The Poet

I've just been riffling through a few old working manuscripts and stumbled upon this one written sometime between 1969 and 1971.

THE POET

That is, if I dare say, my destiny. To grasp

and to expand, each feeling moment. Eternity

not mere renewal. Fearing the used-words

of my thought. My destiny. Are the words mine

to use, is any word, a property. I speak

in fear of loosely spoken

words. My destiny!

***********

Today and alone, I return. To what –

all has changed and still I know it is.

My returning. Home and the word

And the thought of the word. Home, and the skies

are open, and a song

of welcome pounds through my veins. Home,

and my eyes can see the song.

Today. And no more alone. I return.

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

And night conceals. Not even a whisper is heard.

So silently another dawn – and the fields,

the fields open as if to swallow me. I sit

and remember

(before the night/ another today)

a home. A destiny.

Alive. A sound. A shattering.

A whisper of you

from you for me. All is alive

with sound. The yawning trees, the birds

burst into song – the trees and images

of you. The blossoming and songs.

Songs in my mind and you

beside me. A song. A touch of you

on me; I feel

that you need me (not only I need you)

a sound, a touch – transforming words into

a destiny.

Malcolm Evison

TRANSFORMED (for Helen)

TRANSFORMED

(for Helen)

Right now I feel

the urge to scream

forget the aching limbs

dance deftly

on the brim

of my emotions.

Right now

I feel the lure of love

the light

that breaches

my stoical defence.

I see your face

I glow with joy -

right now

there is no you or I

as we rejoice.

Right now I am

alive with you -

I feel -

imbibe the air of this

our perfect world.

Malcolm Evison

13 December 2006

A Way of Seeing

A WAY OF SEEING


This room is an echo –
echo of all my dreams. The actor
waiting for a role. The preacher listening
to silent voices, expecting
tongues of flame. The fields
are tumbling
down towards the road. Alone,
that’s not like loneliness, a brightness

flows from distant murmuring.
Approaching friends, or strangers even.
The valley is alive, the room
is echoing
with hope. Pain falls
a victim to its own dis-ease. The room

is light; the light reveals
my will to see. It enters me.

I dwell
in brightened shadows,
ignoring shadowed light.


Malcolm Evison

A Question of Balance

A QUESTION OF BALANCE

Garnering the thoughts
of others, he fails
to find some of his own -

he holds back tears to show
he does not share
the fears others know.

He balances the cost of feeling
against the numbness
of blind fate. He sighs

and calculates the cost
of caring, avoids the sharing
of any others woe.

He always felt that questions
would sustain his growth -
he never claimed to know.

He bought himself
a ticket to ride
then found

he had no place to go.


Malcolm Evison
19 November 2006

Aubade (sans le soleil)

AUBADE (sans le soleil)



Wrapped futilely
in the realm of beauty sleep –
dawn rarely dawns on me.

Long after the appointed hour,
the room is thunder-black -
draw back the curtains.

The sky has lost
its breathing space –
choked by the clouds,

voluptuously hanging
in their mourning drapes –
symbolic of a troubled world.

I sigh, and seek
the duvet’s solace –

for me the day
has not yet quite begun.




Malcolm Evison
26 October 2006

EMBRACE

EMBRACE


Wrapped in each other
we break illusions
of our separateness.

As bodies merge
we lose location
finding our place

in vaster schemes.
Thanksgiving, sanctified
with each embrace,

transmits a joy
beyond our reckonings.
Today

love knows no bounds.



Malcolm Evison
22 October 2006

Her Book

HER BOOK

Loose pages from time
collated and combined
to form a seal. ‘Fidelity’

italicized, illumined
on the manuscript –
an idol or ideal

once thought immutable.
Priestess enfleshed
as traditor, she stumbles

on her many tentacled
equivocation –
recalls the ritual

rending of the veil.
No longer able to maintain
her former love’s sectarian claim

she riffles through the pages
of her life. A few words
underlined, her youth transcribed

on parchment; genial memories
transformed into mysteries –

a facile binding
of a former liberty.



Malcolm Evison

NIGHT SHIFTS

NIGHT SHIFTS


Aimlessly walking through
the quiet town, an echo
painlessly affirms belonging.

Night falls;
the day disintegrates -
all reference fails.

I cannot wrap this world
in meaning. Slowly it burns
out the old images, the worn

words, the soiled. This is
the turning point; the nights
calm trodden underfoot.

Hold out your hands;
capture a fragment
of the neon-splintered

sky. A window brightly
shouts its wares.
Stares

into darkness
and reveals
its own banality.



Malcolm Evison (1978)

A Piscine Ploy

A PISCINE PLOY


Suspended in anticipation;
slow motion animation
is the name

of their new game.
They could be simply basking
in the sun

but I
with cynics heart and eye
suspect more base Intent.

Scatter
a few morsels
of delight –

Shatter
their tranquillity.
They swoop

like vultures –
swiftly devour
a non-resisting prey.




Malcolm Evison
3 – 8 September 2006

A Spun Illusion

A SPUN ILLUSION


A few slender lines
of spider silk

stretch
between wild grasses

deflect
and tantalize
the sun’s beams –

like wingless dragonflies -
a plenitude of insects seems
to haunt the lines –

an intermittent
iridescent sheen

darts between threads
and blithely skips

along the spider’s
anchoring



Malcolm Evison
8 September 2006

SONG FOR D

SONG FOR D

Sometimes an unforced smile

masks out fragility, band-aid

applied instead

of tourniquet. Sometimes

a fought for strength

defies understanding –

proclaims that everything

will be alright –

denies the fault line

that strives to undermine

the songs foundation.

Sometimes

we must return, strive

to uncover

a truth already known.

Malcolm Evison
3 September 2006

Rhythm of the Rain

A first tentative draft responding to my wake-up call!

RAINDROPS KEEP FALLING OVERHEAD

Full-bounce, full taps -
the odd rim-shot
snapped out –

the rapping rain asserts
its skylight presence.

Entranced -
I listen as
it riffs away -

a paradiddle plenitude
marks my emergence
into day.

Then lightening
fires a cymbal crash –

a bass drum sostenuto
now holds sway.




Malcolm Evison
18 August 2006

Morning Song

Morning Song


The large whites demonstrate
flirtatious flying

red dragonfly reflects
a darting counterpoint

to food frenzied
goldfish

the morning radiates
pure energy

unlocks
my heavy-lidded eyes.


Malcolm Evison
16 August 2006

Unveiling

UNVEILING (Draft II)

Some days, a few words
scribbled down in haste,
a simple melody, a subtle
turn of phrase, unclothes

another’s world. And there,
beneath a supple shell, you find
a heart that bleeds;
it seeds itself beneath

the skin, you share the pain,
then seek to radiate the joy
their presence in the world
discloses. Some days you know

that you are not alone. The wave
that rises, through the words and song,
washes away your frown. You share
a smile, a caring strength;

you know your world
can never be the same.

Sometimes, a word of thanks reveals
that we can overcome;
sometimes a body sings the joy
of sharing; sometimes

we simply share
the pain of caring.




Malcolm Evison
06 August 2006

Squirrel In The 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

THE YO-YO MAN

Whirling, it made the day
seem shorter than
all other days had been.

It sang and leapt
at his fine tuned command;
his finger tingled,

as the loop pulled tight.
He winced a smile. For now,
he'd thrown his cares away;

next time, perhaps,
he'd simply let them go.


Malcolm Evison

The Fear of Fall

THE FEAR OF FALL


Though clouds have cleared
still I fear

their returning fall.

Your smile reflects
my whispered yearning –

presence and absence
jointly affirming

love’s own reality.

Each meeting proclaims
a joyous creation –

departing pre-figures
my fear
of the final fall.


Malcolm Evison

AND BLACK

AND BLACK


Night falls; the day disintegrates. All in a moment.

Have I been sleeping, or, is it a miracle? No-one can answer for me. I close the shutters of my mind, but always there is something. Always something there; no way of escape. Soon there will be another day, I know that – the mind cannot rest, but today, all I have done is forgotten. I can feel it, always the burden is there. Today, always there is a brooding yesterday, tomorrow will be another today.

I look. The mirror. I look into the mirror and see that I need a shave. “Tomorrow”, I say to myself, “tomorrow I will shave. It is no use now, tonight. I have a pen in my hand – it’s useless, how can I shave with a pen?”

Another voice: “I’ve caught you out. I can see you, you’re shaving”. But you cannot shave with a pen. You can chew it, write with it, just hold on to it. But you cannot shave. Again the voice, the same voice, “so you’re shaving; going out somewhere? Take me with you?”

I prevent myself from answering.

*******

The calendar tells lies. I know it; that’s tomorrows date; it’s always tomorrows date. I point at the calendar, put on a stern expression, and speak. “Why do you try to deceive me, what right have you to come here, interfering with my life?” The calendar is silent; must know better than to pick an argument with me.

I smile, slowly ….. a smile ….. spreads

RIGHT ACROSS MY FACE

A last mad dash, and the smile is there. I feel it. I know it. I’m smiling. And I rush in vain seeking a mirror. I will not allow it. “You must stop”, again a voice, a strange voice, “you are not smiling, you are weeping. Forget your pride. It is tomorrow and you are weeping”.

“It is always tomorrow”, I sigh.

All mean-minded night falls.

*******

I am the city, green is the country; and black. The city is hope written in neon. I am the sprawling grey. I can always hope, for the city is warm, but the fields beyond lie green and cold. I am the city, green is the country. “And black” says the voice, “and black”.

The city is. The city dreams. The city says dream.

IT IS DREAMING

“Again”. All exclaim – “again!” Yes, again.

THE CITY

It is trying to speak. Talking to you.

AGAIN

The city says dream. They all dream.

DREAM

The city is within. It is heavy. The people. Outside there is only emptiness. I am the city, and emptiness, like the face of a lonely man, terrifies me. Fear is the face of a man. A man alone. I am not alone. I; I am the city.

The people are the city is the people are the city is the people.

I am. The city is. I am the city.

*******

Now is the sum total of then. It is not constant. Is then so very far away? I can never remember, only feel it. Always tomorrow. It is always tomorrow, even the calendar tells me it is tomorrow. And I thought I was being deceived.

No; the deceit was in my mind. No-one or no-thing can deceive me. I deceive myself. It is always tomorrow, but today there is no cause for worry. It is the night, the night and the voices. The mirror. I am still standing by the mirror, there is blood all around my mouth. I have been shaving, I must have cut myself. Lying on the floor, beneath the mirror, an open razor. I pick it up, and write a poem with it. I always use red ink; each word then seems like a sacrifice.

I pick up the razor and write a poem. The calendar reflects in the mirror. I turn the mirror upside down.

I am standing on my head. It is night-time, and I am alone with the voice, standing on my head. The voice. I hear it again, “you thought you could fool me. You failed, you miserable wretch, you failed. Why pretend to shave; anyone knows you can’t shave standing on your head”. No; but I can write; I cannot shave but I can write.

Ridiculous!

All the time there was only me. There are no voices. I’m not going mad. It’s the calendar; it’s all the calendars fault. Shave with a pen indeed. Who does he think he is? The image upturned; I cannot shave, but I write, taking the mirror into myself.

There is a silence.
Night falls, the day disintegrates. I laugh to myself; “tomorrow I will return to the country. It’s a pity really; I so like like town-life, but I must return. The countryside is green, the city is neon lights ….

“And black”, adds the voice; “and black”.

********

Black. Reflections on black nothing. Cloth on wood in glass on wood in black. It is nothing – only there. There to be discovered. As it is, I try, I try to grasp it. I think ( a mystery can only be discovered as it is) again. Somewhere out there are people. I am here and the window is black and I am in the window on the black. (It is not really black) I think again (but I must take it so) I demand of myself (to retain the mystery). I, in taking will also take the people; they are powerless – I have decided. Out there somewhere – the people - they do not even know that I exist (perhaps I am a mystery waiting to be taken in freedom. In I am the taking as I will be taken am in the freedom of the here-being in the mystery of of … but maybe I am not … to them perhaps … I am not) for I have been, all my life, beside this table, in the room, where outside it is now dark – and there is nothing only the (Black) reflections on the (glass) nothing that is out there and contains (somewhere / the people) and …




Malcolm Evison

TAO

                      

TAO





Proud and unsanely tread the way
toward the way which is
the way you tread

as all the new beginnings
fade away

into a past
which never dead
is now

the only way to tread.


                


                    Malcolm Evison

On The Road To The Isles

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