AND BLACK

 The following prose poem dates back to the late 1960s

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

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