Peoms

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Peoms

-Ryan Fitzgerald-

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3

-Contents-

1. December Too Soon 7

2. Collections 8

3. Things [sic] 10

4. Shadows 12 5. Autumn Monday 13

6. A Letter 15

7. Campus Photographer 18

8. Hollow Questions 20

9. 105 22

10. Art 23

11. New Year’s Resolution 24

12. Thoughts 25

13. Cruel Happiness 26

14. Quite Cliché 28

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15. Ideas 29

16. Rebirth of an Ashen Hope 31

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1

-December Too Soon-

The springtime sunshine

Lays frost on the bloom;

A sublime flat-line,

December too soon.

06/06/08

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2

-Collections-

Our life is short, and our days run

An arm around a shoulder, face to face,

Close, swarming, like a million writhing worms

Corrupt with virtuous season

That dreamy poets name ‘the music of the sphere’.

Do you trust, you broken people,

When she deserts the night?

And do I dare?

Not she, nor does she tempt; but it is I –

Developed in the dark to this full kit

To a dawn without a day,

And silent as the Moon1 –

That lying by the violet in the sun,

And captured in this rapturous embrace,

Once lost, can never be found again.

O you poor mad men that hobble

Ours is a world of words: quiet we call

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse;

And, when we breathe, death flows into our lungs.

1 ‘Silence’ – which is the merest word of all,

A secret stream of dull, lamenting cries,

As a vapour or a drop of rain

Disturbs the universe.

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Hid in her vacant interlunar cave,

The Sun to me is dark;

Will you not return, or stay

As far away as does the sun?

In a minute there is only time

To do as the carrion does, not as the flower;

A demon nation riots in our brains,

A sound of silence on the startled ear,

Which has so many tears inside of it.

15/06/08

10

3

-Appearance Apparently-

Apparently,

it seems we see

what’s clear from the outside;

Perhaps, then, we

don’t need to be

afraid of what we’ll find -

Perhaps, then, we

already see

the things that people hide?

Apparently,

we cannot read

between these false-eyed lines.

Root around,

I’ve found you’re bound

to then discover more -

A lie that’s bound,

found over-ground,

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or lying in the core.

Now, normally,

we’d flee the scene

of angel turned to whore;

Though when it’s ours,

power cowers,

and with a cough, it dies.

Low we may be,

when sour flowers

crumble in our eyes,

Yet every hour

It seems we see

Another hour more.

22/08/08

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4

-Shadows-

23/09/08

13

5

-Autumn Monday-

The faint September air

Calls out her name:

London, Victoria -

Train, Tube, and Dream;

A journey that I

Wish would never cease -

Time, always innocent,

Is still an enemy.

A heart filled to the brim,

So full with only love

That even a grain of sand

Would overflow the cup

And bring, like tears

Streaming down a face,

A red trail of warmth,

Disturbed by a mere ripple.

Yet from the sand would grow

A new heart with which to hold

The ideal portrait of

What has yet to come;

A golden frame within which

The canvas, no longer blank,

Is now filled with life -

A future which we may live.

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And so time marches onwards

Whilst the hearts of two grow intertwined

Around this picture frame.

In years to come, more frames will form,

As more hearts grow anew;

But always they will travel back

Along their first loved roots.

The love which bore the family

Of hearts within a square -

Throughout the years, despite it all,

Remains forever there.

29/09/08

15

6

-A Letter-

A letter was walking down the street

When – who should he chance to meet,

But a rather friendly female –

A vowel – along this very trail!

They sat and talked a while,

And the letter began to smile;

They were clearly meant for each other,

And soon, the letters were lovers.

Nine months later, the vowel gave birth

To an adorable baby word;

It was called “No”, named after

Its very own mother and father.

But the child was never happy

With his mammy and pappy,

It always wanted what they couldn’t give

Until one day, they did!

A sister, called “On”, soon appeared –

Into her cradle the young child peered,

He saw in her face his own reflection;

He smiled at such a pure perfection.

But soon the father found another

Vowel to be his sordid lover;

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She was kinky, believe me –

I and N were joined by G!

When the mother found this out,

You could hear her scream and shout –

“O!” she said, and nothing more,

For she fell, dead, to the floor.

“No!” the son said, “It cannot be!”

As they stood in the cemetery

At the grave of their mother, where she now lies;

“Come on,” said his sister, with tear-filled eyes,

And they left that place in the setting sun,

The daughter walked on; on and on…

But the son fell down, he would not accept

That his mother was truly dead.

The pair of doctors, D and R,

Said she’d died of broken heart;

The jury cried out in disgust –

“O is dead due to your lust!”

His case was large, and so they pressed

For capital punishment, but their request

Was denied; “We don’t kill our peers!

Instead, lock him up for fifty years!”

Thus ruled the judge, and he was sent

To live his days in mute silence;

Drawing close to the prison’s entrance,

N began his extended sentence.

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His hands turned into broken claws

As he dug at the dirt floors;

Halfway through he suddenly fell

Into a coma, breaking up his spell

Inside the jail, though he recovered

And soon after, again was smothered.

Coming to his sentence’s end,

He felt his heart was his only friend;

But even that could not remain;

Against its will, it strained and strained:

His colon burst with a sick pop;

And then his heart came to a full stop.

13/11/08

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7

-Campus Photographer-

What a picture –

The stagnant black lake,

Murky tundra,

In which an upside down duck,

A floating fragment of life,

Finally rests amongst

Discarded bottles and cans;

The concrete ghost

With glassy eyes,

An imposing mountain rising

In the cloudless sky,

A speck of moonlight

Catching its bearded jaw,

Jagged and absolute;

Striding to meet him,

The unfinished merchant,

Pockets filled with dry phlegm

And flakes of skin,

A bony structure

That has yet to be realized;

A canopy of withered trees,

Scorched with the vanity

Of nomadic tribes,

Here for – what, three years? –

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Like a ragged dog,

Marking its territory

And then forgetting

Where its throne lies;

What a picture –

Forget the flash,

This is a snapshot of night.

25/11/08

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8

-Hollow Questions-

An old man once asked me,

“What is beauty? Beauty,

Of which the poets speak?”

Instead of voice, I creak:

“Cracked lust, that raging fire,

Bubbles upwards in the core;

Inspires me to act, thrust

Toward persistent troubles;

More than a petal laden

With the summer’s virgin dew,

A maiden, wholesome and pure,

New, innocent; more than this

Do I prefer the concrete;

It may not be quite as grand,

Competing with the blue sky’s hue;

Bland, I suppose I must admit,

And my vision too is imperfect

For I was once taken in –

Defects, deep in the sand,

Sins too great and hurts too sore,

Things we never would believe

From our face’s golden plaque

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Reave havoc beneath the skin,

Lacklustre attempts go wrong.”

He takes a look around

And spits upon the ground;

He slowly walks away;

I’ve nothing else to say.

02/12/08

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9

-105-

The reddest apple, so sweet it seems,

Amidst the clouds and hopeful dreams;

Sat in its throne amongst the stars,

From down below, it looks so far –

A memory soft as fading mist,

Not forgotten – too high to pick.

The purple flower, so lost it feels,

Trod beneath the shepherd’s heels;

Lain on the stony mountain pass,

Its petalled imprint caught in grass –

As they travel, not one thinks

Of the lonely hyacinth.

09/12/08

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-Art-

A smile wrought in iron sits

Upon the makeshift face’s lips –

It trembles, and begins to twitch,

Curling upwards at the tips.

A golden mask with ivory

Inlaid, a sense of joie de vivre,

The youthful, lively energy

Found nowhere but eternity.

For behind the smile can be found

A truth, a lie – motive or wound;

For joy and sorrow both are sown

From the same heart into the ground.

11/12/08

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11

-New Year’s Resolution-

As the sun rises, blazing orange in the East,

So too do the memories stir,

Climbing like ghosts from the grave

And demanding remembrance of all things past.

But like the sunset of last year,

They are replaced by the silver crescent of what is yet to come.

They shimmer in the water,

A distorted reflection which can fade with the winking stars;

It may return, but we must have learnt that spending too

long at the water's edge

Will turn us into forgetful mermaid's lovers;

Therefore we should clamber to our feet noisily

To ward away the darkness, and throw a stone into the lake

And turn away from the memories that would ensnare us,

Proudly setting forth into the unknown world,

Passing by that moon and continuing to the horizon.

The forest in which the leaves flutter from the trees,

Settling on the water and masking the stars;

This is where our journey ends, and where another’s begins:

A story where each page is more memorable

Than the last.

01/01/2009

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12

-Thoughts-

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13

-Cruel Happiness-

A tattered yellow cape unfurls

And flutters in the wind;

Marked with scars and scorches,

Torn and wearing thin;

Black smears of a lifetime

Spent bravely following

A mantra of heroic deeds

That most leave in the bin.

But still the hero wanders on,

Firmly continuing

Along his path of righteousness,

Refusing to give in.

The wind is harsh and icy,

Piercing him like pins;

Ash floats down in a grey haze

And leaves the path hidden;

Beneath his feet he feels the cracks

Of the earth itself splitting;

But he resolves to journey forth,

And sews it back again.

In one hand, colossal shield,

Marked with dents and dints,

Faded from the many years

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Of faithful protecting.

In the other, greying sword,

Once renowned to sing

So sweetly as it sliced the air

It left the clouds bleeding.

A dusty helmet on his head;

A dull metallic ring;

A charm wrapped tightly round his neck,

And boots and gloves and things

That pass beyond description,

So greatly adorning

His broken, beaten armour,

His body, staggering.

And through the concrete jungle

He walks without stopping,

The arrows buried deeply,

Their hurt beneath his skin;

He does all this unsteadily

But without grimacing;

For days and weeks and month and years

Lay starkly before him.

The hero of the story, then,

A candle flickering;

An image of an image past,

But still, not conceding.

The yellow tattered cape unfurls

And crowns him as a king.

16/01/09

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14

-Quite Cliché-

My eyes are treacherous;

Yours are too

They’re only concerned with

Don’t you see?

The exterior surface,

It lies within:

Which, let’s be frank,

Truth, in so far as it can

We all know is deceit incarnate.

Ever be true,

It’s not here

It’s here.

That we should look

It’s a terrible cliché

But – it’s a terrible cliché

Although sometimes

And I hate to say it…

We can work together,

So I’ll leave it unsaid.

And there it is again

My eyes are treacherous.

31/01/09

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15

-Ideas-

Have an idea – a bright idea!

- Endgame

Should it be short

Or should it be long?

The questions that arise

At the start of the song –

Or rather, come second,

After meaning is thought,

Or rather, the idea,

As meaning means naught.

These questions just questioned

As I analyse

The meter, the rhythm,

The structure and rhymes;

But ideas are spontaneous

And hardly thought out –

For after all, who thinks in rhyme

Or structures their sentences with perfect metre –

Or gets it perfect

Their very first time

Or decides that they like what they think first enough

To write it down, speak it out, and other such stuff?

Perhaps the poet is endowed with a gift;

That, unplanned and unbidden, rhyme just simply fits

In his hand, like the pen, or perhaps like the keys –

For after all, I’m writing this on my PC –

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But that is a lie, for I’m on my laptop

I changed truth to rhyme – but is that then wrong?

Does it make the verse less worthy?

But wondering this

As I am at this time

Has forced me to look at the opening lines –

Which were intentionally thought out to appear clever;

But then became not ideas but solid with thought,

A purposefully structured meaningless void

In which the – but is that too poetic?

Words, language – whilst trying to dispense with them

We simply endorse them.

Would the best idea remain forever unspoken?

Because to be spoken is to no longer be an idea but a task –

Can this task be done? Can my idea experience growth?

Will it give its life to become something more?

Or remain in the cocoon of the brain,

Arising again and again and again?

Do we heed the Siren or steer to avoid

The rocks that she sings from and – I will not rhyme –

See where we go from there?

The ramblings, unnecessary and unasked for,

Have formed something;

Perhaps an idea?

I will take the risk,

And if my body smashes upon the cliffs,

At least I tried to bring something out

And no matter what happens I’ll be proud.

Thirty seconds ago

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-Rebirth of an Ashen Hope-

An ember, slowly falling down,

In snow-filled skies, a lonely crown;

It floats, and breathes, and flickers bright –

Its chest then heaves, and bursts with light;

The small remnant of flame and smoke;

The last fragment we strain to stoke –

It lurches forward, loses life,

And staggering it coughs and sighs.

Suddenly – a soaring wing!

A caw is heard; the flame begins

The sweetest sound from its beak,

A harmony beneath the deep

Orange feathers of this bird,

All futures thrive, and are assured

By this rebirth, that they will fly

Away with joy into the sky –

So the grey ash kindles anew;

This joy is there for me and you.

Remember then, that when you’re down,

The ember of the lonely crown

That faded out and lost its life,

Whilst made of friendship, never dies.

10/04/2009