Long Inarticulate Poems
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I walk my life on my own terms I set,
create the course on the lone pathway I pave.
I see probing faceless uncalled people pile,
break the barrier of protected privacy and pry,
asking incisive questions piercing my persona,
I don’t answer.
They want their footprints I follow compliant,
abandon what defines me on the wayside,
exist as a formless empty entity impersonated.
Caustic comments they make of me being inflexible,
on the atypical manner I behave, overtly odd to them,
I don’t react.
My heart quivers in the quicksand of harsh times,
emotions struggle to rise from the despondent debris.
Things good done for me I can’t acknowledge loud,
the bud of love for you blooms in me, I adore unexpressed.
Porous sensitivity absorbs all the feelings inarticulate,
I don’t demonstrate.
I will be doing till the end what I do, not being blunt,
even if you call me an obdurate being,
I don't care.
SILENCE
Articulations bound by another’s place.
Maw silenced, no expressions from this face.
Inarticulate, the lingna moves not for Beauty.
Vocal cords caught, a voice sought.
Yet no lyrical, poetic vibrations projected.
Pinna, tympanic membrane never again to be affected?
Silences, preponderates the roar between a reality and memory.
Mnemosyne, perched on high, tells the story.
Mneme gives insight, with insight, no glory.
For all, fear, fear it has come to an end.
No longer a supposition ?, a bestfriend?
To hold out for a touch, may prove too much.
Auricle, not the Oracle, to believe.
The heart blinds, it doth deceive.
Love ?, did the soul ever receive?
It flounders at the bottom of boundless seas.
B. J. "A" 2
August 15th 2011
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windscreens cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
In the shadows of a fractured consciousness, where words fall like shattered glass,
The man, unable to articulate, to express with clarity, retreats into action.
His thoughts, like wild horses, gallop through the vast and tumultuous plains of his mind,
Yet his tongue, bound by the chains of a limited lexicon, stumbles, falters, and falls into silence.
In the theater of existence, where every gesture becomes a desperate cry,
The vocabulary of action is tethered to the body,
Each movement a scream, each breath a prayer,
Yet the silence of true understanding hovers, vast and unmoving.
When words fail to bridge the chasms of human connection,
Violence erupts like a wild, primal, and relentless storm,
A language of fists and fury, born of frustration,
The man's body becomes his voice, his weapon is his extended lexicon.
In the bleak landscape of limited expression,
Weapons become the dictionaries of the inarticulate,
Cold metal and sharp edges writing sentences of blood and pain,
For in the heat of conflict, the unspoken finds its violent release.
Men tread shadowy paths, their souls burdened by the weight of miscommunication,
The frustration of unspoken words etching scars upon the fabric of their beings,
Seeking solace in the harsh clarity of confrontation,
An incomprehensible lexicon that speaks in echoes of fear and aggression.
In the swirling depths of consciousness, the storm's fury continues,
A symphony of silent screams and unspoken desires,
Bound by the fragile chains of an inadequate vocabulary,
Eyes that ask what can't be answered, hands that seek what can't be grasped.
Yet in this maelstrom of silent agony, a glimmer of understanding remains,
A hope that beyond violence, beyond primal cries,
There lies a place where words can heal, where silence gives way to connection,
Where the fragmented pieces of the soul can unite in the harmonious dance of true expression.
For in the heart of the storm, in the eye of the silent tempest,
Lies the possibility of finding one's voice, of breaking the chains,
Transforming weapons back into words,
Reclaiming the language of humanity, the melody of understanding,
In the perfect blend of hearts, where silence no longer reigns.
The first weakening of night
picks out telephone lines,
black against sky.
The eyelid of a garage door
lurches laboriously up.
A car coughs blue breath.
With aerosols and plastic scrapers
clandestine delights of frostwebs
are raked to chemical sludge.
Starter motors whine.
Windshields cloud with pain.
Gears grind teeth.
An electric train
gingerly
utters inarticulate from the sheds,
groaning over cold joints.
Thinking grimly
of tunnels ahead,
it flares with ill-humor
crossing the points.
On unworked land beside the track,
a fox is heading home.
Gliding through
beneath the "keep out" sign,
he grins at the engine,
which just judders along,
headlights trained
on parallel lines
which glint ahead,
reflecting lurid signal red,
extending out, but never meeting,
towards the vanishing point.
Alongside me in rain and shine
she walks her life on her own terms,
setting the course on the pathway she likes to pave.
Probing nameless people uncalled, she may descry
break the fence of her protected privacy and pry,
ask incisive questions to slice her persona.
She doesn’t ever care to respond.
In our passionate journey together for so many years
I’ve felt in her heart sunk in the quicksand of time,
emotions rise from the dormant fervor’s cauldron.
The good done to her she can’t acknowledge loud,
but the buds of love blossoming within,
she keeps under protective shroud.
Mellow sensitivity soaks all her inarticulate feelings,
she is overwhelmed beyond measure,
but doesn’t know how to demonstrate.
A deviant introvert, she absorbs pain and joy silently,
content with little and whatever I give as caring gesture.
She hasn’t given me even a flower as a token of love,
but I always adore her as a blooming rose I have.
How Shall I Say I Love You
My Darling Love, how shall I say I love you?
You know I do, but how can portray this to you in words?
Let me try My Dear One—
With a Smile when I think often of the sheer radiance of your beauty.
With Thoughts which I have of you daily and the sweet things you do.
With Emotions ripe and afire when I think of the pure passion we have.
With my Inner Psyche when I get in touch deeply with my ethereal self.
With my Eyes as I gaze into your eyes with noble tears of joy and love.
With my Touch as I hold and caress you in my arms and share my love.
With my Heart which is the driving force of my love and emotion for you.
With my Laughter that helps to lighten even the most trying situations.
With my Prayers which reflect my connection to God and belief in you.
With my Spoken Words which reflect my true heartfelt emotions for you.
When Holding your Hand at anytime on any day for no particular reason.
When Walking with you day or night at anytime, anyplace, or anywhere.
When Writing Poetry since you are always my special inspiration and muse.
With my unbridled love and respect for you as a warm and loving person.
With my warm inner feeling for all of the special things we do together.
My Final Thought: As imperfect and inarticulate as I surely am, at times—
My Darling Love these are some special inner-felt notions and emotions
reflecting always my view of you and feelings for you as the most important
person in this world to me. My true love always and forever.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – June 5, 2015
(Free Verse)
*A very special tribute to my wife and eternal soul mate.
"Words are all I have, but they are the very tools I use to paint my thoughts
and feelings on my inner canvas of emotions."
He saw it in one of those chintzy antique shops,
recalled that it was made for travelling musicians
that wanted to work out scores while not being overheard.
It was old and all wood. When he tapped the keys
they clacked, but each key seemed to clack
in a slightly different tone,
as if the former pianist’s thoughts and intentions
had somehow imprinted
a musical counterpart into the inarticulate wood.
When he got it home
he took it up and placed it on a table,
stretched stiff fingers and played.
He played like he had never played before!
This was real, not an air-guitar thing.
Chopin and Mozart melodies flowed through his hands
as he sped through deft keyboard exercises,
annotating quarter and eighth notes,
executing perfect tonality and phrase.
Tomorrow he intends to jazz-duet with Oscar Peterson.
'Man, it feels good to be dumb', he thought.
These blatant lives we lead
with our guts hanging out
between pretty words.
I remember (after the failed gastric surgery),
when gore spilled out of my prone body;
that slow unwinding of blank verse,
(the wordless made flesh) - uncoiling
in bold inarticulate sincerity.
An intestinal serpent – seeping,
and I the author of that preconscious serpent
still attempting to fill empty shells
with delusions and other ill-formed proofs
of existence.
Then from out of that open wound,
out from that that visceral self-revealing,
the pulse of my life so starkly exposed
at last, saying something -
true.
On my own terms my singular life I walk brave,
setting the course on the parted pathway I pave.
Nameless probing people uncalled, I descry
break the fence of protected privacy and pry,
ask incisive questions to slice my persona they try.
I don’t reply.
Their footprints I follow, they want with pride,
abandoning me for what I am on the wayside,
to exist as a mute formless entity dormant.
Caustic comments they make of me being adamant,
my character traits make on them negative impact.
I don’t react.
In my heart sunk in the quicksand of time weary,
emotions struggle to rise from the unfeeling debris.
The good done to me I can’t acknowledge loud,
but buds of their love bloom in me, I keep under shroud.
Porous sensitivity absorbs all the feelings inarticulate,
I don’t demonstrate.
I will do what I do at free will until I finally sleep,
even if you all call me a deviant black sheep,
for life for me isn’t to fit in your measurement.
I would be me intransigent.
Amidst the trying tumult of turbulent life,
the alchemic anchor of serenity in strife
prevents me from being swept away far
by the coercive currents of compulsive air,
enabling me to approach life challenges crude
with composed and collected altered attitude.
I discover the reserve of innate strength strong,
sheltering me when storms in odd life prolong.
I build the castle that harbors discernment option,
appreciating the aberrant thought perception,
constructing an atypical identity framework, I sense
define the deviant me with design of divine essence.
…