The New Bohemian

Bohemian: 2. (often not cap.) a person, esp. an artist or writer, who lives an unconventional life.

[Collins Shorter English Dictionary, 1995]

'A sage is good at doing nothing.' - Chuang Tzu.

Contents

1 The abc’s

2 untitled – Hot Pink!

3 untitled – Ten letters spell

4 Somewhere

5 Looking and Listening

6 Pink Petals

7 Almost

8 Once

9 untitled – a lone blue bicycle

10 untitled – half a heart

11 Morpheus’s maze

12 Lazy Sunday Afternoon

13 Venus de Milo’s Lost Arms

14 Today, today

15 The Atom Car

16 Martian Song

17 The Marketplace

18 Just two

19 Recovery of the Lost

20 The Courts of the King

21 semi undone

22 Intrepid Journeyer

23 untitled – The birds are in their flocks

Bonus material: Time to see it anew, Indigo – the beautiful colour, Miniature 1,

Oh DEAR, The Pink Bubbles.

The abc’s

And so the alphabet we learned

in forgotten childhood,

and wild peaches we ate

like those in Eden.

Where were the minders? –

we never knew; only that

our joy and delight would end

when they returned.

walking around the block

saw a bush by a wall whose flowers

had petals that shone

HOT PINK!

Ten letters spell

a state too well,

the first is an L,

the rest follow:

O, N, E, L, I, N, E, S, S.

But I didn’t confess.

Somewhere

a crystal shard tumbled;

a clear stream bubbled;

a strange creature took flight;

a desert-dweller took refuge;

a sky gleamed orangey-pink;

a zephyr blew in wyvern valley.

Somewhere something wonderful is happening;

even though, everywhere is the enchanting.

Looking and Listening

A Barred Spiral galaxy - perfect shape!

A safety pin ingenious

A watch second hand moving in ones around the dial

discordant sounds gardening noises

Things at rest in their various colours

Footsteps and a day's quietness like...

Birds

Cars

motorbikes

Bubbles in a drink

a gentle breeze

Pink Petals - regrettably this poem is unavailable at present.

Almost

Like a still bonsai

our plant appears

before the window.

So still it is that

Time seems almost of no

consequence.

But the wind blows outside,

forecasting change for everything.

Once

Pendragon, who is Uther named,

stayed his barque upon these shores.

In no stranger places so untamed

the king ever espied such tors.

" Surely the griffin here abides,

or some creature fiercer still."

" Fear not!" said Merlin," no beast here hides,"

his cloak pulled 'bout him for the chill.

Mists began to curtail their view

of the strand and its greenery.

Uther's heart soon no fire drew,

and all his knights appeared uneager.

a lone blue bicycle

against the brick wall

left for the rain to wash.

Next to the tall palm,

on the sand its small

black rubber tyres

circles to convey

cling to the white beach

sand, and only the rain

to fall on the statuary

and make the afternoon

a true gloom.

half a heart

a whole tear

half a mind

a whole fear

half a desire

a whole weakness

half of everything

a whole nothing

Morpheus’s Maze

Morpheus lay sleeping, his hair a fountain of curls,

his face a placid place; while the clock ticked.

Rude time kept pace with his gentle breaths.

A moment more, the dream prepares to awaken

its child to a cold, sombre solitude,

in a pale moonlight,

upon a stone throne.

The child stirs, the lids part; he is awake –

the world is now his dream,

and all its ways, a maze.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon

Gleaming,

tree-leaf with

tree-leaf catch the

Sun and the whispers of

the air move them to and fro.

The day is almost done,

(where is the fire of the storm,

the arrows of light, the gust,

the gale and the fright? )

and the song of the

afternoon is a lullaby.

Venus de Milo's lost arms

The Lost Arms of

Venus de Milo -

will they ever be found?

Other treasures will never be found -

forever lost they are;

in Unknowable Realms perhaps they abide,

more certain it is that:

forever lost are they

What of the treasures of today? -

this day; its weather, and

its birds and a myriad more -

mostly unseen and not seen.

An ancient sage has taught,

and many of the same thought,

say the greatest treasure lies

in the human heart.

"Benares is in the East and Mecca in the West;

but look into your own heart, for there is Rama and Allah."

Today, today

Today, today,

I want to say

that I am sad

but want to play.

A child whose joy

remains unknown and

yet is there to feel.

I wish I were no little

child but in my heart yet be.

Today, today will

go away and did my

joy but breathe.

The pain and dark

will melt away,

I believe I will it see.

The sun, the sun

its golden touch

bears farewell to all.

I see: the ground,

the grass, the wall,

the tree, and other things too.

I wait,

I remain,

I am, now

for thee.

The Atom Car

I was driving in my atom car,

when all of a sudden from afar,

I saw a girl all forlorn, her spirit torn.

So I steered my tiny car

in her direction, along the tar.

I stopped and smiled at her and waved;

and she looked at me: a puzzled look;

my smile was lost, my heart had caved.

I had to leave her at the kerb;

a backward glance I took,

and forever closed that book.

Martian Song

The cruel toy of a

swift , swift bomb, it’s

gliding mechanism a narrow alien

thing of chrome

launched – a silent silver egg,

a biolaser, an entity, a silver photon

of unknown impulses, a magnetic being

whose lucid sequence in the green air

above the sea recalls a solitary thought:

a miniature caveman.

gliding

the wind about the rocket

abducts from the air an astral secret:

a being is but a song.

a sound :

a martian song -

conquest by soft photons.

This poem was composed with help from the poem-maker program.

The Marketplace

The marketplace is no

real place for me;

neither is the monastery.

O, for a table round

and brave knights around

me to sit at a noble

gathering.

O, for a gentle and beautiful

maiden – someone kind

yet not an angel; just a

good mortal woman.

O, to be free of the

shackles of humanity,

yet not disdaining this

poor world.

Where is my life, my energy?

I spend my days in sleeping,

whilst others are weeping.

Just

two

golden-orange

flowers

just two

lonely

hours

just three

golden minutes

JUST FIVE

MORE SECONDS

just ten

more minutes

just twenty years later

just forced

just done

just undone

just finished

just plain lonely

justice

just time

to go

just time,

that's all

it's just it

just just

the end

Recovery of the Lost

to say nothing more

to see; to know

or at least to think one knows

to contemplate unproudly

to smile or laugh truly

to feel the frustration and inadequacy of words and one's limited abilities to convey with them

to realise the value of words

and when to stop with them

to trust in the recovery of the lost

to long for the woman of your dreams

to long for the man of your desires

not to sit alone

not to be alone

not that

please not that

be alone sit alone

the truth sits with you

the fulfillment of your deep longings

is at hand; is being born invisibly

for you a love beyond all knowing

just for you

and me

The Courts of the King

Summer’s playtime, Spring’s young time

all the wizards wend a way to Camelot

In the mist a spire! A turret, ho!

Hearts gladden and footsteps quicken.

Thither and to no other place are we bound.

O’er field and green glade

the small company of friends glide.

A long journey, Tom? Aye, Frederick, long

and not wearisome for the company.

The mages smile – soon to be in the courts of the King –

and to sing and take of merry wine, the delights of sweetmeats,

venison and even humble potato.

Knightly banners cleave the morning mists.

They play games now: that’s Sir Ector’s, I’ll be bound;

no, ‘tis tipped in red, the pennant is not his.

A knight in silver armour clad and upon a steed, both

finely arrayed; perhaps the King’s own party camps near

in the gardens of blessed Camelot?

Breaking free of the ancient trees

a splendid sight as of a firmament of stars

bids them hold the perfect vision and

trusting in truer and greater magicks than their own

write the wonder and joy of heavenly beings and times and places

somewhere in every beautiful scene of nature.

semi undone

looking, is there nothing more than that?

seeing, is there no more than that?

bounded by the four horizons

is there no more than that?

leap out of my skin

tumble through the colourful nebula or defy the abominable black hole,

its gargantuan gravity more crushing than a billion tears

but nothing!

then let it be Nothing

Nothing Forever

I care no longer

the forge is split

the tiger is & may devour

may yet devour

the fearful.

that children who are at the mercy of the strong

are more powerful than all

my unshakespearian prose like smelly flowers

but let me not care

it matters not in the end

for it will all be of no great consequence

let this moment

let this moment be the end

be the end

Intrepid Journeyer

This is my moonshot; this is Genesis.

This is a lot of hooey!

All art is useless Oscar Wilde hath said

and his opinion is with me not dead.

I think art is dust

it will all be swept away

and yet what else to do

Am I merely impatient?

The end is not nigh enough for me.

yet the world goes on

and we must live in it

O munificent magnanimous one

empyrean, sublime, supernal and a little ethereal too

diatoms upon diatoms in the ancient seas

the piteous trilobites extinct

Sad – and yet: so what. It makes no difference

to our day.

I knew a girl – she’s gone

out of my life

I knew another girl – she’s gone too.

In fact, many have come and gone;

and I have come and gone as well, have I not?

In the church upon the pew

sat a one lonely as you

With a great roar and a rush

the heavens folded upon the earth

It happened - oh, yes, indeed; and I will not question it.

What’s the point of asking questions there aren’t any answers to?

Am I cribbing you, Robert Frost?

I hope not. This is another waste of time like all

poetry. Wouldn’t you agree?

Action. Action, say I.

Take action. Act.

Will you do it or no?

But there is no more to be done

and everything to be done.

Sometimes . . ..

sometimes silence

sometimes saying nothing is best

nothing to point the way to nothing

the zen of this and that

it seems passé now, zen is no longer in vogue

What is it now, I wonder?

The bell is tolling

do you hear the pealing?

the workers’ time to depart and travel

to their homes and families

but not all: some, nay many do not work, do not travel home

and some, perhaps many do not have family or a friend – not even a friend!

What!

He’s putting in overtime, sir.

Make sure he gets paid a fair wage, what’s right.

(Isn’t that the way it should be?)

He made his move on the chessboard of the world

amid the billions of other pawns he made his bid.

Is he the player or the played?

---

The birds are in their flocks,

and the sun is low. I am a lazy

wretch unlike these foragers

unending.

Oh, for some great endeavour

the counterpoint of such a

peaceful afternoon.

Is life merely this prosaicness?

Am I not a knight of the Table Round?

In my heart I am. Am I indeed

brave, noble and true? Or would I

fail in this too? Such an ugly word:

failure. But this is not to be.

My lot, my destiny, is to fly with angels.

Bonus material:

Time to see it anew

long the day since dawn

time has slowed to a crawl

the afternoon threatens rain

walk your dogs, lonely man.

walk your man, lonely dogs.

They say time goes by so slowly and that

time can do so much – she’s definitely not yours anymore.

But right now that’s ok

Plan 9

Plan 9 all the way

up and down the mountain

down and up a fountain

down and out in Paris

out and down in Hout Bay

Indigo – the beautiful

colour

computer indigo

ultramarine in real life?

O, that from your deeps

a sound may come –

a call from the beyond

to this mortal desolation.

miniature #1:

Fog slowly, smokily, like a low white cloud, engulfed the mountain.

Oh DEAR

Oh, for a job as a POET,

to sing all day and never KNOW IT.

Not so much TROUBLE

As a TROUBADOUR.

If wishes were horses beggars might FLY;

If everyone were a poet we’d all lay down and DIE!

The Pink Bubbles

Bubbles, from the miniscule to the whale-like, resembling familiar soap bubbles apart from their colour, began to pour down in their trillions on every spot on Earth. It was a miraculous gentle round pink floating rain and the world was abuzz with the phenomenon. On every news channel it was the same story being covered. An astounded yet delighted world populace all had first-hand experience of it and even though radios and TVs were blaring from every house and car and school and shopping mall and in every neighbourhood on Earth there really was no need to inform anyone of the stupendous event. Scientists were baffled. An isolated case, let’s say covering London with bubbles would be astounding enough but the whole world!

Translucent pink bubbles surrounded one on every side and wafted in huge clouds. The effect on all was a kind of mild alarm mingled with child-like fascination and joy. Children, especially were shrieking everywhere in a din of delight and mirth.

My personal encounter with a one and a half metre diameter sphere occurred that Friday afternoon when I was cycling home from the shops. It engulfed my bike as I rode into it. It burst but there was only a brief sensation of moisture on my face and through my clothing and then nothing. Needless to say I stopped like everyone else to appreciate the wonder. There were smiling faces everywhere, and I was smiling too.

But all good and even strange things must come to an end, and after eight hours there were no bubbles to be found anywhere, not even the circular wet patches of their collisions with hard objects. The fun had come and gone. The cosmic Santa Claus had put away his bubble-blowing apparatus.

Fin

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons or institutions living or dead is purely coincidental.

Reality Wedge

Friday, July 11, 2014

The New Bohemian