by David Myatt
One Exquisite Silence
These are the moments of an exquisite silence
As we lie together on your sofa, holding, pressing
Our bodies together
As I, gently, stroke your face and hair
And you kiss each finger of my hand.
There is a fire of logs to warm us,
As night descends:
There are no words to confuse,
No time, as we flow, together,
As clouds on a warm Summer’s day
Beneath a dome of blue.
There is a peace, here, which fills us
As if we are the world and all the beautiful, peaceful, things
Of the world.
Nearby, your two ginger cats sleep
Secure in the warmth of their world
As we are secured while we lie,
Wordless, feeling those subtle energies
Born from no barriers:
You are me as I am you,
In such exquisite moments.
But you belong to another
And it is against my will, my dreams, desires
That I leave
To walk the lonely miles under moonlight
To where a dreary lamp lights my empty room.
Dark Clouds of Thunder
The moment of sublime knowing
As clouds part above the Bay
And the heat of Summer dries the spots of rain
I am, here, now, where dark clouds of thunder
Have given way to blue
Such that the tide, turning,
Begins to break my vow of distance
A women, there, whose dog, disobeying,
Splashes sea with sand until new interest
Takes him where
This bearded man of greying hair
No longer reeks
The smile of joy when Sun of Summer
Presents again this Paradise of Earth
For I am only tears, falling
The Sun, The City
The Sun, the city, to wear such sadness down
For I am only one among the many
Where a night-of-dreams becomes unreal
With all that is human living, dwelling,
Faster slower slowing grateful hateful hoping loving
No Time to relay the inner rush of sorrow
That breaks, broken, by some scheming need to-be
Since the 1-train, conveying, is here to grace me
But there are moments, to still,
When – tasks, duty – done
That inner quietness betrays
So that I sit where
The Sun of English Summer
Would could bring me down
There where the meadow grass had grown
Green greener drier keener
And farm’s field by hedge with scent
Would keep me still but sweating –
No cider to induce
Then that needed paradisal-sleep.
And now: now I only this all this,
One being cavorting where one past melds
To keep me silent, still, so that the sidewalk
Is only that sidewalk, there
Where hope, clustering, fastly moves us
Good, bad, indifferent – it makes no difference:
I am no one to judge so many, any,
So that there is – becomes – only the walk faster slower slowing here
And we free in Sun to trust to sleep to-be to seep a dream
Bought at some cost, to many:
Fidelis ad Mortem
And yet there is the Sun, the city, to witness how we can should must break
Such sadness down.
I once drank you
Knowing no difference because of herbs.
She held me, her cunning hands
That did not wish
Nor offer the warmth that snared my soul:
The wine was
Intoxicating our senses
But only I was drunk:
I needed rest
Dreaming marriage under sun –
Until bright morning came
When she, alas, changed
Her form in the reality of the room
And I was left to walk with my sack
Down the dusty track
Past a grove of sun-burnt trees
Toward those distant hills:
And yet the white-washed house was only
Along my Way.
There is an ineffable sadness
For your eyes betray that warmth, that beauty,
That brings me down
To where even my street-hardened Will cannot go:
So I am sad, almost crying
Outside, there is no sun to warm
As yesterday when I touched the warmth of your breasts
And the wordless joy of ecstatic youth
Lived to suffuse if only briefly with world-defying life
This tired battle-bruised body
But now: clouds, rain-bleakness
To darken such dreams as break me.
For there are many places I cannot go.
So this is Peace:
As the Sun of warm November
Warms and the grass grows with such mildness.
No strife, here;
No place beyond this place
As Farm meets meadow field
And I upon some hessian sack sit, write
To hear some distant calls from hedged-in sheep:
To stir the fallen leaves
That lie among the seeds, there
Where the old Oak towers, shading fence
And the pond is hazed with midges.
So this is the peace, found
Where dew persists,
Flies feed to preen to rest
And two Robins call from among that tangled brambled
Whose berries – unplucked, ripened – rot,
While the Fox-worn trail wobbles
Through three fields.
So, the silent Buzzard soars
To shade me briefly:
No haste, nor worry, here
Only that, of this, a peaceful peace
When we who wait, wait to walk with Nature.
So there is much sadness, leaving
As the damp field-mists of morning
Have given way
Closeness Becomes Us
This is the life of silence
As she lives warm, within –
There where a net of dreams is woven
By a day’s walk, a night’s love,
And those hopes that stretched out as our hands entwining
Seeking some horizon
Where the cloudy sky of our dull October day
Became the silky sandful warmful Summer smoothness of beach
Beside a sea azure, Sunful, clear – and warming.
These are the moments of her silence
As she lies warm within such arms as hold her
And the blood of sleep, slowing, keeps her still
Because the nighful sky of night is still
And the breath to keep her living
Is a gentle tide to ebb to rise to flow
Upon our shore of sharing.
There is sand still – a little – between her toes
Unwashed by such haste as brought us
Back, back to one bed shared
Because we could not would not wait
To be together to seep again
Here where, door locked, the world divides
To be only that which we feel dream see, and flow
Here where daylight seeped sepia-softly
To become our starlit night bright
Now, now surely I have dreams memories ecstasy enough
To keep the inner smile
As time, my time, seeps to break me
As those three score years and ten seek to break
Each Earth-dwelling being of Life.
So, three decades older, I touch and touch with gentle touch
The warm soft tautful flesh that keeps her youth
The way our warmth melds us
As the scent of night, sea and sex
Melds together to be a perfume for her Sun
To warm me here
Where I am nothing more than moments.
For these are such moments of a loveful silence
That I could die here peaceful in her sleepful scented arms
Wandering English Lanes
What is there left but each passing moment, past?
No -ism, -ology, idea here to break our balanced Earthful connexion:
As that butterfly there is only that butterfly-there,
Moving as all futures unplanned.
No goal to satiate as haste hungers so many humans.
For what is, is only that knowing of this –
A Time unmeasured in duration,
Flowing as Sun above horizon there:
No hours as slope of hill meets with river field,
Only Skylarks rising, since Spring, begun, is fading fast to Summer
And river flowing slows to greet in greeting that bending bend, there.
Warm to humid here where hedge agrees with verge
And which, uncut, so keeps our english-green:
And I am this all this and sighing sit with almost tears.
One car – from what to where – speeding and then the breeze
To seep in peaceful peace.
So sleep with Sun until walk to Inn to satiate a thirst.
What is there left then but wandering rencounter
Back where weird beings seeding merge themselves
A Summer Sun
Crows calling while sheep cry
By the road that shall take them
To their death:
I sit, while sun lasts
And bleeds my body dry
In this last hour before dark
On a day when a warm wind
Carried the rain that washed
A little of this valley
Like the stream washes
There are no trees to soften
This sun – only heather and fern
To break the sides of the hill.
I cannot keep this peace
I have found –
It seems unformed like water
Becomes unformed without a vessel
A channel or some stream:
It cannot be contained
As I contain my passion and my dreams.
There are no answers I can find
Only the vessel of walks in hills
Whereby I who seek
Am brought toward the magick peak
That keeps this hidden world
It does not last
But like the cirrus cloud
Is blown by breeze to free
A summer sun.
Only Time Has Stopped
Here I have stopped
Because only Time goes on within my dream:
Yesterday I was awoken, again,
And she held me down
With her body warmth
Until, satisfied, I went alone
And trying to remember:
A sun in a white clouded sky
Morning dawn yellow
Sways the breath that, hot, I exhale tasting of her lips.
The water has cut, deep, into
The estuary bank
And the mallard swims against the flow –
No movement, only effort.
Nearby – the foreign ship which brought me
Is held by rusty chains
Which, one day and soon
And peeling them like its paint,
Here I shall begin again
Because Time, at last, has stopped
Since I have remembered the dark ecstasy
Which brought that war-seeking Dream
Sun, broken by branch, seeps
Where spreading roots have cracked
The stones, overgrown, perhaps,
For an hundred years
From a seed, flesh fed, the oak
Relict of William
And a breeze, stirring again
The leaves of an Autumn’s green gold
The Two Faces
I am the two faces of God –
Vox Patris Caelestis –
While, within, a lewd Satan grins
Playing at Change:
My pieces are human who cried
At my hurt.
I am alone, the cry
While Treble voices sing
Echoing, and strange shadows long dead
Dance too briefly along the cloister wall.
There is pain as I stare
Past dying sun and a valley
Trying to believe while stars break
And a crescent moon
Glowing like the whore’s eyes
In that dark room
Jibbers over the heavy breasts
Of the hill:
To veil her shame.
No one, nothing
Air, and I sit, still waiting
And remembering prayer.
In the ruins, my dead self comes to life
Rising slowly, worm-slowly
To the first singing blackness
No answers, nothing:
Only this tramp sheltering
In the ruins of a church –
And memories, yes there are memories
Like the lies of my life
It is raining
And I am watered
There is warmth in love
Which explains my wait
By this road while cars pass
Noisy in the shielding dark:
My spirit is not seen as it sits
On the wooden bench where hill
Meets valley sky
And where a standing stone waits
To whisper words
Of a language that has died.
But I listen, while rain falls,
Hearing your cry.
Always a dream or a memory
Lead us on
And we wait like children
Trusting in the spirits of the Earth.
We love unsuspecting
While they our lovers scheme,
Succour themselves on our blood
And bleed us dry.
There is a sun as we sit
In the heat of a summer
On this bench as new lovers
Holding hands –
Transmuting all the dark days
The tears of our past
In the touch that mingles our auras
As they must be mingled to bring
The words of our waiting stone
Always this dream
Leads me on.
But it is raining
And in the rain I hear
Your spirit cry
cc David Myatt 1976-2012 ce
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