POETRY CORNER: ‘Lifting Me Higher’

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Lifting me higher
as low grade red mines
over-sprout green, thick and moist
a one way ticket from madness
although no certain destination
I feel calm
zero/numb

I don’t overstretch my luck in abundance
I have no heavy and overly lofty desires
to be a universal, ubiquitous never satisfied sun king
too much; turbo balls smashing
only my anonymity is king

Life on a snake-oiled tightrope line
Devils square rooting on blind fast loop
So far my classic neurones keep the elusive glass
white and bright
even at my lowest ebb
when all I see is dust and empty boxes

Yet the moon is always there
So is my imagination
Dogs keep barking
as the cricket symphonies pump and power the stars
and matter I’ll never know

 


By Nicholas Peart

Originally written on 15th February 2015

(All rights reserved)

 

Image source: http://www.time.com

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POETRY CORNER: ‘Junkyard Sacrifice’

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Breakdown still 1 (2014) by Nicholas Peart

 

well I would talk forward
in candle phone motion
on the arm a hit to lift off
till we make the star spangled banner in the sky positioned to face

the padded floor of consistency moving and changing at a height only you could predict
no one will ever know

amazed by the sight
shamed by the lack
of tangible potential area
I want to feel…
a funtime waiting
from the source of the shield… the source of real mankind
the route of chance
a destination
we don’t look back
once the needle plays
all the points A to Z
(the comedown back to alpha)

television
wireless
all our material possessions:
a ride
that’s all it is…
just a ride
to the apple of the universal broken heart…

through the mirror we’ll see and find ways to mend

with what’s left…
with haste…

with passion…
combined thought control…
sealing the wings to complete
the spiritual circulation to the next level eyes forming from the back of the head now connecting to the constellations we’re all a part…
purer…
the strait of unity constructed
from the backbone rubble of the past…

and how it shines

blinding the moons all turning
so surreptitiously their duty

then morning another ball

to do the job
its oyster
of many years
in between…
and a mere crumb of these years are yours and mine

 

By Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection In Arctic Measure (poems 2004-7)

(All rights reserved)

POETRY CORNER: ‘Crowland’

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A Winter In Crowland (2008) by Nicholas Peart

 

pulsating hornet brew on growth mutations

around the stuck up stations

immense in time revered around the world

calling across the fine lines

separating the shielded divide

from the unruly philistines penetrated by the big eyed rays from Venus

settling debts on broken chimney tops

a stretch

unicorn and leprechaun dreams

on the psychedelic reel

of the next year of the horse in junction

with the insatiable beat

of the sound of hollow cries

defending the name

to go by then breaking their necks over

counter pleasures for real

really had to make the grain

in track to be when you let it out

scaling orange sunsets reflecting maggots

a plenty on hooks

to fry

and worthless degree of harm no crime

posing fatal marks

dripping red on polluted greens

something to tell your grandchildren to go by

and reassess what’s done

to predict impossible to say

get once you sterilzed

on every bit of bark

coming close to caving in

projectile promises airbrush

the scope of needs and well being

intact

diving through the combative

vertigo waving the sky

in time to the rhythm

perceived along stained riverbanks

to the holes of the crows counting rapid fire

and innovative skill burning white hot

waiting for the end to get nearer.

 

By Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection In Arctic Measure (poems 2004-7)

(All rights reserved)

POETRY CORNER: ‘Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks And You’ by Charles Bukowski

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For me this is one of Charles Bukowski’s strongest poems written in the 1960s. This poem exudes multilevel life experiences as well as all worlds of joy and pain. Bukowski was an ultra sensitive soul who felt life much more deeply and acutely than most. This poem is testament to this. 

 

we have everything and we have nothing
and some men do it in churches
and some men do it by tearing butterflies
in half
and some men do it in Palm Springs
laying it into butterblondes
with Cadillac souls
Cadillacs and butterflies
nothing and everything,
the face melting down to the last puff
in a cellar in Corpus Christi.
there’s something for the touts, the nuns,
the grocery clerks and you . . .
something at 8 a.m., something in the library
something in the river,
everything and nothing.
in the slaughterhouse it comes running along
the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it —
one
two
three
and then you’ve got it, $200 worth of dead
meat, its bones against your bones
something and nothing.
it’s always early enough to die and
it’s always too late,
and the drill of blood in the basin white
it tells you nothing at all
and the gravediggers playing poker over
5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass
to dismiss the frost . . .
they tell you nothing at all.

we have everything and we have nothing —
days with glass edges and the impossible stink
of river moss — worse than shit;
checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,
fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as
in victory; slow days like mules
humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed
up a road where a madman sits waiting among
bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey
grey.
good days too of wine and shouting, fights
in alleys, fat legs of women striving around
your bowels buried in moans,
the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering
Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground
telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves
that robbed you.
days when children say funny and brilliant things
like savages trying to send you a message through
their bodies while their bodies are still
alive enough to transmit and feel and run up
and down without locks and paychecks and
ideals and possessions and beetle-like
opinions.
days when you can cry all day long in
a green room with the door locked, days
when you can laugh at the breadman
because his legs are too long, days
of looking at hedges . . .

and nothing, and nothing, the days of
the bosses, yellow men
with bad breath and big feet, men
who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk
as if melody had never been invented, men
who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and
profit, men with expensive wives they possess
like 60 acres of ground to be drilled
or shown-off or to be walled away from
the incompetent, men who’d kill you
because they’re crazy and justify it because
it’s the law, men who stand in front of
windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,
men with luxury yachts who can sail around
the world and yet never get out of their vest
pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men
like slugs, and not as good . . .
and nothing, getting your last paycheck
at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an
aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a
barbershop, at a job you didn’t want
anyway.
income tax, sickness, servility, broken
arms, broken heads — all the stuffing
come out like an old pillow.

we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay —
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! — all
the ones you thought would never go.

days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don’t want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go — walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you’ll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you’ll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah no no maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.

 

Poem by Charles Bukowski

Top text in italic by Nicholas Peart

Photo by Jeff Moore (source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk)

Poetry Corner: ‘In’

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Nude In The Sun (1875) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

 

In spite of you it still begins
washed up poor excuse
of a broken melody on trial
same discarded view

in pairs we let it grow
abandon faded leisure
for an instant filthy pleasure
a different point of view

in time it stands up tall
relishing the thoughts below
of overthrown mistaken virtue
beneath the distant dews

in woven masks on prairie nights
at eighteen in the crowd
forgetting need to be
underneath it all was you

 

by Nicholas Peart

Taken from the poetry collection In Arctic Measure (2004-7)

(All rights reserved)

Poetry Corner: ‘Funeral Pyres Of Fantastic Disguise’

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The Garden Of Earthly Delights (1495-1505) by Hieronymous Bosch 

 

Through different glass slides of my existence
bailout blackout days
in hand with garden delights
or is it my mind that sets the controls?

We instinctively and without thinking and awareness
say something is good or bad
delicious or rotten
beautiful or ugly
a gas or unbearable
but is this all in our minds?

Holy dove prayers
shut books and creased faces
kicked boxes with emotion wires
multi foliate metropolises
growth mistaken for regression
hollow fame and smokey dreams
psychedelic views colour the air

All the more inside
it had cherished it’s time
where ‘no’ is the elusive ring
and hard wheat with strand strength
smashed the platinum gates.
The doors wretched…
unclear love in translucent light
cheap happiness in false time
higher planets turn and abandon cries
from ages left behind
the strong bounce of new horizons
future creatures bent on banishment than beauty
the higher stairs stand strong
all cravings pulse then whimper
small blossoms of victory for all
familiar shadows of humble high connection matter
stewed flights of envied fancy;
nothing but a fool’s pool
a come-down calling;
clunked in over-observed glitter dust
the light trick the eternal life trick
reality a mundane non stop silence
most noise an illusion and loss temptation
a distraction from un-heeded space;
the stage when the body and mind never felt so free
and this a freedom so simple to acquire
the complex low-conscious wading an unnecessary test
I hope someday the next level comes to you

Electric calm
a yield never coasting
an overflowing love
a fume box
clean seeds of future worlds
in a wonder-belt wall
old sound in stupored city squares
the glows crush down and morph
to funeral pyres of fantastic disguise

 

by Nicholas Peart

1st February 2016

(All rights reserved)

Poetry Corner: ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling

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The events of the last couple of weeks in the UK immediately make me think of this timeless, powerful and enlightening poem by Rudyard Kipling. Take it away Rudyard…

 

If you can keep your head
when all about you are losing theirs
and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself
when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait
and not be tired of waiting,
Or being lied about,
don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated,
don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good,
nor talk too wise:

If you can dream –
and not make dreams your master;

If you can think –
and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them:
“HOLD ON!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings –
nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
with sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son