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

1991 drafts - recently unearthed

These are two newly unearthed* working drafts of a poem from January 1991 - time of the Gulf War I think!
*(thanks to the archaeological endeavours of my friend Graham)


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



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 pure?

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

MISSION BETRAYED

MISSION BETRAYED
[Redemore 22 August 1485]

Misjudged by many of my peers,
betrayed by those in whom
I placed my trust. Today

I sift through memory,
acknowledge scheming in my blood -
the unquenched thirst

of generations. Betrayal
led me to accept defeat
out of the very jaws

of victory. I clung
to pride.

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

A Judas multiplied
was on my side,
in faith, I thought them

little Christs. Their company
made for me
a lonely ride.

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

The wetlands bogged me down,
Canuted by the rapid-turning tide.

Today I made myself
a pawn
for Tudors grasping hand -

Today I died a King,
upheld the remnants
of my dignity.

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

My crown was no more theft
than fate contrives
to thrust on monarchy itself -

Today I have my pride.


Malcolm Evison

A friend who took over my flat, in 2000AD, has recently moved out and discovered some old working drafts of mine. This is one of them - slightly re-worked. The Subject is Richard III.

ABOUT DEATHS DOOR

     ABOUT DEATH’S DOOR


That day you found
time’s precipice
and never faltered –

to plunge beyond
or else traverse
the tremulous ridge path –

each spelt out welcome
each a warm retreat.

The beckoning remembrance
of worlds created
by the mind and sense –

the wraiths in combat, those
still present
and others already
moved on.

That day you breathed
time’s fall, and fell back
wreathed in living hours.


                            Malcolm Evison


This is an old draft of a poem I’ve just stumbled upon many years after it’s composition. I’m not really sure what I make of it, nor can I remember who I wrote it for but, am nonetheless intrigued by it!
Malcolm

BEING [Fourth Draft]


God spoke –
I dare not listen.

I could not face
the stillness
of simply being there.

God spoke:
there were no words –
I simply saw

the suffering of others.
I could not share

the stillness
of simply being there.

One day I knew
God could not speak -
I used my eyes,

I saw and felt
the suffering of multitudes –
I listened to their cries –

then cautiously I whispered
“I am here”

and from my helplessness
I knew -
that God was there.




Malcolm Evison
28 July 2005

An Attempt At Reverse Fiction Folds

"Unlike my other blogs, this one will be dedicated to an ongoing fiction and (perhaps) occasional poeticisms! +++ The first entry represents THE END of the fictional work (sounds like a reference to TS Eliot); eventually a beginning may disclose itself!"

Thus read the original heading to this 'blog site but, now the site turns toward other purposes. Keep watching .... a sign may soon appear!!

Where It All Started - finally

All that had happened earlier, he safely could ignore. Amnesia was not his own, simply the perogative of those around him. This time he really had let go; he thought a little while about reality but, what the heck, he knew he was no other's keeper!

Slowly he turned to face another day. The calendar unwound itself, he knew he could never return.

Reality?

"Reality, what on earth is that?".

His feet seemed to beat a wild rhythm as he paced up and down, an almost primeval stomp but, this could still not match the pounding in his head.

His eyelids flickered, as if to reveal his uncertainty. Always, the feeling that he was being controlled, swayed by some unseen force, overruled his desire to share; this 'other' held him tight, bound for ever to his own solitary dis-ease. Already, forgetfullness held court ...