Sunday, November 13, 2005

Morning Murmurs

Posted by Simon Halliday | Sunday, November 13, 2005 | Category: |

So yes, I should be working as I have that silly research report due on Wednesday. Truth be told it's not at all silly, but it does mean that when EVERYONE else is on vacation and one of my dearest friends is arriving back from NZ I am going to be working. Tragic! So here I am procrastinating. Anyway, enjoy the poetry some of it's ok, some of it's atrocious (as it should be, even Keats wrote badly, just see some of the lines of Ode to Psyche). Love y'all. Si


Stray 25.10.05


Though I have cleaned

and washed my sheets

strands of your hair

are still caught in


my pillows. I have

an intent, it seems,

to maintain some

connection to you


even though it may

be unrequited. Upon

finding a hair I am

bound by it to memories


to some conjure or

voodoo of yours:

that set of smiles

followed by anything but


if only it was in me

to hate finding a lost

strand. Instead they inspire

my irrationality and


confirm what I dare

not voice.


Bikes 25.10.05


You remember me as

small blond and

clutching tightly to

your back my


unhelmeted hair

all-over-blown by

the wind of our riding

but I have sped


past that boy on the

back of a motorcycle,

although you still

glance over your shoulder


at him


Let free 27.10.05


If I am uncaged

it does not mean

that I am free

nor do I suddenly

understand my own

imprisonment


iron-black-grey

existence: reality cut

up by criss cross

bars patchwork

prison living

black around colour


What does 28.10.05


to last

mean?


Would it make me

the final raindrop

on your face in

a storm,


or would I

be the eternity

of my fossil

memory in you


etched in sand

and skin: indelible.


Deep, could I be

that deep that

I am the last

part of you to


ever go, but still

so slow as to

be the endpoint

of forever.


Ice Dream: 30.10.05


although the heat

here devastates

my body


dreaming inspires

paradox

why would i


feel snow falling

upon my sleeping

face and on


what earth should

i be walking on

ice the cracking


of which disturbs

my wakefulness

it is the mirror


of it that in which

i find myself

a cold reflection


to my heat and

intuit this orphean

journey is


because of you

your capturing of

my reflected self


Scrivener 30.10.05


Bearing the names of tombs

into scripture, the Word that

must be heard by each and

every living soul for their


Redemption. I do not begrudge

you your charge. Nor do I

presume judgment upon your

holy quest. But I do question it.


Though I recall the psalmist

it is not in that which I place

my faith, but in your ability to

replicate and in replicating


change all that has been placed

before you. The Word is that potent

that all-driving. I cannot help but

think that maybe I do the same.


Krsna's Fluting 30.10.05


Would that playing for you

was this easy, that I was not

simply a reflection of some

poetic intent. The statues of


me playing should remind

you of your playfulness, but

instead they result in Faith

and Dedication and Claims


that Ganesha would have it so.

Worship in inaction. Joy and

the act of creating Joy would

be all that I demand.


You would rather Worship

than listen to my Music and such

is the loss of Faith, that music is

no longer Joy but pervasive Duty.



On Rach 03.10.05


A man sits, tied

to a desk and tortured

by an inability to move

despite it's necessity


these notes clamber over

him as a bout of insanity

but his fingers too cold to

feel the keys


this is the post-partum

depression of composition

the moment after the birth

of writing in which


the world is suddenly smaller

your hands more wrinkled

and the sunlight less able

to heat your skin


see him there his hands so

tightly cold and his body

dying of deprivation but

he must write



Cat 03.10.05


you walk in here

twitching tail

arrogant, as I

begin to sneeze


you continue

on unannounced:

a malcontent

describing their way


around that which

troubles them.

(or simply being that

which troubles me)


Lalage 03.10.05

G. lalageo the sound of a babbling brook


I thought it

the sound of laughter

carried to me by wind

a normal shriek and


pulse, but there

was an undercurrent -

a sob birthing itself

out of the laughter


I should not confuse such

things with you.


We spoke of it later: I'd

heard you as you burnt


imprints of flowers

on your skin disguising

seared, cut flesh from

those who would look


although I am looking,

eternally observing in the

hope of catching some of

the ash, perhaps it will give me


a taste of you.


Recidivist 03.10.05


This habit is something

into which I easily hope

to relapse


the comfortable warmth

in holding your hand

on a couch


I have been warned against

it, too many women who

later hurt me


who burn their past intents into

my soul, while I attempt to

walk gaily on


in blissful attempts at normality

and the ignorance that would

pervade me


if I could recidive to that state

but that is not easy, nor is it

confirmed addiction


unlike you who call me onward

and inwards with the final

temptation


[of suffering]



151 11.11.2005


There is your hand

pushing downwards

I am the plunged

coffee of this


pressed down, guided

and immediately

distilled into

some purer form


Although I do

believe that I

would retain

a granular consistency


Stubborn, even in

my own change



Marmorate 12.11.05


We are the thick-veined

marble pillars in support

of some levitant

Greek ideal


can you not see us?

Here about some

Dionysean fucking-rite

praise and more praise


to wine and sex. That

harshness fueling the

blood of these stone veins

pumping grey and cold


into these we so religiously

support. If only they deigned

to see us, perhaps they would

marvel at their own


ignorance.


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