Poet

Attaining the Stars

/ deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

Parted from the inhuman heights of the heavens,

We dwell deep, deep down

In what we’ve shaped

Into the final spoils

Of Planet Earth,

Lost amid our own

All-consuming desire

To rise up and stand out.

We are funny creatures

Of spiraling arms

And spindly legs,

Equally drawn and repelled

By each other’s tastes and tones,

Gifted with two eyes

To view the world around us

And yet remain often oblivious

To all and everything

Other than ourselves,

Though ever curious

To understand each other,

Oft’ times care for each other,

And, more often, control each other

As we wander about on two feet

And ten tiny nubbins named toes

With spine up stretched

As if trying to reach for the stars

Though all the time busy

Trying to make stars of ourselves-

Forever wanting to shine

As we bask in the warmth of the sun

And be remembered

As we fall drowsy under the spell

Of the moon.

 

Fickle fellows we are

Who fall frequently fool

To fortune,

Forever following the flock,

Fast footed on the flow

Of fashion and idols of falsity,

Fiercely arrogant

And fearlessly fumbling forward

Through consumer moments,

Appetizing advertising and diets of the day-

Were we not once modeled

Upon a glorious god-

An unparalleled picture of perfection

That somehow slipped, over time, to rejection.

 

Ambitious creatures are we-

Carnivorously craving more from the pot

And constantly climbing this ladder,

That ladder- every ladder.

No longer willing to settle

For only land and sea,

We molded man-made wings of metal

And matched the birds in flight

Low over land and water, at first,

And then coveting the clouds

And soaring past those stars

We tried so hard as kids

To reach out and touch.

 

Yet here we are, today,

Ascending higher than ever,

Reaching for those inhuman heights,

Us, with our spiraling arms

And spindly legs,

Eyes to understand

And ears to comprehend,

Capable of so much glory

With our courage and convictions

And opposable thumbs-

We had the hope

To hold the whole universe

In our hungry hands

With those fumbling fingers

And gnarly nails.

 

We will continue

To rise onwards and upwards

Charting skies lanes and skyways,

Naming those long, burnt-out,

Fading stars

After ourselves-

As if deserving-

But, while we wage war

On our own individuality-

On those very tastes and tones

That both attract and distract us,

Then the heavens will remain,

Always and forever,

The untapped attainment of human desire.

human

 

The Beauty Within

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Put your hand

In mine,

To pull me

Not apart,

But to please me,

Pleasure me and perfect me

Into a useful unity-

A balanced blend

Of better beings

Than before-

Less bestial, base

And bitter

Than the twisted tribes

Who’ve crossed my path

In darker days of late

With their loins

Full of lust and longing…

 

Let this smile

Sink through skin,

Seep under substance

And build in us

The ability

To laugh

Through the long hours

And bask in the benefits

Of the beauty

We’ve made within…

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Fading

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

In this empty room

Sits your lonely soul,

In this silent night,

In this lonely night.

Whilst lovers are loving

And people are laughing,

But not around you,

But not beside you,

But not for you.

 

Through the shadows dancing

And the breezes blowing

Creep lonely chills

And darkness flowing.

In this empty space,

In this endless night,

While people are laughing

And lovers are loving-

You sit alone,

 

Like your room-

Alone.

 

Like the night-

Alone.

 

Like the shadows-

Always fading.

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After Eden

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How did they mess it up

So soon after that first breath,

So new to this life,

With all and everything

There

In front of them,

Under their naked feet,

At the end of their finger tips?

How did they not see

The wealth they wore

Instead of clothes,

The peace they had

Within the walls of paradise?

How could they let that

Deluge of distraction

Descend upon their divinity

And denounce their demise

So disastrously?

 

And yet, here we are-

For centuries foreigners

To those famous fields

Of golden innocence,

Slithering about,

Nothing less

Than slivering serpents-

One and all,

Sadistic and sarcastic,

Overly self-indulgent,

Remarkably self-centered

And so far removed

From those gardens

Of primordial delight

That we’ve lost sight

Of the very suggestion

That this singular sin

Conceived.

 

We’ve neglected

To remind ourselves

Of the consistently

Concentric consequences

Of the first bite into

Lust and longing,

Pride and power.

 

History is no more

Than a slinky sling,

Sliding down the steps of time

And repeating its repulsion’s

Again and again,

As we watch on

As if it’s the first time,

As if it’s a shock,

As if we knew no better,

As if we were the first to fumble,

As if we were Adam and Eve-

Caught innocently

With mouths open-

That luscious piece of apple

Barely resting-

As yet undigested-

On our tongue,

As if we had no guidance,

Like we had never learned

How to divide

Right from wrong.

 

And yet,

If we could only look back

We’d see it was as easy

As that first divide

Of Man from Paradise

Or that even clearer division

Of Adam and Eve.

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The Greener Grass

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How do you remain so still,

So stable

While I so shake?

As your city slumbers,

I stand upon a bridge

That spans over you

And watch, silently,

The swaying waters by your banks-

Your only show of movement

And yet,

These are motions of depth,

Of power and maturity;

Not a single spray of insecurity

And, all the while,

I tremble as my feet thread over you

For fear that those memories,

So precious,

That I made in the heart of you

Have lost their shady shadows

Of mundane living that must have been

A part of us too.

Can it really have been

As perfect and sun-lit

As I remember?

Was there not a single day

That dampened the mood

Or dulled the sheen?

Your golden Louvre, glistening

In the sunset on front of us

From this square of gallant green

Normally filled with glasses of wine

And kissing lovers,

Is as connected to you today

As it was yesterday-

Just as I feel,

And yet she never left your side,

Never questioned her position

Or connection-

Not even for a moment,

Like I did.

Dare I return

To find my mark in you again?

Can it truly be as great

As the memory in my head?

Can it be as natural

As the dream that plays

While the nocturnal bird sings-

The one that wakes me in the night

And asks me where I am

And how I have managed

To let so much time

Slip in between us.

Can I ever be brave enough

To see going back

As moving forward?

Can I be as bold

At nearly 40

As I was

At only 20?

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A New Year

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A new year,

A new day-

Sky’s still grey.

A new year,

A new day,

Still raining-

Weather’s still the same,

No change there,

People still on the streets

With their brollies-

Shopping,

Plodding through puddles

And slipping in the sales-

Buying what they don’t want

In wet shoes and stockings,

And cursing what they do need-

Those festive tummies

All bigger from stout,

But its cheaper today

Than yesterday

And it makes the sky

Feel far less grey.

The fairy lights have faded

And snowy white dreams

All stored away for another year

As diets replace deserts

And multi-shakes

Become the new mulled wine.

A new year,

A new day,

But it’s still Monday

And tomorrow’s still Tuesday

And the weekend

Will follow on from the week,

Still grey, you know,

Still rain,

Still getting wet-

Still sweaty under sweaters

And scarves

And undercoats and topcoats.

A new year,

A new day,

Sky’s still grey

But under rock and stone

I can see color

Where there was none before,

Not lots of color-

Not the full spectrum on the ground

But beginnings,

Hints, possibilities-

Like those resolutions of New Year

So full of promise

In those first new days,

There is hope

Beneath all that rock and stone

And above all those clouds of grey

That will, I’ve been told, soon blow away.

A new year

A new day to live…

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Retouching the Canvas

/ deuxiemepeau / 8 Comments

I am not sure what it was-

A calling, a desire, a need

To start afresh; reborn-

Washed down to white,

A bare canvas to be painted on,

Once more, without mark or tint

Of what had been or came before

And yet, in this new rendering,

Each selected stroke

And technique of life and love

That had gone before

Shone out as if I’d laid

One too few undercoats

To cover up the replication

Of the previous interpretation.

But they were merely tones-

Hints of what had led me here,

To this city as old as time,

That so reveled in its own past

That it proved impossible

For anyone or anything to look

Directly in front of them

Without being aware of all

That lay in its shadowed history;

The heartless father- no longer

As ice stone in the memory,

Melting slightly with every sunset

Witnessed by the Pont des Arts.

How you tortured us,

I once thought, and yet,

With distance to enlighten me,

I see it was you who was tortured

By your own fumbling hands,

Unable to hold on to what you had,

But fighting to make it bleed as it fell

From your frightened clutch.

I’d cast you in my child-thinking mind

As impenetrable rock, and yet,

You were no more than base-empty,

Fool-hearted, stubborn image

Of lost boy, plunking manly grunts

Onto foolish quarrels that festered

Within you, as we pulled away,

Long before your slow path

To fated finish line- the end.

A line that I no longer saw

From the sanctuary of my own

Tiny life, all carved out

In new directions, opposite

To all of yours until my feet rested

On that fine day, in summer,

On the ground under which

I hoped you lay at peace, at last.

And so I turned from you,

With a nod of final forgiveness

To our past and flew back

To my future where firm footing

Claimed my title as accepted dweller

Instead of foreigner within.

I became an inhabitant

In my own right and a witness

To this city that stretched out

Before me as each new dawn

Rose to tempt me

With further offerings before

Wrapping itself around me

Once more as the sun set

On those journeys home-

Always bank side and lamp lit-

When this once walled city

Leant in and shielded me

From the loneliness of that run

From home; the free-falling flight

Of the frenzied Irishman to France.

Was youth my only excuse

For the naivety and lack

Of processions I’d arrived with;

A wallet not so bulging, a tongue

That had barely tickled the language

And a boy without a home,

Or friend or job to do?

And yet that was the desire

That bought me that once-off,

One-way, discounted, newspaper

Cut-out, couponed ticket.

My greatest folly and yet,

So too, my greatest joy.

My canvas may not have been

As blank as I thought but,

By the end, it had been

Uncompromisingly retouched,

The edges softened, the frame

Selected and, in my own reflection,

I saw colors I had never before

Imagined to be a part of me.

pont des arts

An Ending to the Season

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Is this it,

Is this life,

Is this living?

Is this the reward for the struggle?

 

Is this all that was born from those battles won?

Is this the result of those wild Winter’s winds

And the all too shortness of Summer’s sun?

 

Is this it,

Is this all,

In a nut shell?

In the boxes placed in a huddle?

 

Is this all that is left from the life that we dared-

The trinkets on shelves we’ve yet to divide

As we pull apart the memories we’ve shared.

 

Are we done,

Is it so,

Is there nothing left to say?

Do I leave you without even a cuddle?

 

I thought that our troubles were a thing of the past-

I hoped we could spring from Summer to Fall

But it looks like this Winter is all that will last.

 

The ties unbind,

The sun has set,

Our season’s ended.

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Summer Sun in the Marshes

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Three boys and a girl,

Coasting carelessly

From teens to twenties

And coping lazily

With hangovers

Beneath the summer’s sun.

One blonde and three browns,

Laughing amid golden rays

That filled the most perfect of squares

In the once marshland of Le Marais

With it’s cobbled streets,

Men of elegance

And women-

Who followed their trend.

We were setting no trends-

The four of us,

But caught up in the richness

And comedy of it all.

We were Irish and English

And one of us French-

Young, unknown, foolish

And arrogant-

To everything but ourselves,

And ignorant-

To who it was that we were.

We were like the ground

We sat on;

A once sinking mess

Belonging to a world

Of daylight dreaming,

Where un-cautioned laughter

Tickled our sleep

Though not our feet,

But suddenly we’d found

Potential in possibilities

Seen through slumber-less eyes,

Far from dreaming.

I was laughing with one,

Blushing with the other

And was sleeping with the one

So typically French.

I’d befriended the one

I’d hoped to sleep with

And undressed with the one

I should’ve remained

Discreet with.

I would later miss her,

Lose contact with him

And wonder

How to stop sleeping

With the other.

But that day,

In that light,

In that heat of that summer,

We’d found our way,

Heard our voices

And finally found

What it meant to belong.

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Blonde Summer

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It appeared to be my season for blondes-

Once dark ones- bleached to an inch of white;

Interval acts, lasting only the required amount of time

Before the audience lost interest and fidgeted in their seats.

 

You found me almost naked- drunk on gay pride

And neat vodka on a side street somewhere

I will never, for the life of me, be able to retrace

Under blistering July skies- my pee-stop away from royal-less queens

Who had ascended on the streets of Paris like it was their last dance of the season.

 

I was fresh white bait for you to snatch before yourself

And the summer sun burnt me- pink to a crisp,

Fodder to be grazed upon so as to merely pass the time.

 

You flirted yourself over me as I gazed on you

Behind semi conscious eyes, trying to distinguish the intensions

That lay beyond your angelic appearance- A devil in white

With hungry lips mistaking my totally intoxicated, almost naked,

Fully starved, pathetic condition for an easy lazy lay and yet,

As I proved all the more a challenge of a catch, you followed suit

And stood your ground as hunter with pray in sight.

 

Panic stricken lesbians tried to tear me from you

Fearing my need for sleep to be a step away from death

But they failed to distract you- although the ambulance they called

Stopped you in your tracks and halted your success or so I thought

Till I awoke in a veil of hospital white and chlorine aromas and saw

Your hand caressing mine and I freely fell pray to your tracking.

 

I swam in your nets for a month- twenty nine days

Longer than I thought possible and not one day more than I should have.

I was sceptical, friends had questions and you remained

Nothing more than a charms step from aloof.

Perhaps the reflection of yourself you caught in the glint of my eyes

Charmed you, perhaps my foreign status excited you or perhaps

You saw more in me than I at the time, though I think not that you looked that deep.

 

I remember during that time, it was night, 2am,

And I was walking home alone through cobbled twists

Of unimaginative Les Halles- all asleep but for the dwellers of the dark.

I was slowly moving away from you- in search of something

More real, more true, more to hold on to.

I was looking for something more lasting in this city

Of so much history, but had woken up- lost in the transitory.

 

You had fallen sharply from my grace- that white angelic figure

I had questioned you to be while fuelled on alcohol

Had lost its glow in the clear light of many a dark and dingy club.

 

I saw you there, admiring only your own reflection in the mirror

As you smoked your joints, snorted your poppers and closed your eyes

To all else but your own satisfaction. I was not a game to be played

Or a boyfriend to trade for an hours touch of another

In the back room of a former church, with disco lights, discounted drinks

With coveting confessions carried out on bended knee.

 

Our excitement of each other had been merely how we’d met

While our ending proved much more forgettable

And as visible from the beginning as the roots beneath the blonde.

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