If you were to ask me, I would say
That life is not one journey,but many journeys
Made mostly in parallel.
This poem is about one of my parallel journeys.
I make no apologies for obscure referen...
If you were to ask me, I would say
That life is not one journey,but many journeys
Made mostly in parallel.
This poem is about one of my parallel journeys.
I make no apologies for obscure references, but in so saying I probably am.
I was not alone, there are many who will identify with some of this, if not all.
(The first line is a quote from T.S. Eliot - The Journey of the Magi).
A Magic Mountain of a Journey
A long coming we had of it,
It was a going but we made
The most of that.
A long coming we had of it.
From the Gorbals to the East End,
From the Steppes to Stepney (hackneyed, I know).
Through Siberia, through the Sea
Just the colour of a Prussians cloak.
Rusted, like the cooked pork on which we choked.
Tranced the Polka which we brokered
To the barbecues we manufactured
And exported, exposing our defeat,
Exponing our ability to burn meat.
To the sea at Southend, oy vey.
No translation necessary.
From the orphanages and board of guardians,
From the pulpits and lady almoners,
By-passing foam from unleavened bread,
All so good, so sanctimonious, so garrulous
In their self-praise. So gone, so mourned
So forgotten in the morning, in the dawning
Of our memories, so milky-stained away.
All so wanted back to the good old blight
Of our childhood and our rest and the angel
Overhead, with just a hint of red in his (not hers)
Over-manicured, feather-adjusted wings.
Keep him in sight tonight.
Clip the candles lit in praise or celebration
Not in degradation of molten wax, moulded facts,
Melted effigies from Tussauds litany of fame.
Frame the bibles, forsake those little bundles,
Let the prophet impose, encroach, like a
Saint let him (not her) plague our sores
Recovering in the convalescence of the sure
Shores of Eastbourne, Bournemouth, Littlehampton,
Ealing. Is that healing or revealing?
Forget the healing, burn the little blighters
To come to Southend-on-Sea in coffins
Burning bright in the middle of their light.
Summons their taxi driving friends from East
Ends to make amends with tips and candy
Floss between the stones, like a Moses, cleanse,
Engrave and make laws, to bend the tide
Of long gone, long overgrown strands of sand
Like spikes of hay uncut in Autumn fields.
Like warmth in December
Like nothing I remember,
Bring armour and shield
Make the hen lay,
Make the sea winds turn,
Burn the heretic, or do I mean stranger
On these familiar shores.
5*
all the best
Kean
Thank you for "seeing " so much, so pleased you enjoyed it. (How about throwing in a smattering of Bernard Shaw, or perhaps not so "done" these days? ;-) ).
I hope you get some sense of "sadness and longing", I suspect you did.
My best wishes to you and to Canada. :-)