|
|
John Stocks Iona
There would always have been beauty A shared benefice An indiscriminating sunset Falling on the blood red tide The dismembered limbs, hacked heads At Martyrs bay Sensuous, sublime unknowing.
On the bronzed faces of tourists Clicking ‘Canon’s’ back to Mull and Oban. Or the faces of the grieving mother’s With sons lost in the mud of Flanders.
At twilight, pagan and pilgrim Would feel the same creeping sense of awe. The hermit frying sprats in his cave A pious monk; lost in cerebral prayer The witches knitting ‘popetts’ out of hair.
The roar from the Ocean’s mighty swell The majestic indifference Of Gannett, Sea Eagle or sonorous Whale Would resonate with all.
There will always be beauty here Long after the words have died And the cottages have crumbled into dust One morning from the edge of time A new, tempestuous sun will rise.
New Years Eve (Part Two)
Only the naïve will anticipate An end to war, a global harmony Or imagine that we can change our course And not press on to self destruction.
Let us focus on some private beauty The unique innocence of a small child
Or a love that can transcend anything The hope, if anything, is in the detail.
Presently we will try to hold a glass To the future, we know that it is out there A glass of champagne and an uneasy toast Our thoughts are random, indecisive.
Love has no politics or division Just an essence, an essential secret That prevails, in blizzards of destruction In any heaven, we wish to enter.
Resurrection
‘The Jews are not the men that will be blamed for nothing’
It was not the rain, but how and where it fell beating an insidious tattoo on tin splashing into east end pavement puddles the streets that once had a name as welcoming as the rippers’ kiss.
This is Limehouse this is death mythopoeic transcending eras.
It hangs in the air in codeless dislocation beyond the west winds soulless murmurings ‘Annie Chapman, Cathy Eddowes’ In the creeping gloom of twilight the coal back eyes, the leering smile.
On half lit streets the cobbles glisten a girl in a hoodie, leggings, hurries past a disembodied voice yells ‘Ere, over ere!’ (Someone screams-is anyone listening?)
All is disquiet, all elusive dread blank faces at the bus stop unclaimed bodies in the morgue the dizzy angst of resurrection.
John Stocks is a widely anthologized poet, and a Pushcart prize nominee. His recent poetry has appeared in a variety ok UK magazines including Candelabrum, The Coffee House Magazine, Dawntreader, Harlequin, Manifold Poetry Monthly, Littoral, Taj Mahal Review, and Involution and Interlude. Currently he is working on his first novel. |
|
|
|||
|
|
Dark Lady Poetry, 2010. All Rights Reserved. ISSN 2152-8594