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.