Saturday, 11 December 2010

That Time of Year Again

And I seem to be bouncing from the internal squash-court of my skull more and more as we approach the 'fustive' season. I am sure I am being a right arse with everything I do and say at the moment. It is embarrassing, but dwelling excessively on shame at ones randomness only has dire consequences. To be able to rein in, without the boltgun through the auld nag's brainpan!

Today is good though. Sitting by a fire, talking to the kids as they draw and make mess. Singing songs. Feeling that the glaciers of fate are slipping faster, freely, that next year will be easier.

This year has been both the best and worst of my life. Strange. Simultaneous heaven and hell. 2010 - a mixed-state year. Heavenly love and hellish love. I have had to become my own purgatorio to find some even ground for me to exist in.

But the air is freshening.

I'm trying to find ways to be consistent. I am bloody awful at it. I feel like a bloody kindergarten child, being taught his abc, or how to wipe his arse, or something. I have achieved so much that is positive this year while going through hell, that I feel hope for myself and everyone around me.

But feeling that sense and sensibility are tugging, wanting to take a brief holiday.

Well, I shall not let them.

Hope everyone in the bloggoverse is surviving, and the best of all midwinters to you all. Take care all Dx

Wednesday, 8 December 2010


"Memories memories..."

Stardust all tossed across the frosty night
at Chapman's Cross, as I pull in, tears suddenly
blinding, ignition slain with fingers bloodied
still from the birth just heartbeats since, the quiet
entirely gulps - cathedral of moon-ice -
the other boy asleep, car-swaddled, wrapped,
warm-lit, mouth open in a jealous snore,
tied in his law-forced, lonely throne now tumbled.

An owl honks wearily, a coney rips
the heaven's frozen gleam asunder,
caught by the throat by weasel or starved fox,
as Louis croons across this Cotswold night:
witching-time. So I cry for you confined
in flagrant disinfection, and my eyes brim.



Sweating sulphates, there they lie
man and wife, in the incensed sty
of some useless chapel to the side
of this cathedral, evil as ice.

Condensation glistens by
the blisters underneath their eyes;
a surfeit of broken stony nights
etches their faces with sad surprise.

If they were sledged, their limbs prised
apart into sullen lumps, and twice
interred in lonely tombs - their lives
so long together vandalised?

Around them, the tourists pry
selfishly to pledge their rights;
and their children lay wreaths nightly
by the sorrowful feet of these effigies.


Snow Fox, Mute Swan, Arctic Dolphin


Pattering past the black-lap of the ice-fringed waterside,
the white fox sails close-reached against the arctic breeze,
albescent fur undulating in the flutter of the gale,
quietly scrutinising three cygnets, circling sadly,
regarding not with hunger, but congenial fondness.

A glance caught by the low sun: feather-feet stilled;
within each orange eye, an egg, double-yolked,
separate charms gleaming beneath a single veil,
inviolate, unmingleable, yet both rejects the other,
a strabysmal illusion inevitably coming into focus.


Swan, sullen as you are mute, your small eye peers
as you glide with facility, fury bent beneath your wing;
bullet-tipped tongue sibilates while rousing tired curses,
but on land you show your artlessness: cold, dank feet slap:
blind to what has been, you pass by, more goose than swan.

Did you summon these snows, some eerie swan spell,
white as down, out of kindness, a swansong for me?
Or with a fan of wing on the wind sent flurries
to imprison me, in case I returned singing new songs?
To make a haven in time, or to freeze time, or both?


Under an arctic sky, in a leucous waste of cold,
Pierced by a spear of ivory sun, this ice-block shines,
and down in the bruise-hued gelidity of its depth
the glimmering flank of a dolphin, frozen in mid-flight,
frost-hoared and shining in her congealment.

Then spied across the blue-shine of water between icebergs
cutting curliques from fang of wave to fang of wave
stridulating, whistling, a lunatic song of wisdom,
vocal torpedo as counter-measure to the sea's motion,
a moon-curled grin of wickedness that thaws the heart.


Now, ice swaddles all my newness, but it is vital, clean.
Rooted in place by ice, I watch that swan slip round the bend,
and whistle ensorcellations to my brood, half-fox, half-swan.

This glacial world. My heart held here, below ice-stuffed skies,
singing hymns of thanks to this fatal cold, but warm
in my soul with the click and clack of a dolphin's love.