
Love, her love, is a net that catches
the vague articulation of my flair
Her love — not our love — is beyond
the haughty fling of intellectual whimsy
to which, me and my contemporaries — if I can call them that,
indulge with contempt.
Love, her love is rain on a Sunday afternoon,
totally unexpected, but cool to the trickling drop
just chilly, but snug enough to be comfortable,
enough to want just a little more.
Love, her love, if it were a home
it would be a home built on forgiveness given
before forgiveness is required.
A communion of undreamt trespass.