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James Smyth Poem
I've had dark nights of the soul. Oh yes.
Thousands.
I have searched and waited and waited and searched
But.
Only a muffled pang
They teach me nothing
Other than;
There is a Deficit of Comfort.
Maybe for all.
Maybe not.
The entwined limb pushed away; the too hot blanket cast aside...
Merely a demonstration of the temporary satiation regarding
That same paucity
That same Deficit of Comfort
I lay right there...yes.
Right. There. On that strange, dank precipice, and wondered ...
Still those dark nights had no truth to impart other than that they were wasted, lonesome hours
So why, then?
Alas, I know not
But am now sure that the purpose of this travail is Yes! to surely seek, but also to be comforted.
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
Brilliantly Blue Sky with Wispy Wondering Nebulous Cumulus Clouds
A bench. The scarred magpie
Emblematic
The dull thud of realisation
Easily mistaken for a heartbeat
And our conversation;
Itself a Venn diagram of times very non linearity
Our elliptical orbit spun me dizzyingly to it's furthest reaches and back again
Events of a million years ago fondly remembered
But for you and I
Only yesterday
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
I Yearn
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
The rain. Unrelenting.
Cats and dogs.
The dreary architecture of the souless
grey-brown urban landscape
worthy of the matchstick man fella
But. Hopeful.
The smokers hunched by the bookies,
beside the battlecruiser. Handy.
A cosy camaraderie with a common denominator
No judgement; but wonder or at least inquisitiveness
I envy them; I'm not of their clan
They are the self determined grassroots,
as politicians like to say
A certain folksy wisdom prevails
Later; the grim realities unveil
But. Enough!
Have the craic, lads
Have the craic!
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
It burns
Brighter, fiercer, nuclear
With effulgent incandescence
But only when untended or
denied the expected trajectory
For there is beauty in this
A Glorious Thing indeed
The rarest of things truly
But to wilfully deny it?
There is beauty in this
The question unanswered
The Troth not Plied
The step not taken
The tone: implicit
There is beauty in this
Why not the unfulfilled
The peak uncrossed?
No less intrepid
The solemn solitary longing
For the possibilities
Unexplored...
Yes, there is beauty in this
Untainted by banality
Never familiar enough to let fester the insouciance we know so well
No sordid, covert assignations and all that they entail
Oh there is beauty in this
freedom to plough the fallow furrow
In spite of interdiction the splendour grows each time connection recurs.
This is the wonder!
Yes, there is beauty in this
Can this clock be run down until it's a thing out of time?
Of course, there is the possibility of regret -
The train not caught
The Nettle not grabbed -
But
There is beauty in this
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
The early morning phone call.
Then the vague sifting through emotions.
Numbness deepens - like the coastal shelf - and soon enough, there'll be grief, regrets...
Platitudes. You're in the other room, the better place.
But, in truth,
you've made the inevitable crossing we all must make and everyone - every one - before us has made, little sister.
We are like pilots of ourselves.
Now, that which I can't create, buy, fashion or steal is the only thing I can wish
( what a curious idea. Such an ineffectual word )
for you.
Peace.
That's the one.
Peace.
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
A Palimpsest
I'm slowly becoming a ghost
Speaking softly and never getting to finish a thought
Fading into shadows and doubt
And memories recalled as non stories
It wasnt always like this
I was the one with the most
Time, Circumstance, loss and defeat have taken toll and the bell rings for the end of another round
A Palimpsest. Written on parchment thin as the skin around an old man's eyes
That's my corrupted compendium, the tragic game show I host
I'm slowly becoming a ghost
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
Monday came and went
Sorrow borne and grew
Money earned and spent
Trouble old and new
Tuesday grinds the querne
A practise, a run through
Admin'stered till it burns
Blood red til it turns blue
Tomorrow; Whats to know?
The last two were for real
Another stone to throw
For some more time to steal.
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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James Smyth Poem
The faintest rumble in the East
Droplets; barely noticeable
Did you hear that?
Must have imagined it
Anyway, not intrusive enough to spoil our most important of conversations...
The Economy is thriving, the housing market is back to boom levels!
How disconnected
How terribly disconnected
Then, the distant Thunderclap
Did you hear that?
What? I dont think I heard anything
Oh wait! I see it now...
But it's far, far away
Cant affect us!
Then, the skies over Lombardy and the unfriendly states darken
Now, we see the sweated, furrowed brows...
The rain falling.
Slight. Distant, but in sight
Intrusive now!
But we know these places! Centres of Haute Couture...nothing bad could ever happen there!
Hold on...
It moves closer?
How...?
Now its amongst us. Growing, feeding, an exponential maw of unending hunger
An appetite that wont be sated
Its upon us now
Its upon all of us now...
History doesnt stop.
We are living it
All is to transmogrify,
All will be new, and strange
An unthinkable unutterably terrible change...
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2020
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James Smyth Poem
Sometimes, it descends like a warm night breeze
A blanket. At once comforting and disturbing...
The sense knocks. A vague, uneasy membrane just outside of feeling
Too many years, too far along
Too much water under so many bridges
The house changes, transmogrified from cosy fustiness into something altogether sadder
It carries weight, occupies space, colours the green screen
Perhaps we are all just blank black books waiting for an author
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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