Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Yet less

Those sparse cracks in the days-end
Where the air- although thin
Can be enough to fuel an idea.

A free moment taken to relish in -
The making of the form
Not pervading what is given.

Taking sculpting with ones hands.
Clouds from keyboards
Horizons on screens.

The mode is never known the feeling is post operative.
The red blood poured to anoint
By crossing the ‘Ts’ and dotting the ‘i’s.

Those moments have eluded for a short time
A lifetime in a poet’s eyes.
Do not lose a life time in your eyes.


The landscape – a canvas
How they live among us
In their private places.
Contorted as we
In their strangeness.
That we think about but never see -.
Their past – monumental – and silent
Remains emblazoned across
The light of a day
In a seemingly sinless way

Walk along a street, any street
Spend a minute – and look.

            Against the background
Disguised in Latin and in myth.
Their place is raw and silent
            Structured to anothers architecture!

            Grown contorted as if planned to.
Unable to forget their pasts – 
The failure and the errs of their being.

Walk along a street, any street
Spend a minute – and look.
                        In Brueghel’s Triumph of Death
The delicate balance is unerring
Allowing the fear that is to draw you in – and then
Draws upon you;
Its magnetism – is its strength. 
            The vast barren landscape
Pointing back to what is to come.
The relentless red harshness –baron as the cud.
            If those
Sketal bearers of the news
Could somehow fail or fate could overlook
Failed by only the lack of life,
        Would slowly drown as if even by
A darker more sinister hand 
And take it only as any course 
To be written in:
Across the foreheads or the forbears
Invisible to the known eye

Walk along a street, any street
Spend a minute – and look

And today:
             As the idle state of the motionless giants’
Live amongst us.  Another world within a world;
The trees like a doppelganger – hanging around.
A dark silent sinister shadow
Of ourselves - Once and when or just 
A reflection of a past life lived or forgotten.

Dead tree in landscape

After Jan Wijnants

Look at the trees whose life has past
Somehow still exists – deformed as death it-self
As it has no stone nor epitaph (except a shadow)
The skeletal reminder across the sky – where.
You have walked across on every summer’s afternoon with that so loved one
Have fallen in love, against or – just stared at – and wished to be near by
Its monumental stance is immortal
The humankind blindly thinks it is better. In always.
So the ashen branches contrasted and becoming a home
The mysterious ivy divines, calling out and the white grows ever smaller
Like life is just remade and never fully born –
Perhaps that’s what we cannot understand.

Jan Wijnants so indicated in absolute definition.
This is what is to come. 
The view shows the shadow that we understand
We know by a total absence that’s intangible.
The trees old decrepit and of course a monument to death
The old man near than the young and the others are their
Dogs, cattle and so on....
Cast your eye a little wider it’s the birds in the empire of the blue
And the fish in their own private cosmos – they understand.
Everything revolves around the shadow cast upon the track.
It is life we are all going to pass on by, on in Jan’s view of inevitability.  
So delicate and so insightfully brushed in each stroke.

Pass by the land that is home
And see the death that remains
Not in an ideal or momentous way
Just as everyday cattle and dogs. 

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