These poems are an introduction to the work of David Stuart Ryan. Some have been published in
Love Poems from Love Worlds and The Cream of the Troubadour Coffee House from Kozmik Press.
Others are selected from the seven books that make up his proposed poetry series SEVEN WORLDS
It investigates the nature of each of the seven worlds of existence.
The seven books which comprise SEVEN WORLDS are:
The Sphere of the Moon Goddess
The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon
Post Book from Around the World
New New World
Home
Another World
Seventh Heaven
There are also some poems from his latest collection in progress entitled Observations.
Links to the other parts of this collection of David Stuart Ryan's poetry.
It was a perfect sunny summer afternoon
When the letter fell onto the floor with a crash
Announcing confirmation of your death in action
Exactly eighty years before.
The garden never seemed so at peace.
In the pages of a book was your gallant story.
After four days of lashing heavy rain
The 12th battalion went to Pozieres again
To root out the German machine gun nests
Lining the long ridge from High Wood to Mouquet Farm.
The Germans had no comprehension of the snarling Oz oaths
But did have belief in their shining metal contraptions
Spitting bullets through the air like angry swarms of bees
While fresh flower fragances drifted in the air
Just as on the homestead when from over the Grampians
Came the fresh sweet smell of the far off ocean
In the middle of a drought when the air was bone dry.
Luck and pluck saw us take the village in a day,
What a day, jubilation as the Huns fell sullenly back
Carrying those awful guns to another place up the line
Down on the farm we watched the animals
In the fields lazily chewing the grass, unaware
Of their death on the morrow, sweet ignorance.
The air beyond the hills hinting at some final freedom
To be found on a continent lost from the beginning of time.
Over the hills, over the hillocks, over the ridge
Comes a scent of another life, a greater one perhaps The battalion will advance until the ground is captured
Or you are stopped - dead in your tracks.
From Observations.
The story behind this poem
It is always very easy to surf off in new directions on the Internet,
even when you start off with the objective of finding just one piece of
information. But that is part of its fascination.
I was researching a piece for my horoscope web page about Field Marshall
Earl Haig, Commander in Chief of the British Empire forces in World War
One.
I came upon a site about the Battle of Somme, the anniversary of which
on July 1 each year, has always been significant to me. One obvious
reason being that it was the blackest day ever for England with over
20,000 men killed and 60,000 total casualties.
But perhaps there were other reasons. I had always been curious about
what had happened to my Australian grandmother's brother, I knew vaguely
he had been killed in the war, perhaps in 1917 I thought for some
reason. But she never really talked about it.
There was one curious incident when I was in Australia in the 1970s. It
was reported in the papers in a small paragraph (always the most
interesting and revealing part of any newspaper) that a bottle with a
message had washed up on the shore of Western Australia. It contained a
farewell message from a World War 1 soldier on a troopship heading off
to the Great War. My grandmother I noticed had been stirred by this
snippet of news, and confirmed briefly that one of her brothers had
indeed been killed in it but she said she remembered little about it, it
was all a long time ago. No one, she claimed, knew what happened to him.
Once into the internet pages about the Somme I came to a page about the
Australian Imperial Force which had its own archive run by the
Australian government.
They showed visual examples of enlistment papers, written reports
recording the death of soldiers. It brought these distant dusty archives
half way round the world in Canberra vividly to life.
There was an e-mail reply option. I e-mailed saying did they have any
record of a West born in Rupanyup, Victoria? I had no other information.
Back came a reply. They really needed more details, but as I pointed
out Rupanyup was and is a small farming town, there would not be many
Wests who had enlisted.
Two weeks later came a follow up. They had records for a Herbert West,
who had attended the local school and had joined up in 1915, would I
like the papers?
Would I? This was suddenly very real, a great uncle returning from the
dead.
On a glorious sunny day at about midday, a thick envelope of papers
crashed down onto my mat.
It was the complete file for Herbert West. I checked some old papers I
had from a genealogist on the family. My grandmother was the youngest of
six children. The next youngest was Arthur Herbert West, born at the end
of 1896, 18 in 1915.
The enlistment papers confirmed his age, 18 years and seven months on
joining up in August, 1915. This was him.
The various papers recorded he had been killed in action with the
Australian 12th battalion near Pozieres, the first major strategic
objective given to the newly arrived Australian Imperial Force. They had
astonished the British by breaking through the German fortifications and
taking the village on their first day in action and then got bogged down
by the heavy German fortifications, machine gun fire and artillery.
By mid August the Australians had inched forward at stupendous cost in
lives and were near a new objective, Mouquet Farm. Machine gun fire was
still killing several thousand men for every few yards gained but the
Germans had learnt respect for the sheer tenacity of the new tough
Aussies who were not so used to the lashing rain storms of mid August on
the Somme. And it was later reckoned that it was here on the Somme
that the mighty German war machine had shown the first signs of
cracking.
I looked at the date on the papers, killed in action August 19th-22nd 1916,
near Pozieres, no known grave. A supplementary paper detailed how in
1936 the grave of an unknown soldier had been found near Mouquet Farm.
His identity disk revealed it to be Herbert West, aged 19 years and 7
months. That his grave had been found had never become known to my grandmother.
Another paper noted his Victory Medal had been sent to his farmer father
in 1923.
Slowly in the garden, while the hot sun shone and perfect peace reigned,
I realised it was August 19th 1996, 80 years to the day since that 19
year old had died.
Private Herbert West had come home.
Postscript
Arthur Herbert West was posthumously awarded the 1914/15 Star, the British War Medal and the Victory Medal.
The following is the text of a letter written on 21st of February 1936 by the Imperial War Graves Commission to the Offical Secretary, Australia House, Strand, London WC2.
Sir,
I am directed by the Imperial War Graves Commission to inform you that it has recently been possible to trace the grave of 4073 Private H West of the 12th Battalion Australian Imperial Force.
The grave of an unknown soldier was found at a point north-west of Pozieres and, in order that
the grave might be properly maintained in the future, the remains were carefully exhumed and reverently
reburied in Grave 2, Row E, Plot 1 of London Cemetry Extension, High Wood, Longueval. When this was done Private West's identity disc was found and from this and from an examination of the Commission's records, it is established that this is his grave.
I am to ask you kindly to inform the relatives of the discovery of this grave, and to notify them that
a headstone will be erected upon it in due course.The disc by which the remains were identified is being sent to the Officer-in-Charge, Base Records, Melbourne, where the next-of-kin can claim it.
I am,
Sir,
Your obedient Servant,
SECRETARY
In the attack between Aug 19 and 22 at Mouquet Farm by the First Division, Australian Imperial Force, a small advance was gained at the cost of 2650 casualities. After 9 separate attacks between the end of July and the beginning of September the Corps advanced a distance of about 2,000 yards to the fringes of Mouquet Farm at the cost of 23,000 men, more than had died at Gallipoli in 8 months.
An Australian battle exploit plaque near the ruins of Mouquet Farm marks the spot.
Am I searching for you or searching for me?
The smell of the earth then - fresh, vivid, mostly free.
Looming strictures of designs spun in muddled minds
Did not oppress, but do now, fate adds to the binds.
Is it searching to be free? Still your voice whispers
By beaches, bays, cliffs, calling resolutely blisters
The present, the future; searching for you or for me?
I go finally, for the past tells of lack, of unborn boons.
Some hope is gone, but it died its death voluntarily.
Looking out to continents your voice again trembling,
Hair falling, threshing on floors. Go, it says, explore before
You are no longer free. Coming back the smell of the earth
In flashes, reminds how become so free, you whirl in wind,
You seek, really seek, bases and places to march from.
Having travelled much I now will tell what you once knew.
It sings in wind, the rains contain, the earth is what we seek -
And destroy.
What is there in this life not part of you?
I have surprised the daffodils with my knowing look
They spread all about a hill in a profusion of hues
It was not their colour nor their freshness I with me took.
You have taken me inside the heart of your glowing life
I wander ecstatic among the rippling clouds of light
In the spring flush of feeling I have made you my wife
You have given me insight into birth's newness, the hidden might.
I wander, I wander, to me come the strangenesses of woman's touch
In a bed we have fought through time to arrive hushed
At the moment when a bird senses dawn, lets its clutch
On life awaken it to song, away our sorrows rushed.
In the redeeming light of dawn your face gazes transformed
Into the stirring shadows tinged with blueness, your breasts
Are wrapped in silken skin, your body radiates a light uniform
I can touch and feel heaven this morn, dawn comes to us blest
Your temple of a body has ushered me to wonder sublime.
Look how the procession of geese and ducks chant and walk!
The waters are splashed with sun rays, early and pure is the time
Wrapped in your body's heat and feel I can barely hardly talk.
The birds are singing in happy chorus now, full throaty boisterous
You are very soft, gathered by the breaking day into regalness.
Your skin I can see through to your tender heart, it's roisterous
With song and dance, your hair flays the day with every silk tress.
I came to you a pilgrim bearing gifts of power and sight
You have delivered to me a gush of wealth in colour's glaze.
Each room you take me shouts life at me, hold me tight!
I do not understand how you can flood the commonplace with heaven's waves.
Beyond any mortal comprehension are you who the birds warble.
Within you is life, out rushes love in flames of parted lips
Moisture touched with the air of splendour guards your marble
Temple, the daffodils too touched with this miracle at their tips.
So fair of you who can conjure up the waking dawn
To hurl me blinking into the breaking buds of life's tree
And set upon the start of life pray to you to spawn
All the glad tidings of the earth in spring, treat me right merrily!
The moon grew to its fullest girth as we rocketed through space
Into the cradle of the galaxies and saw the seeds spilling happily
To every corner of the womb of vision, I met you face to face
What is there to say when we exchange the immortal ecstatically?
Brightening light brought dawn
Streaky sunlight made the day smile awake.
The bride shimmered in satin white
The little girl in her dainty dress
Dancing, bobbing, enjoying, with serious calm.
The evening rested.
Blue clothed children in a rich green playland.
Orange russet, pink violet, deep grey, white splattered clouds
Swarmed about the yellow sinking sun,
Mountains of rising cloud miles away
Above the horizon tumbled upwards in profusion.
Midsummer had reached the perfect peak
In dark brown streets
Lined with the leaves of accomplished trees.
The light sank blissfully into the cool blue evening,
All smiles.
The moon curved and cupped towards heaven's midnight blue
Shines brighter,
Catches a steely grey shaft of cloud
In the form of a cross.
A winking star amid the wonder of richest blue's depth.
Leisure songs, slow walks among the drib drab
Paraphanalia of a living city's work homes.
Greetings from a black man, an Englishman fisherman.
Serenity, bewitched by shining starlight
The Plough is all too visible.
These stars fading before the dawn
As a jet plane winks lights
Into the lightening blue of another beginning day.
Pigeons coo on the roof, she coos in loving arms.
In sudden spurts the decades' dreams have rolled across the land
Until the far western ocean will perhaps blend that band
Who wear the faces of America nearly yet to be.
I've seen the high points of your progress, but what I see
Is a man searching for an island, life dreaming of wild life.
Musing on the surly black, marvelling he's hardly turned to strife.
The black's sister in the city shouts her wares, little cares
For praise or progress. A north European claims that only in the soil
Will release come for the dynamo-driven like she, maybe boil
She will, while on the land lies what's promised, elusive, broken.
The old Indian trail leading to the the river has spoken:
'On the dark forest hills by the joining of the waters shall
Descend the great spirit who lives on in quarters and eighths.'
Pale vestiges who haunt the farm folk; they frenzid lash
The overspilling harvests to tractors, equate happiness with cash
Juxtapose huge rust ironworks beside old sacred spots, listen...
Roar of the multifaceted falls where faces glisten
From the waters' answer. In the Mid West a dancer
Fluidly beating the time makes approach to the growth cycle,
Soft blue, beaming, engulfing, waiting for the signal, like all kind.
In the Far West, what's beyond the shores gives hints
Of the germinating seeds in this land which will sprout, the treasure glints
In the newest faces, passed through many a plain, mountain, desert,
Come at length to see their own strength which they may now assert.
It is the day of the barney barrow race.
All week long old pram wheels and planks
Have been meticulously fitted together
Till streamlined bodies of tin adorn
The assembled frames.
The magnificent machines are pushed forward
By their proud mechanics, the drivers
Sit inside the cockpits ready for the start.
Three circuits of the track will decide
The winner's fate.
The barney barrows clatter and bang over
Rough concrete laid down in haste at war's end,
While the prefabricated houses set back
Behind neat lawns wave their load of wild flowers
In summer's glow.
Silver shining tin, sleek lines, white rubber tyres,
Thin spokes, string steering, wooden seats,
Shaking and rattling, hurtling ever faster
As corners come into sudden view and career
Beneath the racing wheels.
Nearer and nearer draws the finish, roars
Of delight, shouts of encouragement, sense
Of triumph to come. To the victor are given
The spoils, all press forward for the final burst
To home and victory.
'We won the war, we won the war, we won the war in 1944.'
The troops of children marched, they ran
Around the playground under the tree, marshalled
By the bellowing kids into a phalanx of surging
Energy and will.
A resounding sickening thwack as wheels hit a ridge
Of solid concrete, crash down to the ground again.
A final push, a surging rush of the hurtling swaying
Machines as the barney barrows round the last corner
For the finish.
The spoils are praise and prestige at the satisfactory end
To the hours of inventiveness. It is the too brief time of triumph.
The great army of children in the playground follow their leader.
A young woman teacher calls the war child over, politely asks
'Can you stop now?'
This part of the world has become
For me driving steadily, a small goal
For here you knew the same wooded view
As now I see, the misty rain hill tops
Rise up from the road, car finally stops.
There is no avoiding our common circumstance.
Again murder most foul reminds how leaders
And seekers of honours can be cut down, the world
Retreat into comforting madness, nothing
Seems prosper, evil again comes hoping
These streets fifty years ago were dirty tracks,
Timber horses toiling. The old rough humour
Has not passed, set up and away from the cities
The people pass a wise time behind a screen
Of earth's rhythms, seasons, a nourishing dream
So bidding farewell to your once home town,
Setting off back to the inward looking city
Screaming winds and dashing rain can not stem
The flow from the heart of true being.
A hundred generations pass, life keeps up its breathing.
Life is like a helter skelter leading us onwards,
Bumping along the way, joy the movement, it conquers
Hanging back fear, and an old grey man came
The hour you slid from the womb. Never the same
Will we be now, at your first move my heart jumped
Pure energy again, the new surged, the old slumped.
Only now do I see and feel the nuances of night
With so much ripe and resting before it will burst outwards
There is mellow blue which is almost not quite soft as you
But it is darkness which wraps as carefully as you and as bright.
We are holding the balance between two far ends of life
Between is a rhythmic flow of juice carried energy,
And more, movement and more, heart talk and more, much more.
The centre part of you is fine edged as a knife,
Soon will come the urge to break out into a rush of feeling,
The sounds of musicians will fade, the sense of labouring will fall away,
The pulsing of unearthly bodies will impinge on our bodies
And at the end of the caravan a man will be happily reeling.
From Another World
She rushes me with those big red gloves
scuffling in to score a blow.
The red rages in the brain, I respond
Dance around her dancing feet.
She comes in again all smiles
Throws a left and a right
I parry with a straight left
Denting a well filled breast.
It gives softly and willingly.
She smiles.
'Got you', I say.
At the Clatterynge Bridge your waters merge
With the mighty Thames under the ancient arches
Made strong and firm to last the centuries
But your source is hidden away from sight.
At the riverside full to bursting with water
The afternoon sun dances on the shifting flow
And peace is all around while we watch
The passing show, uninterrupted by future concern.
Let me trace you back to your beginnings
Past the graveyard where my mother lies
Undisturbed now by the passage of time
Her grave passed by the whir of a lawnmower.
Your twisting route follows the lie of the land
Tucked away from the din of cars and trains
Ducks washing on the banks, wind blowing cold
Over trees shed of their autumnal leaves.
Away from the river, a mere tributary you are
But in these back lanes narrow tracks follow
Your course beside quiet roads where in summer
Feet rush to their destination in anticipation.
At the bypass cars surge over your flood
Unheeding and unknowing of the gentle pull
Leading from distant hills to green meadow
Beside the line of bright painted houses.
On this road when the owl in middle night
Calls out, only lovers wrapped in their warmth
At the backs of houses gazing towards the stars
Can hear its wild cry of freedom.
The stars are revealed as spots of bright light
Unwavering in their courses, fixed for all time
While the earth and its rivers whisper a tune
Only heard at the very dead of night.
Where is your source? I wait for spring to rise.
At the house of my great grandparents the fir
Still towers above all in magnificent disdain
And the fruit trees at the rear are in blossom.
The old water barrel has been removed from beside
The back door where a woman from Woolton, Northants
Once prepared high tea on Sunday afternoons
Radiant with delight in her great grandchildren.
We are close to the source now, the stream flows
Gentle in the warm Sunday beams of the sun,
The rolling green hills of England crown far horizons,
Clouds sweep the open skies, sheep nibble the grass.
The land is fresh, untrammelled, flushed with growth
It has hardly changed in a hundred years or much more.
The mediaeval hunting lodge is gone, the ancient
Woodland flowers linger at this spot. You are home.
Being drawn along invisibly in night's might
Our centres never coalesce but magnetized
They stand as the pillars for building right.
Can you playfully let go all the past of before?
Then make a final act of faith, expand to two,
Come enter behind appearances through this open door.
Ascending or descending this watery line?
Merge into cool waters, meet the one clear substance,
Stand naked on the marble, let the hearts entwine.
Lying together, two dissimilarities,
At the cool judgement hall were found two distinct places
For the coming and the going, the being and the reason, the
disparities.
No sound has escaped for centuries from our rest,
Escaping into recedingness are the heights
Above, twisting curves of workmanship blest.
A melody once begun can know no ceasing,
For the call answered can not still or violate,
Ringing the registers of harmony goes on and on teasing.
Still motion are the joined unjoinings of the dome,
Lightness of form defies capture, in great rapture,
Dissolves before our eyes before we shall ever come home.
Gone beyond, the sound of the sudden beginning,
Up outwards, such combination reaches structures
Of dancing light and shade, trip through the maze singing.
Can be done, has been done, our life to bear witness
To the cleaving of essential from inessential.
No division can match, thought catch, what future we now
guess.
Written at the Taj Mahal
From Post Book from around the World.
White sheets of still water under a half moonlight,
A land lain undisturbed for much of history,
Visited in the past by an eerie knowingness,
A discipline demanding sacrifice of all.
A beneficent place where a seeker may live
Off the bounty of Earth, find perpetual warmth
On southern shores, perpetual cold in the North.
Forests to reside in, undisturbed for seasons,
Reflecting on the purposes of the lone soul.
A method of handing on knowledge as a gift,
Earned by moral worth, borne out by experience.
In the blue of night old pathways beckon, allure.
The awakening takes place in a mountain cave,
Fifteen thousand feet above sea, approached by tracks
Threading through passes and dizzying drops; snow clad
Amarnath, birthplace of Shiva, spirit guide.
His white lingam rises and falls with the water,
A sacred place for those on the epic journey
That will lead to heaven. Come now down to the Earth,
Tread through Kashmir's vales, from some thick wooded hill tops
Watch the sun rise and then set behind blue mountains
Reflected in the lake, horsemen ride across its paths,
Expert as any Mongol invader, be still
At the edge of the quiet water, start the day fresh.
Armies rumble through the night near the shifting border,
The deep abysses of war populate dark holes,
Subterranean moves reveal their power too late,
Set off, you tread along the routes of conquerors.
Alexander, bulding cities, leaving the children behind.
Into the Ganges spreading plains, follow the moon's beams
To the joining of the rivers, crash down from the crags.
Hardwar, the holy men appear in profusion
Watching the coming of another day from rock
Platforms, they seem as stationary as the sun
Watching the Earth turn in its orbit, a passage
Through the galaxy takes twenty four thousand years.
Dawn at the ghats in Benares comes like a shock.
Behind the trees on the vast plain the sun appears
Illuminating the wide Ganga with orange rays,
By the time it is an hour old temple priests
Are dispensing waters upon many lingam shrines
Set in alcoves in the temple walls above
The hubbub of pilgrims below dipping away
Their sins in ritual. The priest moves slowly, booms
'Om Shiva' at the gates of the temple, moves on
To the shrine of Parvati, as strong as her man
In the charge of energy that starts from below
And heads on its course to the very upper crown.
The moon grows daily, now it is seen above sea,
The warmed seas of the South, where the foreigners came
Putting an end to self mastery that had lived
Unchanged from the time of the Buddha, first preaching
Lessons some few miles from the Ganga at Sarnath.
But the palms of the southern shores sway, unresisting
The call of the moon while there is any sign of life.
Death for the ancient sea turtle, at the sea's edge
Its flippers idly ply the tide as if it were alive.
The birds have perceived its motionlessness, flock to peck
The cold flesh, by the return of the next moon night
Only shell form, the same for millions of years.
The narrow passageways of Benares keep out
Those who have not grown up in labyrinths of cows,
Dogs, goats, donkeys and caged birds. Cool in the heat of day,
At dusk they hide a multitude of secret learning.
The horoscopes are cast in the ancient Sanskrit way.
In tatters, the meanings of the calculations.
Philosophers muse on the sacred Vedic texts,
Musicians practise at the feet of old masters.
A man must follow a path to its conclusion,
Aware of the arrivals for burning on logs,
Must use his time well, until he has become free,
Master of a tune in harmony with the past.
Midnight at the circle of hills in kingly Rajgir
Where the Buddha spent years wandering and teaching.
The home of the magnificent Ashoka who used
Gautama's laws and ensured a lasting peace.
Even now in its decline the temples on peaks,
White and remote, guard the peace of the lush valley.
At its soft centre a shrine to the snake goddess,
The feminine knows the Earth's magic, while stones guard
The memory of one who passed among them once.
At the caves are left traces of early teachers,
The air is still charged with an electric current
That instantly transmits the mystery of man.
The thunderbolts of Himalayan storms echo
Over Kathmandu, olden city of temples,
People stay in their homes, dwarfed by the whitened peaks.
Animals may be sacrificed to appease deities,
Tibetans who fled down from the high plateau
Say their prayers upon wheels that turn in the cold wind,
Sacred monkeys clamber, watched by the all seeing eye
Of the temple, the symbol of a thunderbolt
Perfectly frames a gap in the encircling mountains
Through which pour the dispensers of Tibet's magic
With knowledge of the coming cycle for the world,
Their faces eagle sharp, kind, keeping some distance.
A perfect day in the village of Bodh Gaya,
The ageing sadhu moves like an Indian ram,
Yet pauses to bless the worth of the bullock
Endlessly turning circles as it grinds the corn.
Fruits and flowers, the choicest of the Earth's bounty
Find their way upon leaves to their recipients,
Fragrant old India takes her repast and thanks
The Earth for nurturing all that lives, that exists,
To surpass itself and turn from one lakeside flower
Into a hundred equally dazzling pure shapes.
At the pool's side the two lovers who have lain on
A carpet of grass smile wordlessly with their love.
The desert at the time of the full moon, Brahma's home,
A clear lake has gathered about it small white shrines,
Bells chime in night, the expanses of the chill blue
Wastes of sand call out, here there is the breathing Earth.
Steep sided mountains surrounding the desert track,
A white pillared, flat topped temple and alongside
A deep sunken well reached down shadowed steep sheer steps.
At their foot, still waters reflecting the moon,
Glinting with an old light, the food for life it is.
A solitary tree, Shiva and Shakti make
An embrace that powers with the moon into a burst
Of thousands of seeds upon the barren empty ground.
The perfectmost creation, thus has Pushkar stood
For four journeys around the hub of the galaxy,
Calm flows out from waters whistled upon
By birds and geese who have flown here from distant lands
To join the bright natives in their emerald greens,
Over the heads of teeth baring monkeys who take
What is given without losing sense of danger
From the trickery of man. Cows meander the streets
Snuffling into roots heaped upon the ground for them,
Birds in the latticework chirp, pigeons coo deeply
Beside the lake, while in the deep waters great fish
Twist round the grasses that grow at the waters' edge.
The epics are retold by each generation,
The bomb that sent dust clouds into the sky for days
Reminds of the almighty power, peace must be won
The singers sing behind the haunting cobratim
With a sound to carry across the empty spaces.
All is free, as it should be when you have crossed
The desert, worshipped at the last temple then found
Communion and eventually come to gaze
Upon the coming dawn with a marvelling awe.
Beauty astounds, is cast out by an angry mind
Trying to change what it cannot change or improve.
Death comes, the old sadhu leaves to a wedding march.
The room in your wooden house is old
As old as those in Kathmandu
But you are so young, hardly know
The soft lines of your legs form
A perfect invitation to that sleek black crown.
The cat at the door has climbed fences
Jumped huge gaps, mounted the wooden stairs
And now presents herself in all her glory.
Like you she moves with an easy grace
And is reluctant to commit herself to any male.
In the dark night of your candlelit room
Naked figures prowl the recesses of your brain.
You curl and unfurl in your bed, soft curves
Heavy sleep, dreamy awakenings, waiting
Waiting for the light to penetrate your form.
The red dust earth is pitted with spots of rain
And then the deluge upon the Malabar shoreline.
Waves crashing onto rocks, water cascading down.
Flow gently with the caressing rain
Feel closer to the core of creation.
At the lingam shrine, bent down,
You open and shut with the pulse of life
Sending forth swirling dancing colours.
Jim Morrison and the Doors
playing New Mexico hot and sweet
the way they like it,
don't you love her madly?
The DJ in Albuquerque
now he's a guy I'd like to meet,
pure rock from the wraparound stereo in the Ford
hurtling at seventy and eighty mph
through ancient stone corridors
under sunset turning skies
down long straight highways
the clouds salmon pink, the sky palest blue.
Astronomy Domine
in the land where they made the bomb.
A new sun has been born.
Magic
hot potent magic
in worn down yet still massive escarpments
old when a dinosaur left his prints
near Tuba City.
The music raves
the beat twists and turns
the car hurtles through space
slipping and sliding
through the colors
of sunset chasing the Santa Fe train
to some destination
where the future is being born.
The desert is a step nearer reality.
A flock of black birds fly in the valley
rich and lush is the green by the lake.
Fresh water beside the tossing white sea
to soothe the salted skin and let it breath.
A white female torso upends and dives beneath
the calm of the clear water, cheeks vibrant,
while on the island a group cluster like early men
around a pipe of peace, one cakes herself in dust
and looks as old as the wornaway mountain sides.
Leave your place at the water's sweet side
gaze back to see the bronzed figure of woman
burned brown by the serenely moving sun.
Return through the clear waters to that spot,
she has gone, changed to a swim suited tourist
writing notes home in some haste about a man she saw.
I am wandering through the night
by the moon blue sea. Up ahead
two distant figures tread the surf,
there is only the quiet roar of the swashing sea.
You are searching for a rendezvous
an address that is unknown, secret.
Here musicians gather under the bright stars
to release their dreams of pure harmony.
They are playing their instruments quietly,
a circle of candles illuminate the place,
gently the watchers are drawn together
while dogs sniff in the exterior shadows.
I am beating the rhythms of India
on a drum that takes on a voice
all its own, come with me dancing by the seashore
and celebrate the ever recreating march of life.
A row of Thai air hostesses at the Taj Hotel
looking like released butterflies.
Outside these marble white doors
brown skinny kids beg paisa,
dark shadows hide thin limbs
curled up on strips of bare cloth
providing warning - if such were needed -
of the hazards and chances of life.
So you are setting out restless one
to seek your very own place in the sun
waving goodbye to all that restricts
and has become outworn.
Farewell bedlam of cities, dementedly seeking gain,
goodbye rows of shops displaying sad wares
like derelicts reveal their sores and ask
for sympathy. I can only spare you a smile.
Take me, take me now, mother of the black night
whose stars shine brilliant above the wisps
of pale clouds. Below the ferment
is producing a raddled brew of disdain,
wonder has fled our lives, along with belief,
I am walking a dirt strewn back lane
without light, only hope, careless for the morning
and what it will bring.
I am coming back.
Again.
The years the poetry died
Strong men wept and cried.
In the days before the blight
We heard songs singing within
Poets wandered from town to town
Telling of the wonders they had seen
But now it is all gone.
The years the poetry died
Strong men wept and cried.
Ships leave for foreign shores
Filled to the gunwales with wretches
Who know there must be more
Than the hunger and disease and pain
Of deadly famine.
The years the poetry died
Strong wept and cried.
Far far away let the bards now fly
over the mountainous waves of sea
to other lands not quite so green
Let them wander the lanes again
Searching out their song.
The years the poetry died
Strong men wept and cried.
Let the birds call a different tune
The sun give another kind of light
The winds whistle in tall upright trees
And the moon glow over the growth
In another land.
The years the poetry died
Strong men wept and cried.
Here there is only bleak despair
Starved victims of the landlords
Bent on preserving the rotten harvest
Of their indecision. Let your colours fly
Poets all over the known earth.
I am from Sarajevo.
My brother, sister, mother are dead.
I am hungry. Please help me.
She stands there in front of you
Holding out a printed note, says nothing.
A long colourful dress under a serious face
A distant look of gunfire
In her staring ahead eyes
Only able to see the luxury
Of people eating and drinking
during their long leisurely lunch.
We have no concern with Sarajevo
A far off town in a far off country.
You see in the casual shrugs and faces
No comprehension of the hate
The cruel bullets ripping out flesh,
The screams of despair, the gun fire,
Brother against brother tearing out hearts
Committing atrocities in the name of some land
That has not existed for more than half a century.
Yet still the tug and pull of identity
Demands the execution of grim death.
We have no concern with Sarajevo
A far off town in a far off country.
The earnest couple of men cross her palm
with silver as though she is a gypsy.
She may be, she passes on, on to the next face
Of incomprehension, no smile on her lips.
While food and drink are enjoyed slowly
The bombs and the bullets begin again in her head
The staring eyes see horror all around
She passes on, with never a smile.
We have no concern with Sarajevo
A far off town in a far off country.
The sand in the gutter has turned orange
Water mixed with blood flows to a drain
The battered railings tell of a death
The crowd watch the men in dark blue
Tidying up another rush hour fatality
With ready made bags of soft yellow sand.
The colour of life is washed and sprinkled away
The commuters survey the annointed scene
Which in an hour or so will hardly tell
Of the casualty, a car bonnet dented
A driver a little careless and angry
The machines magnify our violence
A thousand times, are unforgiving
Of error, consume mortals with ancient ferocity.
The killer and the killed surveyed each other
Could not avoid the confrontation
Brought about in a casual unsuspecting way
There was no time to think, instinct took over
The earth has seen it all before, a thousand times
The death is unremarkable, only the blood colour
Refuses to be silenced, its vivid red speaks of
Life, of the one mark we leave on the world
And we all wish to leave a mark upon the world.
It is a large yellow globe going down behind winter trees
Having shone all night behind a curtain of falling rain
Where long tall windows looked out on a world put to rest
Quiet and unconcerned at the comings and goings of people.
At the still centre, a black rug stitched with glittering threads
A warming glow spreading outwards to the far reaches of the night
Where the circular nature of the worlds beyond describe their
courses
Unknowing of any small drama being played out far away.
A sailor takes sight of the stars on his ship in the darkness
Sees the belt of Orion fiercely shining above his head
Realises he is lost at sea and needs comfort and warmth
If he is to preserve his spirits against the dashing cold spray.
The boat will reach land after its journey through the night
Dawn will come clear and pale wispy blue, Japan's hills
Fold down one upon the other, an earthquake has shook the people
To the roots of their souls. It is all still again now.
A roman charioteer flying down the road
straight and true to the agora and temple
thinks little of scattering the straining
porters to the side amid the lumpish oxen
He is not as them, he is chosen to be the elect
Vaunted for his exploits, rewarded with gain
And glory too he hopes when he returns to Rome
This town by the Thames is slow and provincial
Lacking all grace and light, grey and turbid
Haunted by the deaths of the rebels who died
Slowly, the women skewed upon poles, Boadicea
You came to a just and wretched end, do not
Fight your rulers now or ever in the future.
In Diana's cafe they worship her name and fame
But it is fleeing out the door, gone in the wind
The future looks not so bright, the splendour
of the kingdom is dimmed by her antics they say
And she must leave her palaces and royal perks
For the cavalcade of the new circus to please the crowds.
They surge all about her coach, half mocking
Remember you are but human she hears them say.
By the grey steel river they plan the millennium now
Find us true memorials to a future greateness, please.
The last few years have seen unremitting decline
Grey dismalness has driven out all prospect of upliftment
Those fine buildings that rose from the ashes of war
Have been dismantled along with jet engines and wondrous machines
That were to make our lives so much more light and livid.
Time comes, time passes, the imprint of the stars
in the vault of the sky is richly transparently deep blue,
sparkles the clearest purest of lights, the long stretching
fountains and open gardens hint of a possible heaven on earth
It can only match the splendour above, far out of reach
it remains perfect, ordained, unpartaking of the temporary
disappointments known to the low dwelling earth spirits.
I am the wide-eyed boy
staring out at the fast cars
on the autobahn returning
home after a day in wonderland.
Past the closed border post
consigned to history only yesterday,
past the miles of barbed wire
and the lookout post in the woods
towering over the littered line
of broken down Trabants which got no further.
In dark streets occasional shops
where a young woman presses against the glass
to feel the glow of the goods inside,
as though waiting for the attentions of a lover.
The wary-eyed young search in vain
for privacy, hand in hand against
the lurking demons of the narrow alleyways
who see everything, know everything.
But the brightly lit hotels offer no room,
the road into the winding countryside is dark.
I see a sign diverting me to a lonely spot
where a red light waves above a triangular shape.
The train with its covered wagons clatters past
almost soundless in this place where Goethe
once stode the world like a colossus.
But the past is alive still tonight.
The train heads slowly for the towering
gates of Buchenwald and all those old
ghosts wander the country lanes seeing no freedom,
still angry at the beast who consigned them to hell.
It will take more time to heal the wounds.
The flower seller outside the station in town
stands at the corner noting who comes, who goes
to the grand hotel. Out there in the night
alone and all seeing, he waits to offer flowers
for your thoughts, no customers in sight.
Off, off and away to the city of dreams
Refracted images, wild impractical schemes,
They somehow come to pass and if you ever should
Doubt the hour, realise it does not matter what could
Come to pass, for like a mirror image it extends
Our gaze, this whizzing world; an island maid never pretends,
Her kind in a reflection weave and wave the surging
Life rhythm. You holding this can go on splurging
The best of desires, for it does come to pass
Quickly or slowly, but in time enough, so never ask
The reason when each passing season takes you up
Still higher to look down, wonder how you missed the cup
Of kindness, let this now come to your embrace, see
In the city of dreams how we all wish for the best to be.
Leaving the South Seas for Los Angeles.
From Home
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
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(c) David Stuart Ryan 1996. Permission required to reprint these poems except for review purposes.
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