Sunday, February 8, 2015

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

The broken wing

After the Alan Turing pardon

Russell’s definition of ‘=’s’ is inadequate, because according to it we can say that two objects have all their properties in common.

And. so a good place to begin –“and !”

When we were atoms -

“He invented the Atom.” spouted his mother
The precocious child – enraged.
Spat back “mother they weren’t invented, they just are”!
Just like a kind of ‘gold’ ‘frankincense’, and ‘myrrh’ moment
The who and what he would do and would become…
Within the resolving abstract – the binary flaw
Allowed the sewage of their fear
As the days went by the fear grew – 
Even without to shop front marriage – the fate
Concrete though the shared ideas team
How high he flew.
The elements, the qualities,  the meaning.
As today we live in his epitaph: that pulsates with his life.

First published screech Owl 2014

Holding on

After the painting: Henrietta Moraes (lying with a Hypodermic Syringe),by Francis Bacon 1963

The Prophecy:
Landscape: in posture
The spine leading to immortality
As yet, unwritten, nor created “… life is afterall too short.”

The weight:
            The bodies mass
Grows top heavy, wielding the sullen drone.
She herself suffering against the torment of gravity.

The point of sense:
And reference
Hesperus is Phosphorous.
The vein, maternal carries along the corpuscles.

Her bicep:
Inflated with another reality
This fleshly balloon waiting to be forgot
That moment will soon be gone. 

Hammering the image:
Home to the crucifixion of the banal
The long labour of life
Looking at the view back across of immediacy.

Journeying across:
The inadvertent cloud – consistent
In the mass of space
The imagine whipped out of some private Xanadu.

The needle:
Sparkles in a fraction of light
“Holds me here and releases me
grasping me like a hand releasing a dove.”

The spokes:
Spin and when the moment grows
As the compass of her conscience
Licks and kisses the days monotony better.

Time erodes:
The effects are brevity: erosion
Some sanctuary “unhmm” sound in imagination…
…as the day envelopes the ego. 

The River flows backwards

The bramble finds its way – back across the lie once told
And still told. Until it becomes the truth
Again this is something that can be learnt lived and loved into existence.

The silence drawing across the night forgotten yesterday until today -
The pieces are removed…re-moved… replaced… re-placed….
Age here is new and old - simultaneously - eternally. 

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