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Comment by FrankSavages on June 3, 2009 at 11:57pm

A Moment of Truth. In Verse and in Stone...

Behold as your doubt becomes real,

and fear the truth in its skin of uncouth,

as you witness the zeal, and the fact of unreal,

without doubt, beyond proof, as a fact not an act,

but upon you right now in this moment,

in stone....

savage 2009.

Comment by john winstanley on December 2, 2008 at 2:34am

Comment by john winstanley on December 2, 2008 at 2:33am

Comment by john winstanley on December 2, 2008 at 2:32am

Comment by dawn hilton on November 7, 2008 at 10:35am

Dead or alive, asleep or awake, in tune or in channel, aware or unaware, where am I?

Life is so confusing
Where am I?
If I’m asleep, am I dead?
Am I still aware or unaware?
Where am I?
Am I in a channel of thought?
Am I in tune or out of tune?
Am I in a state of the unknown?
Who can answer me now? There I am only me locked up in here!
Who would know where I am?
I don’t care that’s for sure.
Yet I know where I am, does any one care where I AM?
Do I care where I am?
Should I care?
Dead or alive is all the same, we are all in the same mind game.

Dawn Hilton
6th November 2008

Comment by kyle patterson on November 7, 2008 at 4:01am

Sickness and Reverie


I am sick; time steps back, its presence unwelcome and ludicrous,
ceding the scene to diffused light leaking through the white window above
the bed; only the present instant exists then, deprived of any tie with the
adjacent instants, able to last unendingly; one never knows how long the
sickness will retain its hold, only certain that sickness draws a solid line
between its obscure weightlessness and the hasty everyday; a shameless
intrusion into the order of things that used to appear so steadfast, obliterating the rituals and demands; all of a sudden, they are not appropriate, nor
is there room for them; sickness has no sense of history and movement, it is
immobility itself, a refusal to rush forward, a wilful backwardness, the
antipode of craving for conquest; reverie is its sister, emerging as a cascade
of short-lived images, yes, they are so alike indeed, both disrupting the
habitual flight of days like a tear in the fabric, both taking their time
jealously, with indulgent dedication.

I am surely sick; sickness is a capricious companion, locking up in
the shell of estrangement; as if there was nothing to be told to anyone, no
use in telling anything to anyone, some morbid apprehension that such
efforts are predestined to be barren; oh, sickness is a refined cognoscente,
skilled in the art of sly substitution, it prefers alluring poetry stanzas and
entwining mandolin drones to a lively company; the ailing is the twin of a
diligent friar, devotedly copying the manuscripts in his secluded cell and
intentionally forgetting everything beyond its walls; the ailing is the
inhabitant of his own tower, deeply unsure if anyone notices him or if he is
a mere spectre, perhaps; here is also the one sunk in reverie, already
irrevocably incapable of escaping it, ever perpetuating the state of self-
induced somnambulism; only the incorporeal reflections of something
supposedly to be found out there surround him, though he is the last one to
know where exactly the mythical land lies; he is lost for the realm of the
concrete, yet still disguising his sickness as an attitude, a deliberate manner
of life.

I am merely sick; after all, sickness is not elegiac decadence or noble
solitude, calling things by their true names, deceptive literary pseudonyms
aside; the diagnose is unequivocal, grasped in all its vulgar and repulsive
bareness; the ailing, transcending the fear of acceptance, longs only for the
cure, a leap beyond sickness into a celebration of vitality; a hand reached
out and seeking, a gaze unshielded and ardent, so apparent yet unattainable, torment him ever since; slightest gesture welcoming to renounce the
nausea is a precious gift; pale delight in deficiency loses its charm, surrendering to yearning for simplicity and wholeness, able to bridge the schism;
concealed intuition whispers that the remedy’s image has always been
present, nameless and fluid, vanishing round the corner before it could be
recognized; it is only possible to be found, not to find, the rules of the game
that one has no choice but to accept; the healing comes as if merely passing
by, never on time, after one has almost abandoned the hope.

?

Comment by Monika Macken on November 5, 2008 at 12:59pm

Marvellous poem and a very very good poet....Touching and true.

Comment by dawn hilton on November 5, 2008 at 3:09am

Wow Kyle, a very deep and emotional work.xx

Comment by kyle patterson on November 5, 2008 at 3:00am

"Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies"

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a
jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't
curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God!
Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,
—mothers and fathers don't die.

And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be
kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with
your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having
fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died,
who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries;
they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake
them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide
back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Comment by john winstanley on November 5, 2008 at 12:30am

ok cheers dawn--will look into that--ta--j

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