Sunday, December 13, 2015

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

What is within?

Where In the base nature of man
is that tiny disc of self and
of all its elements of all thought?
Standing by  in this hypnotic
State of nature.  Unable to act;
coyness, Shyness leads us nowhere.

Where do they come?  These thoughts.
In these vessels of the mind. 
The cells lead us along
this bridle path to extricate
Themselves.  Being from this abstraction of life
the arrow has cut the air too thin.

An angry sun thrusts down
its weapons of its life and
the reflections twirl on the surface
as darkness hides beneath.
All baseness begins.  And goes on as
failing makes us stand by and hope.


After a painting of the same name by K.Mowatt

Forged in man’s minerals, the brassy orator
Laying my ghost in metal.
My half ghost in armour hold hard in deaths corridor,
To my man-iron sidle.  Dylan Thomas

Struck Upward – forces conjoin; disjunct
There, a kind of peep-hole scene: the girl, as if blind
Dances against a sea in a wilderness of darkness  

Her arm Caravaggioing the room
Loving in the air spacial 
An echo

They are drawn and repel in a pinnacle of magnetism 

Both necessary expanding each other’s truth 

Wanton necessity

Each other’s being

The time in a moment, in an instant.  A seething vast epoch of a ‘now’

You cannot have her, you cannot, as she is as the summer breeze 
She’s uncapturable – your pain is in your eye, you create from your greed
She is free and you want her to have not be with allow her hand to
take you, if you could she would break in your ownership of her….


She dances in seasons
The word is motion indicative of what just needs to be  
…he the innocent in this symmetry.  Blindly believes not. 
She, vowing to the god she must worship and adore

A notion deep inside, after all it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive

Blown to one side by the wind
Every sensation except being alone
Drained out of your mind
Stephen Spender on Manuel Altolaguirre

The demon is as the air to life
The forlorn Doppelganger’s knife
Washing and proving the acts
Dealing and playing the facts

The point in which it’s written  
Twisting on
Contorting until
The beauty unnaturally

How beautiful you are, my beloved
How beautiful you are!
Your eyes are doves,
Behind your veil,…
Song of Songs poem 4  

A rhyme flowing as silk in the breeze
She dances against the compass
Against the rules that pre-exist her
And have now predeceased her
Time like scent is.  Unimaginable
Roaring in silent architecture
Attracting the secreted geometries of the past
A silent love sleeps across the horizon
From the souls desire to evolve
Into the need of another

Emancipated for the moment at least from the torment of fantasy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez 

They need not that ill wind
Beneath an iller sun 
That leads to nowhere
As in this dimension
They make another
Some future dimension
In its being

Better a bitter ending than an endless bitterness persian proverb

The sky scarred by the electric blue dragonflies’ wanton wake:
There the innocent Chalk hill Blue darts here-and-there
In its own private chaotic architecture  
She breathes the silken air of soul
Upon a canvas of experience
She lives in night storms torment
And in tomorrow’s 
Until they begin again.

First Published in Danse Macabre 2013


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  

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