Sunlight entangled in accumulation
of spider webs –
more palatable, softer,
but half-dispersed;
as reason and perception –
caught in the web of history,
enriched,
but also limited…
Tag: poetry
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Castle Ruins
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Reflections on Plato
“To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images.”
(Plato, The Republic)
Perception is but shadow, forsooth,
both images and thoughts – reflected glow;
You cannot tell illusion from the truth.
Choose prettiest, sit back, enjoy the show. -
Aesthetics and ethics grow on trees
“Ultimately our moral sense or conscience becomes a highly complex sentiment – originating in the social instincts, largely guided by the approbation of our fellow-men, ruled by reason, self-interest, and in later times by deep religious feelings, and confirmed by instruction and habit.”
(Charles Darwin, Descent of Man)
“On the whole, every new aesthetic reality makes man’s ethical reality more precise. For aesthetics is the mother of ethics; The categories of “good” and “bad” are, first and foremost, aesthetic ones…”
(Joseph Brodsky, Nobel lecture)
Out of respect for life and beauty individuality of culture grows. Like old trees, it takes thousands of years to develop, but minutes to destroy… -
Handprints
It’s all in your hands:
your future and that of the world;
but I don’t give a shit about the world –
the world is now your problem –
I just want you to be safe…
and happy…
and decent…
and…
It’s all in your hands
and it is my job to ensure
that they are clean.
So wash your hands,
please. -
Road-kill
We grow up.
We move on.
We leave behind ruined shells that used to contain us.
We think them sad.
We feel justified yet guilty about walking away.
We lock them up.
Truths, formerly cast in stone;
truths, that shaped and confined us;
truths, that gave purpose and comfort,
that lead to pain and murder,
to greatness and gore…
now ephemeral and poignant,
like dead birds on the side of the road –
road-kill.
The world taken apart by the next generation
and put together in a slightly different pattern,
to form a new truth cast in jigsaw,
to await the next player. -
The night is coming
The night invades us from the sea.
The fog steals in upon the shore.
It mutes all colours, merges shapes
until horizon disappears
and the enormity of space
envelops mind and muffles soul.
Please…
hold me. -
Dusty mirror
New day begins.
You waken, bleary-eyed.
You see the sheets.
You turn.
You see the ceiling
with stripes of light and dark –
eternal battle,
its pattern etched on retinas from days
and weeks, and years of repeat exposure.
You move inexorably to your cup of coffee,
unknowingly repeating the procedure
of brushing teeth
and putting on the clothes,
glance in the mirror with routine regret
and follow your daily train of thought:
“It could be worse, but then, it could be better…”
But suddenly the dusty mirror surface
distorts the image of your face and room
a little more than usual and you
look once again.
Your train of thought derailed,
you stop and think –
again.
Realisation
hits like a brick –
you see the dusty mask
you built through habit,
layer upon layer
of expectations,
making life routine
and liveable.
But underneath the mask
the horrifying emptiness of space
just barely warmed up by random motion
is looking back with no intent or care.
And then your body fills with acrid joy
of life and thought,
of you, against the odds,
being occasionally self-aware. -
Poppy fields
Drops of colour like drops of blood,
reminder of passion and death,
a heady concoction full of desperate joy.
