
My Private Eternity
Have you ever placed the side of your face flat upon the water and let the reflections become you? The stars held softly on a midnight sea where beauty touched your palsied tongue and dreams more true than waking life revealed the doorway to your own private eternity. God I miss the sea, how the rhythms of the waves became one with the rythms of my thoughts and my soul once more became organic as I communicated wordless with those dark waters, But now in my bath of my rented house with the mould above creeping down like the devil's spidered limbs through the window of a crippling thought; a routine panic attack makes the liquid as inflexible as lead. But remember that feeling Alone, but tied to the string of every rain drop falling on the sea that could so easily be the sky; everything folding into one, I can breathe again. Ode to the Vicar So long in memories of childhood, Did the long summers reside. Where time trickled across and through Flowers carnadine with such soft sorrow That gave each ray of light A divinity squandered, And replaced weekly, With skin-flaked pews, And organs, played laborious, Whose note-tones Stomped on the shoots Of freshly sprung tears And the vicar, Oh god the vicar Whose slow-dripping voice, Made eternity with him and god More frightening than damnation, and just the thought made the devil's Face, distorted by fear superimposed On every fake flower in golden pots, Haphazardly placed around his soap box. But traumas acknowledged but not accepted Lurk in the dim corridors of dream and thought And slide underneath doors, like spiders during sleep With queasy determination in to each sacred moment; To nestle it's dark-trickle heart next to mine And drown each beat with its own. I've had enough. I give my heart to the rose-tainted sun, Let memories like notes embrace Until melodies soar and dive, Slicing through Pale and black fire Until all is harmonious, And I can lie down Without sentimentality or dread Knowing the dreams and nightmares Of the quiet boy, Peeking in on death Are still mine. One-eyed God God can only bear to open one eye At a time. The sun and the moon take turns Watching Seeking, Across the animal dirt that was once Just a flick of sleep from a thing (No words can can symbolise true depthlessness) That held everything but itself; Stars are hermit-angels singing into our dreams, The eternity contained in the falling of a leaf Says the Druid Who communes with me When my mind ascends into madness. It birthed us: our fleshy fabrics of light killing dark, But It too is dreaming And even its children's tears can't waken it. Here lies one whose name is water I capture the moon in the flesh of every leaf. I spit and starlings take their first flight Emptying themselves out into the night. A Cathedral tries to headshot the heavens. Safe from circumstance Safe from life I drink a coffee and let nature's churches, The forests, Who choir with the light Give me their peace. Poets, whose names never became wonders to overcome, But whose words were water, and whose stanzas were the dirt, I plant my poems in between your ribs So that one day others will do the same to me A Book Review of Doctor Lazarus by David Hay . A Review by Maid Corbic 2 poems by David Hay in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020
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