MAL's FACTORY - Poetry & Prose Poems

A companion to THE WORD OF SINNA LUVVA blog. An Outlet for new poems, drafts of poems and even rediscovered or reworked ones! For more poetry by Malcolm Evison see the Related Sites listing.

Thursday, June 11, 2020

Word

        Word

       
The pain of not to know
a words true meaning -
(a heartfelt paradox
so tautologically entwined)

brain travels inscapes
of the mind

the universe declaims
I AM - the exocentric
altar. Delving
through layers of time

exploring a fresh terrain -
we dream of worlds
where words were not yet

known. We fail to understand.


Seeking our solace
in links with primal man -
we feel the air vibrate

with all our fears,
and through the storm
we hear the voice that tears
at our discretion.

All is, and nought eludes
our sense, each particle
is new, and each the wholeness.

Then vision fades.



Unable to untie
our deepest fears,
from realms of theory,

we seek salvation
in vacuity -

unable to unite
the reasons for this life
with joy in living

we yearn for sunlight
to dissipate the gloom -
at each encounter
ache for renewed creation.

The phase explodes -

gone is all sense
and reason yields
to circumstance.


Our reminiscence magnifies
the mis-spent days -
heroic sacrifice
now reeks of self-abuse.

Our word-linked knowledge
looks to primal man -

speaking of worlds
where words were not yet known -

no matter how we squirm
we fail to understand

that words
are still the master
of the man.

                      
                              Malcolm Evison      

rediscovered fragment - weft and warp



Weft and warp the winding river
Weaves a sky-glass mirror wide
Where broken reeds in woeful frolic dance

And all of nature is a song field
Happy singing softly low
Hush waves sift across the shallows
Humming pebbles flow

In my mind I know no resting
See the country torment side
Burdened down with woeful pity
Watching sorrow crease their smiles

In the heaving night I lie awake
I lie awake and think of green of day
When I with you through fields will wander
Our love we must not squander away

Away dull cares and lift the heavy shield
That guards my ears and eyes
I want to live, to breathe, to love
Far from my captive sighs



Malcolm Evison

(a rediscovered fragment of a poem I was working on circa 1966 – no prize for guessing the poet to whom it was indebted)

Monday, December 16, 2019

Squirrel in the Rain - repost

       
Having watched the acrobatic antics of a squirrel,  in various parts of our garden, this morning, I thought it was maybe time to repost this poem!


Squirrel InThe Rain



He perches, in sparkling eyed contemplation
of the goal. Like some celebrated stylite,
he squats on his post, oblivious
to the hostile elements. My stare

intrudes upon his gaze; defiance
resonates across the intervening space. And then
the sudden leap,
a precarious landing on the ridge; teeth bared

he nuzzles the meshwork tower,
seeking nutrition.

Losing his grip,
he hastily takes flight, back
to the stepping stone beam -
the garden fence’s parapet.

A sudden sure footed spring onto the post;
I stare at him, he glowers back at me,
brush-tail twitching. I sense
a mood of defiance; he leaps once more
to the bird tables roof.

A turbulent manoeuvre finds
a covered plateau. A sense
of instability
takes charge. He beats
a hasty retreat.

Post squatted,
he focusses once more.
He steels himself,
then springs.

The glistening plastic proves
more than a match; he takes
a floundering fall
into the sodden undergrowth.

Bedraggled, he climbs the austere fence,
tail discomfortedly curled,
shakes vigorously. The watery beads
propel themselves from body into air.

Straight tailed, disconsolate,
he beats retreat
along the wooden parapet.                 

                                   

                                      Malcolm Evison
                                      22 May 2006 


             

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

Two Poems dis-interred as a result of the High Court trampling on (the same) workers rights

Today the High Court found an excuse to prevent the CWU from taking strike action in spite of the ballot receiving 97% support for their action! 

The two poems below date from October 2017 when the Tory High Court previously ruled against these workers rights.




Tuesday, August 20, 2019

Closing The Deal



I just stumbled upon some scribbled random lines & words I'd hastily drafted in March 2017 and elsewhere a few scribbled random lines from April 2017. This afternoon I played around with the two separate entities before realising that they really belonged together, hence the following:
.



Closing The Deal


once having flown
too close to a werewolf moon
he struggled to provide

a blueprint for his own
corrupted furrow –
his joy

was rarely ever real –
but cynicism
worn as self-defence

though jocular
was more
like the true deal-

he dreamt of heroes
but all too soon became
a doleful clown



Malcolm Evison
-         20 August 2019










Wednesday, July 24, 2019

The Candle (one poem - two versions)


Although most of the drafts for these two versions of the same poem were written in January 1991 (during phase two of the First Gulf War), subsequently modified in 2005, I am still unable to decide which is the final version. Each version has its merits and no doubt their flaws too.

THE CANDLE (Version I)

Waiting to break
this happy equilibrium
the flames shaft

laps the glowing air.
Today the bombs
fall on Baghdad –

I watch the candle burn.
A patterned globe
of wax emits

a subtle fragrance –
no flesh is burning
here in my room.

Is this the flame
that purifies –
surgically pue?

An opening of the door –
a minor turbulence,
the flame now licks

the candles side.
The meltdown of the globe
begins so casually.


Malcolm Evison

*************************

THE CANDLE (Version II)

A patterned globe
of wax emits
a subtle fragrance.

The flames shaft
laps the glowing air
waiting to break

this happy equilibrium.
Is this the flame
that purifies

whilst commentators whine

of surgical strikes.
Open the door, create
a minor turbulence –

the flame now licks
the candles side –
the meltdown of the globe

began precisely
with the strike
of that first match.

Today the bombs
rain down; a patterned globe
emits the stench

of burning flesh.

          

   Malcolm Evison

Monday, July 01, 2019

Continue-uMM


                        
              Continue-uMM (second draft)


                               time alone knows
what it is
it passages through life

but as for all the rest -
quite unaware
of what makes it tick

we struggle on -
but are we fixed
in an imaginary

continuum


                              Malcolm Evison
@ what I choose to call
30 June 2019 / 01 July 2019

Sunday, April 07, 2019

On The Road To The Isles - repost




ON THE ROAD TO THE ISLES

Numbed by this alien terrain,
where truth spells a montony
of rain, we ride entombed

towards our Shangri-La.

Each fresh horizon
taunts the tired eye,
echoes the fretful sense

of hours gone by.

A weariness pervades
this no-man's land.

*****

Go West young man!
We make our final fling -

turning to be embraced
by fire. The mist resorbed,
light's pan-theophany

revives a blighted mind.

Rainbows and thunderfall engrave
their echoes on the boundary
of our wonderment, refresh

a dormant sense.
The sky line seethes -
sun sanctified.

*****

White, searing, the unseen sun
burns from the core
of mountains, transforms

a shroud of haze
into a panoply of light.
Rocks swallowed by, still seize

upon this shimmering -
a spectral residue
of more torrential times.



Malcolm Evison