THE LOST 1980’s JOURNALS
. . .
LOOKING FOR LIFE’S SURPRISES .. .
REMEMBERING VENTNOR 1975 .. .
Grey bulging clouds hang like badly drawn curtains
Broken by pinholes of lemon-gold laser light
Whose beams create this epic set
And on the brow of skyline hill
Green-grey and settled
Like some armchair patient
Tripping and dancing into view
Three moorland ponies
Two grey and one like silver foil glinting
Whose mane flickers and falls
Then I stood deep in woodland jungle
Shielding my eyes as I searched hopelessly
For the black and red drummer
Whose beak drummed the hollow skins
Of tall, ageless oaks
The brilliant sunlight falling and rising
In tiny motions on the rushing surface
Of the stream which quarelled
As well as babbled below
I yawned and stretched
Where am I and am I really lost
from all gaze that is not heavenly?
Is this relentless pursuit of honesty fair?
And why, even standing in dawn wind
and seeing nature unclothe its rarest beauty
Why, lost in the solitude of noon-day revelry
Haunted by the strange mystery of a woodpeckers work
Why, when quietly musing and fashioning moving pictures
from rough-hewn syllables and grey-edged words
Why do questions remain?
Was he right who said – ‘Must discontentment reign?’
Or was he deceived by hearts illusions?
The misty dark clouds of reason
dented by life’s sadnesses and trials
Or can we like mythologies phoenix
with feet as burnished bronze
wings charcoal and feather
hearts burned and fused
beak gold like sovereigns
Can we, lost in life’s metaphor
grope through, firmed by resolve
to say yes, it has been worthwhile!?
For a moment, a flutter, a rush
black, ivory and grey feather
crimson flash on nape of neck
and he is gone!
And I wait to hear that resonating, distant putter
And I am off in search of a black woodpecker again
Authors Note:– I found two old journals of verse that I wrote in the 1980’s during my thirties and even younger and I was struck by their freshness and minimalist naiveté.
I have enjoyed reading them, almost as though they were written by someone else. They speak of aspirations, of faith and hope which is what I believe we all need right now. There is a nice Kerouac naturalness about them too so I’m going to put them here on my site for people to read and make their own mind up about them. Catalogued and Categorised – THE LOST JOURNALS 1980’s
Also, I am reminded of the great wordsmith and troubadour BOB DYLAN, a personal mentor and inspiration to me, who has said that on reading the early songs he wrote back in his twenties from albums like the Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan – that he doesn’t recognise the person who wrote them anymore. Of course Dylan is in fact the supreme enigma and says a lot of stuff but then we all do, don’t we?
We all metamorphosise, evolve in our appearance and the words we use but essentially remain the same. These poems, essays and thoughts were just skimming stones I hurled at eternity’s misty shoreline and in many days I have found them again. A cluster of stones, returned by the tide and left upon the stoney beach.
Different sizes, colours, shapes, some rough hewn, some smoothed by the eternal sea.
‘ . .. make up your own mind, all the time .. . ‘