Six Reflections: Carnal,Contrite

I Squirrel at the Baxter More frightened than you’ve ever been before - as you always are, as all your delightful furry kind always are - you crossed my path; or rather, thought to cross my path, then held back till my car’s deadly wheels (judgement day’s four horses, you thought) were a few metres past, and then you sprung unrhythmically away to acorns and litter. I was thinking of sex and need, power not fear or food, survival. Your too-innocent bushy tail wagged like a finger at me, as timidly you taught me. I laughed then, and said I would love only quiet simplicity. around the corner sat a homeless man in rags not bothering to beg. II At music: Esperar, sentir, morir (To yearn, to feel, to die) Esperar, sentir, morir, for this the maestro wished: the song of woman the songs of men in love with women for lust of women the singing face of woman music from the breast of woman voicing a hint of cleavage mighty feeling moved by the rising falling angel heat of soprano. God, was that wrong, to long for sense, sense without reason, sense of strong and pleasant guilt? Stay your answer - I know; but let me wish with him, crave and feel a while, to die in this moment in the song and breast of fair-faced Woman and ask forgiveness later.                      III Hyde Park, London “All the places you have been, trying to find a love supreme” - Robbie Williams I talked with Sorrow in the Garden. Il Penseroso and his mistress, we lay on the sunset grass. An odd pairing we made, lonely in between the sprawl of picnics and lovers cushioning one another. I, with book in hand; she, making allegories from those playing games: I was not like a frisbee, she said. I could not fly straight and true without the heavy pull of earth on my too clumsy form. The only all-consuming freedom of moment, the only joy that drives is the flesh of man against woman, she said. Her lesson was that I should please myself. Sorrow is good company - she indulges my indulgences. Her brother, opposing, is my true friend. Distant, not lost, he awaits an effort of faith over seas, mountains of experience, deserts of emotion unexpressed. Praying, calling, knowing he lives elsewhere, for his return, however shy, retiring, this over-lonely ever-leaving joyless one waits too. IV Under the African sun A dragonfly visited the pool with me and I stopped swimming to applaud as he dipped, and turned, and plummeted, and soared, and pivoted, and floated steady in a flight unsurpassed: effortless. No, not as it seemed. One dragonfly in an instant of buzzing and a dash across the cool blue became two: Like eagles they dallied, and so fervently they clung together, so engaging was their coupled flight, I almost felt it was I who intruded on their mating and not they who interrupted my morning swim with such compact power such terrifying beating of fragile wings and burning gold tiny reptile flying ancient bodies. V Lost, sought - “I saw you underneath the tree” - John 1:50 Before, it was metaphysics academic and abstract expounding on the limitations of language pompous fool.     But here I sit at the limits of language: this twilight beggars me, is every colour except those few we have words for - and this small moon that scythes the darkening light behind these silhouette bony twigs winter dry is only cliché when I language it.     So here I sit. Breakdowns and sex overwhelm and dessicate mind, spirit. Supernatural conversation my last resort final refuge, limited to necessary words, familiar: weakness forgive strengthen. No, I say no, I do not want strength do not have the energy for always good faith maybe it’s okay (I comfort myself) Perhaps it is Acceptable (I Reason with Myself) to be indifferent, fall where others have fallen indulge in Everyman’s limitations say take me for who I am guiltless in my guilt perfect in my imperfection VI Purgatory (Apologies to Dante) Beatrice is my mother; I think I have been born into my father’s world. Here I see men and women weeping and wailing - others still have too much pain and no protest or complaint - But love, come, speak to me a little while; For as I must await indefinitely a salvation I cannot comprehend I would suffer to hear your voice Ten thousand years.

 

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