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Not Moving On
(last added to 11/4/12)(verses around the subject of devotion) musings on and around love, loss and relationships based on observations as well as my own experience and meditations ~ beware not to assume everything is directly related to me or any particular person — though obviously a few will be! (to Gades)
Haiku Test For me, to move on from the top of the mountain is to go downhill 20/7/10 HE, CLAVDIVS she takes up with later: what if he seems crap at everything that she once praised in you, yet now she sings those selfsame praises louder over him? How can this be? Were he quite unlike you, you'd say, "it's shit, but something in her wants a change, or maybe it is simply true that I am not the type she really needs; at least, not now"; and, though your heart still bleeds, and every thought insists it's her mistake, at least your ego's only slightly bruised. But feast your eyes on this buffoon's appearance, hear the weak attempts at wit or intellectual utterance this freak so entertains her with. OK, Gertrude's poor husband died, yet even he was pained beyond the grave. It's not just pride that's hurt, but that it leaves one nagging thought: were you as fake and posturing a nincompoop as he? Is her mistake a rerun of the one she made before? Or can you cling to that self-confidence she made you feel when she would sing your praises to the very skies? Is it just, on your part, jealousy? Or is she so easily impressed, her heart can override her common sense? Can you find excuses, reasons even, for new delusions in old abuses, that do not cast a shadow over you, but let you flatter yourself that you are Hyperion, he the satyr? 16/7/10 Petulance I threw my dolly out the pram; it hit the neighbours' cat, which ran straight back to old Siam — I wasn't proud of that. The older kids all called me names on my first day at school. I burned the gym down during games — I felt a proper fool One day my boss came down on me about some misplaced fraction; so I blew up the factory — a slight over-reaction? I got quite ratty playing chess, each time I lost a game; I left my foes a bloody mess, to my eternal shame. If years spent with this stupid man have made your life so tough, I don't know how I ever can apologise enough 9/9/10 Misapprehension Leaving someone who truly loves you is never a single thrust of a sharp and slender knife (no threat to life) It's a stroke repeated every single day till you return; the point is jaggéd, barbed, and each blow leaves another gash (see how they thrash) Most learn to live with it, of course; for some the pain recedes, and even comes to seem a valued stage (another page) along the way to better things. But always scars remain on both sides. And only by ending the attack (and going back) can the wounds be truly closed — and the callouses healed on the hand that wields the blade. 15/7/10 Tending the Seed Beds The packets come without instructions but you assume some variant of 'plant' and 'water'. A certain type of soil might be preferred, but on the whole you work with what's at hand, trusting the soil and sunlight to provide; trusting your instincts as to depth and space; trusting above all in nature's mystery — "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower". Would that we all had greener fingers than we do. 9/9/10 Slight Variation I (from Bollocks in Bruntsfield by The Disclaimers) When I wake up Then I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna be the guy that wakes up by himself And if I haver, Then I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna be the guy that's talking to himself If I go out Then I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna shit myself I might bump into you And if I get drunk Then I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna be the guy that gets drunk over you And I would walk about two miles And I'd walk two miles back again Just to be the guy that went back home Cause you pretended you weren't in 8/8/10 unamunamuno miguel said and at first it sounds quite clever if all our lives amount to is but dust the onus is on each of us forever to live to show that fate to be unjust the nihilist in me finds this amusing the old familiar existential fudge staring at the emptiness but choosing some arbitrary base from which to judge and yet perhaps it has an application within the limits of our mortal span a way of looking at our situation when lives look like they're going down the pan and so i am determined please believe me on living out my life to make it plain that you were bloody daft back then to leave me and dafter still to not come back again 20/8/10 ref. Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo (1864–1936) Dichotomy I (haiku) I don't go out much sad knowing you won't be there scared that you might be 4/8/10 Dichotomy II To be honest, I'd rather be dead than go on existing like this but it isn't the hope (for there is no more hope) of a joyful reunion that keeps me clinging to this poor excuse for a life. No; odd as it seems, it's love. And not only love that demands, for the sake of the one I adore, a permanent stand-by, lest she should ever want anything from me (she will never want anything more) but a love that in some obscure way informs my existence and gladdens my heart. I have learned that even a broken heart can be filled with devotion and joy; though not a joy that brings much happiness (there can be no more true happiness) but a warmth which will carry me through for as long as it takes to arrive at ( oh, how badly I want to arrive at) the end. 20/8/10 every cake you bake The stalker does the lover no favours; while devotion once was praised in poetry, it now looks dangerously like psychosis. We condemn (mostly) men for their fear, their shying away from commitment, and deprecate their callous selfishness; and yet (and not without reason) we decry nutters who will not let a lover go, whose desperate 'love' drives them to violence. But love is now an inward-turning thing, with its frustrations found in lack of payback, and not in lack of gain for the beloved. Being there for someone doesn't mean lurking about their home or myspace page or hanging round the places they might go. It may mean keeping such a perfect distance that (painful as it is) one never knows a single thing that happens in their life: a kind of 'anti-stalking' if you like; them living on but in your thoughts alone and in sweet memories of times you shared. They won't, ideally, know that you still care; given that their view of this may be so jaundiced, thanks to all those crazy fuckers But maybe one day you'll meet up again, and then the love that you've been keeping warm will blossom as a simple consequence of that which drew you close initially, and in which you at least have kept true faith. And if it doesn't, still you're there for them. True devotion is content with friendship true devotion doesn't even need that; if the loved one fears nuisance or pity the true lover withdraws with a sigh However it appears, it isn't a matter of waiting. Do mountains 'wait' for climbers? 21/8/10 soul weevils the trouble is they burrow deep — you think it's all behind you — but they keep breeding while you sleep — and waiting to remind you 5/10/10 patience i think i should explain my subject is love and the joys of love but to speak of the joys is not to ignore (i must not ignore) the pain and the loneliness the dangers (to all concerned) the heartaches (on both sides) the illusions (that seem so real) and thus the risks at times there may be no happiness at times it may seem pointless (too hard to carry on too easy to reach for that bare bodkin) so think not that i'm being too negative think not that this is just a catalogue of woe don't ask oh where is this joy of which you speak i'm coming to that … 5/10/10 Personal Column 1. St Peter's Syndrome And when, finally, the cock crows, you know what it will say: "You had no need to hide it — they all knew it anyway." Then you'll think of all the things you've missed or sacrificed to pride. It's not just some cheap betrayal — it's yourself that you've denied. 6/10/10 2. Slipping beauty Tonight is Aurora's party but with all the rôles reversed ~ the good spirit is uninvited, the Princess by herself is cursed 8/10/10 3. the hiatus — that's a lovely word as nice as any I have heard it holds a tad more hope in store than (quoth the lover), 'nevermore!' 8/10/10 Invisible elephants Are there any in the room right now? Is there something something whereof you feel you cannot cannot speak to me? Do you perhaps feel there is something something of which I am not speaking? I know of nothing nothing after all this time and yet I feel the presence when we speak or write (or I write and you do not respond) of something large and grey and heavy suspended in the sticky air between us. 26/9/10 (fantasy ~ sadly? ~ for a fellow sufferer) We make love on a rug by a roaring fire on a country cottage floor, where ~ briefly ~ time is forgotten and sorrow dismissed as a bore. And though in your body I revel, as we reach our voluptuous peak, it isn't my name that you tenderly moan; it isn't your love that I seek. And somewhere Johnny and somewhere Jill ~ loving and laughing and partying still ~ are living their lives, to which we're incidental, as into the night we go, raging but gentle If you still can't be with the one that you love try to love, then, the one that you're with. Do as the fancy might take you and hope that the years may forgive the follies that we are all prey to in this crazy pursuit of delight; the desperate tricks that we turn to, to fill in one more empty night. And somewhere Johnny and somewhere Jill ~ while we make the most of each fugitive thrill ~ are perhaps each alone in a cold city bed, and it seems not so bad to have you here instead. So if living our lives in the moment is sufficient enough for the day, then our long, patient wait for our dreams to come true can perhaps stand a bit more delay. While there's pleasure in poignant distraction, and some joy mingled in with our sighs, give a berth to this poor, storm-tossed seaman ~ let me shipwreck once more in your thighs! And somewhere Johnny and somewhere Jill can do whatever the hell they will ~ away from our licking and fucking and kissing ~ the poor sods don't know what they're bloody well missing! 18/11/10 Knowing I will die alone is sad enough (maybe by my own hand too ~ no worries there) but, lacking a faith, there is some slight envy for those who can call on priests to mark their end; some final rite of passage, knowing someone's there. I know this cannot be but how I wish I could be holding your hand now, and dying peacefully, putting an end to all the pain; and in the joy of undiminished love, letting me face death, not as something sad. We share a smile and, looking into your eyes, I slip away 6/8/10 Now if there's a smile on my face it's just a rictus grin of anguish but if it makes folks think I'm fine I say in no uncertain language Don't let my clownish actions disguise my hidden passions Cos I'm a twit oh, a stupid old twit doesn't mean that I don't feel like shit like a fool I pretend I'm still fit … There’s no point in trying to swim When I feel like I could drown. Tears of a clown when there’s no one around 19/8/10 Love doesn't hurt. I get around suggestions that it does by redefining things that cause us pain as something other. No one dies of AIDS but rather of diseases H.I.V. can make us far more likely to contract. Love makes us more susceptible to things which cause us pain and suffering, perhaps. It's not a great analogy, agreed: auto immune deficiencies aren't known to bring too many benefits. So say: what is it that makes life unbearable in the absence of a loved one, or else at the receiving end of their indifference or even hatred? That's our own desire for happiness or comfort or cheap thrills. What's that to do with love? Except perhaps that love says ——get it here and only here, ——accept no substitute, ——this is 'the one' Desire alone says ——get it where you can ——if they won't come up with the goods ——blame and deride and kick out at them. To me love just says ——make this person happy as best you can, and if you can't, withdraw—— I won't deny it brings some friends along who shout out quite unhelpful comments, like ——Get in there, my son! Give 'er one for me! 20/10/10 Some women like a fellow who’s prepared to show emotion — Who’s sensitive and has a caring side. A few are quite impressed by my continuing devotion (Though others think it’s something to deride). While most are quite content to make a sympathetic noise (And some no doubt decide that I’m a prat), A good few start comparing me with all their other boys And think, ‘I wouldn’t mind a man like that’. So a word to all the ladies who think they’re in with a shout (‘It’s a change to meet a guy that’s so romantic’) It’s almost with a heavy heart I have to point out (And even though I hate to be pedantic) That it wouldn’t say a lot for my unwavering affection If it’s possible for you to turn it in a new direction! March 2011 The stalker does the lover no favours; while devotion once was praised in poetry, it now looks dangerously like psychosis. We condemn (mostly) men for their fear, their shying away from commitment, and deprecate their callous selfishness; and yet (and not without reason) we decry nutters who will not let a lover go, whose desperate 'love' drives them to violence. But love is now an inward-turning thing, with its frustrations found in lack of payback, and not in lack of gain for the beloved. Being there for someone doesn't mean lurking about their home or myspace page or hanging round the places they might go. It may mean keeping such a perfect distance that (painful as it is) one never knows a single thing that happens in their life: a kind of 'anti-stalking' if you like; them living on but in your thoughts alone and in sweet memories of times you shared. They won't, ideally, know that you still care; given that their view of this may be so jaundiced, thanks to all those crazy fuckers But maybe one day you'll meet up again, and then the love that you've been keeping warm will blossom as a simple consequence of that which drew you close initially, and in which you at least have kept true faith. And if it doesn't, still you're there for them. True devotion is content with friendship true devotion doesn't even need that; if the loved one fears nuisance or pity the true lover withdraws with a sigh However it appears, it isn't a matter of waiting. Do mountains 'wait' for climbers? 21/8/10 What is this thing we now call love in this modern age of ours? It has little relation to what I feel: less a storm than scattered showers 2010 You broke my heart oh so often It started back when we were kids in school It seemed I never learned my lesson I kept coming back for more just like a fool You broke my heart in many pieces Don't think I'll ever put it back again There is no glue available to fix it No sticky tape can take that kind of strain But you can't make an omelette If you're scared of breaking eggs You broke my heart so easily But not my arms or legs You broke my heart in many places And finally it gets to be a bore You broke my heart in so many places I just don't go to those places any more 2010-11
If I had a bone to pick with Billy Shakespeare It would centre on his play A Winter’s Tale, Where jealous and possessive paranoia Drives poor Leontes to an epic fail. Then for sixteen years he lives with guilt and sorrow Believing his Hermione died of woe And the kid he’d thought born of his mate’s betrayal Was put to death — but little does he know … So he’s lost a son, he thought he’d killed a daughter — As king he can’t have been a great success. A decade and a half of bleak depression Can leave the finest mind a sorry mess. And I always felt, on reaching the dénouement, When wifey is revealed, alive, at last, That even if I was both pleased and humbled — I’d want to massacre the whole damn cast! ‘Cause, however bloody ‘noble’ their intentions, They’ve stolen times that will not come again; Deprived the guy of comforts, not to mention Some sixteen years of shagging down the drain. Yes, I know it’s just a play, I know it’s different; I know the whole damn thing’s a metaphor; I know that you’re alive and just don’t love me, But that all makes our lost time a bigger bore. Well, a mere five years of loneliness I’ve suffered Of missing out on all those things we’d planned But maybe I just haven’t learned my lesson — In ten more years perhaps I’ll understand 7/11/11 if the love of your life never really loved you (cos they never really knew you) and then one day they suddenly did (know you) would they then? 8/11/11 balance for every just move on another says hang in there love never really dies imbalance even when happiness is impossible misery is variable. unbalanced I hate ann widdecombe but … ¿what if ann widdecombe wanted me badly as I miss you cried herself to sleep each and every? ¿what difference she never met me let alone lived with? irrational pain is nonetheless pain ¿if I rejected would that make me a bad person would any blame for it at all? of course they wouldn’t ¿why then should anyone blame you? all the same I’m that bloody soft … I'll be right there, ann … overbalanced staying in love with love is falling for ever staying devoted to someone is not done by choice like Luther I can do no other here I stand — or rather here I lie 22/11/11 Statistics bear me out: more single people — independence, sure; not taking crap, ok; but far more loneliness reported, claimed; far more regrets and wonderings — should I have stayed with number one (or number six)? Leaving for variety, or from boredom or at some glitch; running from problems (rather than fixing) to other problems (same old same old) — because it's just the done thing now. So many left asking that same question that I hope you never will. And yet for us two this cannot apply — if it be true we only want that which we cannot have — only regret a loss when lost for ever, then you’re quite safe. My love for you is guaranteed as long as I draw breath. To comprehend both fact and magnitude of soulmate loss can crush a lonely heart; but thanks (we must give thanks) to that perversity that lurks within the human soul we can be sure (or pretty sure) you never will 5/12/11 1. I Fucking Hate Christmas, Me (to Zoe) You wi' your sorning Mither And me with me moanin' owd Dad; Kin we don't choose, but can hardly refuse — It's enough to drive anyone mad Though you're in the heart o' Auld Reekie And I'm stuck in Nott'n'm town, Whether near or apart, I've no place in your heart — Either way I'd be feeling well down. 'Tis a popular season for ending it all For all men who find no peace on earth And Hogmanay Eve is a fine time to grieve — Blues seem deeper surrounded by mirth. I'd rather be under my duvet Than counting down time in this bar — I'd rather be dead with a spike through my head If I can't be wherever you are. 31/12/11 2. Love Letters (to everyone) Your soulmate’s gone and left you all alone And smashed to smithereens your heart of glass; Your love lies bleeding on a slab of stone You snap at those who tell you, “This will pass.” You’re in no mood to mind your Ps and Qs: Why bother, when you’ve nothing left to lose? Before you start to turn your pain to hate Or nurse dark thoughts involving pills or rope, If you ever really loved your erstwhile mate May I point out a gleaming ray of hope? My message is as plain as A B C, So dry your tears and listen now to me. Love is important only ‘cause you give it: What can’t survive rejection can’t be true. Love is life, so go and bloody live it, And show in everything you say and do To every street in every A to Z Love grows in strength, the further it gets spread. So just hang in there, all you love-lorn swains; Let goodwill quench the fiercest flames of hell. The fire of loss is swamped by True Love’s gains, So join your voices with me while we tell Of how they brought the news from X to Y That Love is fine and never has to die. 14/1/12 We must have walked together, you and I, By streams with flowers clustered on their banks; Made love on bluebell carpets on the Downs Or dined at village inns on steak and chips. Perhaps we travelled far by aeroplane, Explored exotic cities, ate strange foods, Shared rare adventures, mixed with crazy folk; Returning, tired but happy to our bed. But if we did it's gone, and all that's left Is wild surmise, assumptions, vague ideas Of what companions do when they're in love For, with that love, true recollection dies. 25/3/12 As I walk up the hill from the ponds for boating And the drizzle bedampens my threadbare shirt I look back down through the twilight’s gloating And see on its slope, now mired with dirt Through eyes that hurt Myself and a girlish form together On a drier day. We climb the lane And reach a bench. We sit, though whether For love or easing of footsore pain I can’t explain. What we said as we climbed or what we were thinking Matters not much, nor the sex in the trees; And whether ‘twas coffee or wine we’d been drinking Outside Café Mozart is lost on the breeze. Like my mud-stained knees, It’s been scrubbed clean by time and love’s forgetting, And all that remains is the thought it was nice And should never have ended. But no point in fretting Or letting the value be marred by the price. Take the wise man’s advice, And try not to weep that the good times are ended But smile at the knowledge that great times were had. They might have gone sour had their days been extended: Just tell yourself this, and try to be glad, And not to go mad. Now to me, though my love has grown bigger, Her heart is turned cold as a stone; So the sun sets now on a solit’ry figure Who gazes, sad, at his unringing phone, And stands there alone. “Hampstead Heath”, as it tells us on Wikipedia, “Rests on a deep band of London Clay, “Is rambling and hilly;” but none of the media Refers whatsoever to that long-lost day When we two passed that way. But I look and see us there, fading, fading. I look back at it through the rain, Not minding if folks find my tears degrading For I shall never be halfway sane Ever again. 10/4/12 love leaks out of a broken heart but rebounds to the sufferer's credit if instead of letting it trickle away you collect it and grow it and spread it 28/8/12 Each night, and just before I go to bed, I check not only that the door is locked but also that the key has been removed. It’s just in case you still have yours, and (though I don’t believe you ever will) one night you feel an overwhelming need to creep back in, just like you did back then when love was young and oh so tentative 3/9/12 you have now been gone six years you have now been gone twice as long as you were with me you have now been gone for just one night you have now been gone for ever 9/12 The sign says: 'Insufficient Funds'. My day is never quite as long as yours is fake. Without a set of clear instructions, you are blocked at every turn, while I cling to a few cold certainties called Love. 11/12 She needs more songs. I know that now. Special people should be hymned incessantly. So let us celebrate a life, not deprecate a loss, nor whinge about what should have been. Cos every little thing I do, however disguised, is no more nor less than a song of love. 11/12 After she left, she moved in with some guys students of films and movie-making; but none of them knew anything not made in Hollywood, not in full colour, not made before the Seventies. Big screen blockbusters only. Tarentino, but not what Tarantino referenced. And I’d introduced her to Bergmann, Welles and Kurosawa. Filmhouse and Cameo continued our joint education, broadened horizons still further. Our Charulata dvd remains unwatched. Now going to the movies only makes me sad. 16/12/12 I have told a number of stories. Most of them, at least in part are true. A good many straight from the heart. But cannot say how many were for you. All identities, existing or imagined, they merge and shift in writing as in fact. Uncertainty itself is quite exciting. And love is all the better for being inexact. 4/13 "Hope you realise I'm glad to have "you in my life. You mean a lot to me." Then five days later no more texts, no mails, no coffee meetings; no apparent, much less stated, reason for the sudden silence. Erased my birthday facebook greeting (another ex's 'liked'); pre-emptively repulsed, with steely glare of noli me alloque, by Armchair Books; then nothing more. Now one whole year has passed in silence, but for one brief condolatory text on Father's death. Perhaps I understand. New friends, new job – perhaps, new lover; wanting no embarrassment or awkwardness from some old git she'd rather not have loved and flusters to excuse. I only hope it's helped her find her happiness. That means a lot to me. April 25 2013 When Scott was after Zelda — the one that nearly got away — getting published seemed to do the trick. We glittered too — albeit on a slightly less grand scale — and could yet be the toast of gay Paree, if only I could likewise lure you back with literary chevisance. Like Gatsby I would build a mansion up on Viewforth just to see your place across the street. Like Zelda maybe you'd go crazy too. I'd write my wish-fulfilling sequel, set in Spain, where true love is restored, and the green light shines forever in La Viña. May 24 2013 Still to come if I can get it writted: Multiverses. If you enjoyed Anniverses, you'll love Multiverses! |