Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems


from the painting Absinthe 1902 Alex Torneman 1880 1925

Now her days have grown long & dark
And again darker still. The slippery green
beast erodes and corrodes….

She is now lost:  behind the masses
and the wintering sun – life has grown blurred
as memory has grown increasingly empty.

Her hat once peaked in grander days
has now slipped down toward – her own
private inferno marked by pennilessness.

She now must live among the shadows,
Their shadows, her back to them as
they go about – their lives blind to her as they pass.

Her eyes are now cold, cold, and hard
Her eyes devoid love - soulless
The Thin black petals of her pupils empty.   

The day, now dark. Spent, gone and lost
down and down.  Believing and dreaming
The gleaming luring green she can overcome.

As the candle burns slower & lower and Lower & slower. 
The cigarette smoulders away as her consumptive
nature.  The world’s weight flicks past….she’s extinguished.   


Watching those hulks go
Passing along somehow just
Blown along with all manor
Of colours shapes and sizes

Places written across (unlike)
Me or you – our place or our city
Not marked on us
We were untied

How close to those
Steel breasts we are
We’re like demo graphs
Knew us too well.

Once they passed on and over
To their new day and me to and mine
The days departing as an
Tide we knew only tomorrow 

The muses tease a poet  

            Earth receiving receiving
And beholden to the sod. The sod
            And what of life that’s peeling
Shows an idea but never the true God

            Of the metre in which you write
So strangely, so strangely
            It’s on to keep the sacraments out of sight
As you are so ungainly.

            And why does the north wind blow so cold
And the time of man so short
            Is all that glitters not gold?
Or is it not as we thought

            …And then.  The day light is due. The dawn. The dawn
Why did the troglodyte come out?
            To shop, celebrate, or mourn
Cordially chatting above a whisper or a shout

            And then, like a mother recognised the time
To pass and to take the exit required
            Time had passed eroded as if in lime
And left spent cold and hard only to be admired 

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