Saturday, February 21, 2015

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Leaving on an ending

At the top of Rouge Plate Hill we ran all day.
Just for nothing at all
migrations of our minds
through our ages.
Epochs talk to, and back from
their roots grow endlessly unattached.

On this monument, which we beat Russell and Aristotle.
We lost our summer’s days.
Among the bloods
of ours merging from the grape
to the miraculous stupid idea.
The smell of vinegar on our chips.

Then Oct like an axe
Fell, the pendularly could
be seen to slow and stop.
The light as a magician twisting
a sheet – falling short.  On Rouge
Plate Hill – we left on an ending.    

The Silence

The silence, new, anew
each begins and seems
to never end.  Just this
unending overlapping –
Each, somehow fresh
and the same and unique.
Sitting in the cold silence:
the eyes cut and are alone
In crossing the stone.
In this idealist trip – does an
ear - know silence? Or do
the passing vast ships on
longest, darkest sea, fail
in the night consumed by silence.

After the grey

i.m. Steve Strange

As that simply beautiful French woman
Sings across the overtones of her Gallic chorus;
Simply feminine.
In the offing. That beat.

The forwarding busts of both characters opposing:
His strongly carved defined features
Breaking through
The Serpent’s strength.

This mystical call – poring - dreaming into an
Angelic trance - taking in, as Echo lost.
This marquetry iconography
Still stands today.

Here after – cuts time and Tide this image is & remains
Unbroken, unbreakable, in her Frenchness, that touches
the soul.  And can
never leave the psyche.   

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