Author Topic: First Set of Offerings  (Read 4024 times)


  • Guest
First Set of Offerings
« on: May 15, 2006, 09:44:35 AM »
I have written 'spontaneously composed' 'poetry' since I was a teenager. Although I am hoping to get into some serious fiction-writing soon and using this forum as a prod-goad, having read some of your other offerings, I would like to offer some of mine, both to be fair, but also because I am curious to see what people feel, i.e. if any of you like them or hate them. I have never tried submitting them although every once in a while in a previous life I would read them out loud during toast periods at banquets and so forth...

I offer a few, chronologically, one at a time, so you can comment on each or none as you please.

Fiirst one, on viewing Il Postino in 1999..

Metaphors ( on viewing Il Postino )

Naruda’s genius
Pervading modern Italian film
Like woman’s perfume
Overwhelms solid thought
And permeates presence
Of now
With sweetness and olfactory touch.

Romance calls us all
To her lap;
Like long, luscious beach
Bleached bare white
And glorious
Along such melantropic thighs
In sunlit glory
Surrenders the pulsing ocean
In giant, grandiose drama
Of waves,
Waves breaking on such sunlit beach
Of proffered thighs
And hips
And haunch
And waist
And skin
Such soft skin
Skin of peach
This beach
As sun slowly sinks
To setting
Way across the horizon of memory
Or speculation
Of mind mixing with feeling
Mixing with smelling the perfume
Of the woman
The sweetness
Complete and filling all mind, all thoughts all heart
Then glows the light more now like candle-light
Softly, more golden, more mellow, more luscious
And buttery
The light
The reds, yellows,
Blues, golds
Softer and richer
The instant, mellowing autumn of each day
The sunset
Reflecting in myriad multi-coloured highlights
On moving but calm ocean
Of our mutual love
Our romantic fruition
End of day
Beach of thigh
Ocean of passion
Wave of delight’s power
Metaphor of meaning
Meaning of metaphor
Dissolves into waves
Waves beating on the beach
Of our lives
Waves of time
Beating on the beach of our lives
Until the sun of colours
Has set at last
And night rules
With only small but potent
And timelessly so
To remind us of the day of our living
Whilst now
At night
As all creatures must do
We come to the night of our lives
Waves now small
Sounds now distant
Loneliness now soft
An old friend
And now we are come
To the night of our lives
Our death
And tears are all that is left,
Tears, that melt into the ocean
On the dark beach
The dark, lovely beautiful beach
The thighs
The skin
Of our love
Our lives
Which are now


  • Guest
Re: First Set of Offerings
« Reply #1 on: May 15, 2006, 09:48:54 AM »
Earlier one I just found:

  The hermit crab

   scuttling across moistened sand,       
   balancing on each grain 2       
   with each pointed, crustaceously articulated         
   tentacle of movement;
   small beady eyes under vast sun
   and broadswept flat of swathing, sweaty, well-lathered beach;       
   shaving each moment down to its infinitesimally finite
   and beacon of life.       
   Heaven glistens on your upraised claw-tips;
   Earth is a nice round shell, so manifoldly perfect       
   Life is the scuttling, drifting, articulated spice that,       
   like gentle wafting incense,       
   invokes and provokes
   and blessings.       
   9 July 1996


  • Guest
early Winter
« Reply #2 on: May 15, 2006, 09:52:10 AM »
Early Winter Orchard Contemplations with 'Bear Analysis'

Alone I stand
In soft, wet, white November blizzard
In my little highland orchard
In Ingonish valley
Proclaimed as Kalapa
By Imperial treasure teacher finder lover monk and king.

Soft, sweet, white, wet snow,
You fall and wash away the past spring and summer of hopes
All broken, melted, twisted,
Failures all exposed in hot, dry light of long days
Of delirium, discontent
And finally

New beginnings
I find in this spring November afternoon,
Wet but crisp.

I alone with the present
In this old orchard
Whose past–planted efforts
Now yield fruit
Even as winter beckons from above
Marshalling his liquid chrystal forces
When they meet our luscious orchard in the valley,
Turn to bright clean water
Hanging on the few, lone leaves
That cluster haphazardly on the nearly naked apples trees
Still bunched with clusters of round, ripe, red, delicious

Like hairless old men
Who still have balls of such vigor!

Alone I am
Except for Arthur, the invisible brown bear who shares the valley with me,
And these apples!
We are companions in our appetites for fruit
And solitude.


  • Guest
November Morning
« Reply #3 on: May 15, 2006, 09:54:13 AM »
November Morning

Still and quiet;

The mountains purple-ish, brooding, naked and powerful in the morning chill.
Frost and mist,
Crowning them, hovering,
Filled with blessings and mystery.

And you can glimpse through that
and see,
beyond all, above all,
Bright virgin morning blue,
Another layer of freshness, of depth, of delight
Of sky.

Pulsing wingbeat of spiralling sound.

The mist has suddenly disappeared,
Clouds gather in presence and softness
Now surrounded with more pervasive and resplendent blue
Radiating oatmealing colours of
Golden butter and motherly creams
Warmed by the thickening sun of a fresh, throbbing day.

Highland Dawn!

Kalapa Valley, November 7 1999, dawn-time.


  • Guest
Highland Blues
« Reply #4 on: May 15, 2006, 10:00:08 AM »
Highland Blues

You do this to me
You highlands…
Steep valleys,
Majestic mountains
Colours, vistas
And above all
Rapid changes,
And such depth
So many textures
And rugged.

The scarred faces of your highland landsmen tell it all.
Hard hands.
Stern of purpose
Dour in lessons hard learned
But hearts aflame at a colourful turn of phrase
E’en as they are ever responsive to the flush shift of skyline
Cloud, brush of heather colour
Shades of meaning
Double meanings.

You do this to me highlands
I sweep up in spirit as I gaze high above
At mountain towering above my little hut
To clouds swirling
And I climb to the top of the mountain and I stand in the clouds
So close I can touch them
And then I am down again,
In the bottom,
The bog,
The valley bottom,
A slug amongst sluggards
And laggards
And low
And wet
And damp
And unkempt
And wretched.

How wretched!

Why did you do this to me,
Why let my spirit soar like the eagle,
Be powerful like the black bears,
Nimble as fox,
Cunning and organised as coyote,
Killer like bobcat, sleek
And gentle, noble as deer,
Work-hard like beaver,
Chattering gaily like squirrel
Large, vast power of Moose. Moose.
For all live in this my valley.
Not to mention birds and bugs and apples and life.
Life in my valley, here, LIFE.

And so why do you let me absorb all this,
Feel all this,
Radiate all this,
Wake up with all this
And then cast me down low
From high to low I go
From one weather to the next
From one majesty and depth
To suddenly another.
The contrast!
To avoid it,
I must go down
For spirits cannot keep rising indefinitely.
They must at some point ground their furious upsweeping positive intent
Of dramatic glory
Into the early winter night
Of nothingness.
Of water boiling on the fire
Waiting to go into my Sleepytime Tea pot
So I can end this day
And return to battle,
Able to celebrate victoriously another day of splendour
And vibrant colour – only to be dashed again no doubt!

Comment: this idea came from reading a book by a Gaelic-born and raised Cape Bretoner Neal MacNeal who went on to be a NYT editor. He described 'highlands' as those areas - like in Scotland and Cape Breton - where you have rapid contrast from seal level to being up with the clouds, so it's not the same as being in the Alps or Himalayas. I have lived in Himalayan areas and he is right. Scottish-style highlands which surge up from sea level are very different in feel and emotion. People living there are very tough but also cry easily. And then they invented Scotch and the rest is history!!