Category Archives: Poetry & Short Stories

Every which way

Vásárhelyi Halász: A painting in a metro

Vásárhelyi Halász: A painting in a metro

The boatman laying up his boat to tar
The willow’s tail threaded through the swallow’s
Held high, suspended
The work is underway.
The shore beckons as all shores do to those who know them,
Grew up by them,
Embracing tenderly.
The duck within the grass, behind the tree
Tries reaching-
Trying to bend your will
But you don’t let it.
To the waters and the wild
Being drawn once more
A destiny beheld
If you will let it.

Hollow

Hollow

The darkness casts long its net tonight
The Beaver on its heels not yet fully alive
In the bite drop temperature inclining still
A notion breathes life and breeding beats.
The green sold out to cyclic adds its flourish of orange then red
And stepping tip tap to the black then white
The progress towards wherever is a destination
Spelt celestial in the flight taken path across THE satellite
While other routes marked for what is planned
A momentary passage and yet the one of man.

©The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018

It comes naturally

It comes naturally

The giant drill bit seering the muddied earth
A choir of angels in tow with every twist
The coil resounding the voices aligned
Till the foreman’s call brings silence.
Then the majorettes come-screeching
Whining? Marching?
Tap-dancing a tattoo?
From a whisper to a roar
Though not yet a low flying jet.
Is it Paddy’s day? New York?
Is spontaneous celebration the order of the day?
Surely not! And then-
Then two workmen appear…
Pushing three lockers on wheels
Grim faces hiding, like the shut doors,
What’s really going on inside.

Le Petit Esprit

Le Petit Esprit

A broader understanding spilt through the cracks
Poured through,
Pored over
But initially, accidentally
I opened up, my brother
Or at least found reason
And now sit-
A yesterpast-
Less vacant
More fulfilled
More enlightened
But less alive.
The numb-drum moments our debauchery
Inclined us to graves -pre-humously-
Inclining us to states debilitating…
Yet invigorating.
For was it not today in the half death
(Not the Petit Mort)
That I did not waver.
I stood profound
And let the criticism wash over me:
Not insulted- but defined.

Olay Ulay Down

Olay Ulay Down

The flesh attacks itself and in so doing, the mind
But the mind itself attacks prevailing over discourse-
The mind itself runs riot creating possibilities
And those self-same eventualities arise in the broken flesh.
My body is the sum total of misdeeds and misthinkings
Of a fight externally bound, as well as internal.
No man is an island and even where he makes it
The mind itself constructs the tidal wave that breaks it.
The shattered illusion of independence, of an individuality
Lies forlorn, abandoned, once the mind erupts.
The vacant words however hollowly expressed,
Ring beyond their definitions – spell of madness.
And so the flesh upon itself does pounce
But because the mind’s its cruel master,
And so intent on its determination…
But sometimes its merely degeneration.

From the gutter, sky!

My soul intoxicated by the vestiges of emptiness,
I let my breath, my fear, evolve into the detriment –
that well-defined entanglement of love
And desperate, all-embracing, drunkeness.
I felt the pang of guilt, my memory,
the thirst for lust, my psychology,
and my harboured sense of what was once a duty, now a chore.
For I had once assumed authority,
the one who’d travelled far and wide,
But now I felt myself inadequate:
The memory fades but not the pride.
And so in empty quarters of my soul
I chose to redefine myself as whole
And in attempt I felt my sanity,
though ironically yet not my vanity
Till finally I lost not Just my mind…
But Everything

Xeno

A reflection…a desperation

drunk eyes try and try

a conversation short

but much too long

twas not the coin this time

nor the dice…

did the latter clarify?

Where too much choice erodes

I saw the one way and felt good,

or not, but made my decision.

Now in his way

there is another choice, a reason

I will not make excuses

but I think I’ve known what’s best!

 

The homecoming

The snow upon the skin
The blood upon the lips
The hope upon the breast
Leaves the whole unblemished.
The fire in the fall
The twirling, swirling, be it all
The dream erecting in the flow
The eloquence comes calling.
Till slur and birch, the guilt residing,
Sends home again all utter vagrants.

Selling out or taken in

Sometimes I write terribly he said
You never do I assure you
But of course I do as everybody does
No actually nobody does
Well what do you call this then? Will I read it for you?
Don’t bother I’ve read it, and while I don’t like it I believe others could.
You’re mad!
Says you with your generalizations
What!?
Well you claim to know everybody’s mind
Indeed I do not
Then why do you proclaim your writing shit
I said I write terribly but anyway, because I know it’s so.
You know you don’t like it is what you mean.
Yeah… And…
But who are you to judge?
Surely I’m the best judge
Hah! And why is that?
Because it’s me who’s written it.
True, but is it you who buys it, reads it, criticises it and comes back for more?
No, but…
No, and therefore… Shut up!

I find being

I find myself wholly aligned to the madness of my soul
To the ritualistic incantations of my being.
The sacrificial plunder which, set up, seeps forth from beneath the veil
Rendering action, in an impulse – inconsequential.
The dreams, my dreams, a furtive, sporadic necessity
Build blood to pulse against the
Boundaries of my reason.
My eyes strain hard against the membrane
The mind unscalable,
The truth unattainable.
I wander with the vestiges of my inner desires
Crippled by the need to relieve the rage.
The savagery, the decadence
Of my human condition,
Fails me and in that final thrust I

Cannot see anything, anymore.

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