And I have seen such beauty
That does not insist desire
But stead fast moves and darts
In mind and bones
Growing and flexing its new born soul.
For though we all
March wisely towards life’s shade
Our hearts retain some majesty
That replays the scenes of much loved
Innocence
Again, repeat until
No more for it swells too much
And presses the present
Ugly fool from necessary grasps
To maintain our future plans
For he and she who trust
And depend upon our fortitude and not
Our folly.
I once dressed as the King you know
With sceptred hands and glorious entrances
Proud like the dumb show
Posturing in pleasantries and portents
Until only they remained.
Now I strut for the gutter’s edge
Who applaud my hopeful slip and fall
While secretly praying each step
Preserves by proxy their terrible souls.
For no man is wholly bad –
Nor good.
Or no man can truly be,
For in our iniquities and darkness
we hide
The rough edges of our souls
That must, by force of will be rounded or
At lesser force repelled till morning
comes again
And we again
Can breathe.
Let me explain.
I once knew a man who forced melted
powders through his skin
To fill his blood with delicious poisons
The kind that only peril possesses
And curiosity beguiles.
He said to me “What is this fascination with
Length, Time, Age?”
Coughing and sighing he added, “We
live and die is all
The time between is ours to do with as
we will and I…”
The blanket against the window glass
grew darker as the sun
In poor winter receded apologising
And fires burnt strong across the land
As a candle was lit in the here and now
To provide dual purpose, so the
smoke curled, “And I…
Have little now to prove or say more
than has been said
Much finer and purer than ever I
could
“Let’s listen to Zappa and ignore the
banging drums”
For we are the retinue of the future
Purpose now set and not ours
But to prepare the fields of glory
upon which
Our feet shall never tread.
And that matters not,
For I have seen such beauty
That does not require assent
But stead fast moves and darts
In mind and bones
Growing and flexing its new born soul
To claim the lands bequeathed.
by Martin Favager
Poem taken from issue 14 of theRecord.
