PROMISE

PROMISE

and nightfall brings
the promise of release
from daily toil

the neon skyline
shimmeringly bathes
the arena of desire

in technicolour majesty

Malcolm Evison 

a few nights ago - in the wee small hours - these lines emerged, shaped and reshaped themselves, as I lay in that hinterland between wakefulness and restlessness - I scribbled them down before trying to settle back to sleep and I've just rediscovered
the scribbled note

                                         

Nightscape with Rainfall

 

 

Nightscape with Rainfall

 

 

The rudiments of fear

trace each step;

the hollow echoes

dampered by the rain.

 

Haunted by absences -

the lack

of any company

to take the chill away -

 

a sudden surge

of cowardice betrays

his vanity.

 

The rudiments of fear

trace each step,

the hollow echo

silenced by the rain.

 

The last bedraggled remnant

of false pride

lies submerged

in his timid haste.

 

 

                       Malcolm Evison

TWILIGHT SEARCH

TWILIGHT SEARCH

The mind finds purpose

in pursuit of meaning;

openly seeking,

not knowing what.

The sky is vacant,

anaemically slate blue;

but night will fall,

add colour

to a pallid firmament.

The eye will forge

patterns

from a scattering

of stars.

The mind pursues

a greater scheme –

not knowing what.

Malcolm Evison

20 April 2008

Two Lakeland Poems

These poems were both written in 1980

CONISTON WATER

Sudden blackness
turns away the light -
the lake suffused
with night, mirrors

a range of hills
reaching for fallen stars.
A dark reflection

trapped

between opaque shores.


Malcolm Evison



LANGDALE PIKES

Thrusting, as if to burst
the blue day's calm -
these pinnacles erupt

to destroy, or magnify
the ranging line -
we tremble as they breast

the solitudes of time.


Malcolm Evison


Two more archive poems have been posted by your truly on 'Archive MIned and Freshly Spun' under the title SMILES and FEARS

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

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)

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