A Poetry Showcase from David Hay

photo from pixabay

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

A Book Review of Doctor Lazarus by David Hay . A Review by Maid Corbic

“David Hay Doctor Lazarus” (Alien Buddha Press) is the dark side of poetry that the author decides to create because he hopes for some maybe better times or worse, because there is no solution for this world anymore. And so he goes through all the states of this world and believes that one day he will leave everything behind, but he must always be disappointed in everything that surrounds him. He always clearly leaves his actions to the people around him to try to interpret everything he says. But it always makes it clear that this world is very black and that we have to say goodbye to some things, believe in what is written to us and sometimes do not trust some people around us because it always leads us to lies and problems This collection offers us many answers to some things from reality, but also to the people themselves who can always explain to us some events to which we have become very blind and lazy over time and years. to see through the shaft of our destiny what in no way gives us nights of peace.

Divided into selections themselves, each captor tells us about people who were a thing of the past in our lives as well as that love is always present in ourselves and not in some objects. Every story must have its consistency, just like this one, which always speaks to some things clearly and loudly, alluding to memories that times must suffer unnecessarily. The real value of this collection are the beautiful arranged lines that are written in free verses and forms. His goal is to always portray some dreams in two dimensions of the world, because the third does not exist. The author clearly distances himself from anything that has become so nothing and almost insignificant to him, but he believes in hope. Although he writes black things, he believes that the world must be colorful and bright, not just black, even though he writes about it. It means that he is going through the cataclysms of time and that only he as such knows some solutions from our story that have become strange in nature. The hectic world and unequal rules lead to the fact that each of his presentations is repeated by the previous chapter with meaning, clearly speaking about the parts that bother him the most, paranoia, stress, anger, fear, hunger … And the sacred has its own, because such is the real world he portrays him, his works are very clear and especially interwoven, because he lives for dreams that always give him an account of reality.

The objects he adorns and describes are once supernatural, but he always speaks in his face; yes. And in some works he also talks about the problems that indirectly make it even harder for us authors to hide, because he wants us to understand what it’s like to be in someone’s skin that is not completely skin, but not quite human. pale because there is no reason for us to create something better by the existence of nature if we know that it is just a fictitious lie from which we cannot get away so easily. And of course we live with the idea of ​​this collection, because it is impossible to escape from anything that accompanies us directly or indirectly, and it is simply a life that gives us a lot to say and that we must always be clear and loud when performing our equals. the rules and rights of speech that we have are clearly engraved in our wonderful hearts that beat fast and do not allow to disappear so easily without any body language and dreamy soul that must live and survive. He also talks here about the cities that I would like to visit one day, to live in them and, in the end, maybe to realize all his dreams there, which he still sees in a pessimistic way. All his depictions are experienced somehow in those states of the soul that he tries to gladly resist, but he doesn’t know any way to get closer to everything that bothers and oppresses him all his life.

His ideological solution is for this world to be more sustainable and for everything we do to be only for this world. The author also talks about selling himself for one express train to Britain where he sat alone, he didn’t have anyone to share the happiness as much as he wanted to share the problems, but again somehow, he was just one doctor Lazarus of his dreams who wanted to possesses in the bottom of the soul. He lived for some happier and better times, which in the end partially came true for him. His epilogue is to be still alive and enduring with the time of his existence and to look forward to some times, some events and coexistences of nature that he may have needed in the end as well.

This work of over seventy-one pages can still be read indefinitely because each chapter opens the page to the previous one and gives an epilogue to the events of free form imbued with poems and stories from his angle that were strange but persistent, as well as clear and loud. The times that agree are now becoming very important because everything that works and dreams and wants to come true is just a story from the past that is gradually opened to him, he must be what he is and is not. He lived for the time given to him, he dreamed of reaching his goal, and whether he came or not, the authors must find out. This work is very psychologically apologetic and it takes a little time for the authors, especially new ones, to get used to it, but of course it is not a problem for all those people who like to create and believe that they will understand this. We can say that the challenge was to read this accordingly that his works are very difficult to understand, but that through the captures everything is later clear where it is clearly numbered at the end of each chapter and finely edited in this PDF book, and certainly in libraries around the world . Fleeing from ourselves as a lesson we flee from everything around us and this is sometimes so little unnecessary because we have to look at the world as if it is equal and that in fact it is, after all, only large in color and size surrounded.

Book Review by Maid Corbic: 2 poems by Maid Corbic : Counterculturality & Decriptivity II

2 poems by David Hay in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

Below, Beneath, Blue, Deep, Dive, Diver

Voices in the Dark

How inconsequential are my human words?
                          It is the worms you should have cared for,
They guard your bones with their spineless might.
                    In the morning there was a word, 
                           Whose tone tasted full-sorrow.
There is the maggot, 
   Each crunched leg spells my despair 
    And the crow laughs in the heart
                                                   Of unholy ecstasy.
What are syllables to the speechless black? 
                     The language shaping tongue moves with a liquid grace
                  But human ears are too used to the deafening strokes of violence 
              And we, the abandoned majority, know the monotony of our grief
                        From womb to sepulchre like our first erection, 
Do you know glory like a withered rose?
                    Are the eyeless dogs still panting into their eternal night?
                    The pale breath knows only the stabbings of loneliness,
                 And the Impenetrable night inside my laugh hides life.
        The abandoned churches shall fall
 And the dust of man will fill my children’s lungs
  Until their stories shall not outlast one wolf’s howl.
           Cut the single cord of violence 
Cease and extend the rhythms of the rigid kiss,
   Poetry weaves between bodies dark light,
It breaks against the wordless despair of a silence
            That sets fire to houses.
I caught my 19 year old hand and laughed at the voiceless night
Worshiping the syllables of my living language,
I drank each perfumed sliver of evening;
And on the brink of loneliness
In a mausoleum full of eyes
I went further inside, 
           To know another human heart
               To create autumn with a single utterance 
To reverberate through the cut vein of darkness.
A crow dark as malice cries of the weathered grief,
                     And the sea of my granddad’s once impregnable years 
                             Whispers back the black origin of words.

Beneath the Waves

Beneath the ocean 
Submerged in a cathedral of sorrows,
A boy silent as eternity
Kneels beside pews coated in seaweed.
He prays, transfixed by the candles
Burning through the salt blackness
Delirious he dreams of redemption.

Encircled by moss coated skulls
Of fathers’ past
Observing hollowly his fragile frame
Kneeling at the base of his future years – 
Shadowed by the limits of candlelight.

Ten years old and his skin
Already feels uncomfortable,
As if it is slowly not becoming his,
‘If I killed someone I’d go to prison.’

The Devil open eyed,
Porcupine clawed
Holds him firmly by the shoulder.
Frost covers his flesh
‘God keep my soul safe.’
He mutters,
Before the bitter silence reigns
And the dark light pours
Through the stained glass
Illuminating nothing,
Not even the boy
Knelt in solitary prayer,
Hearing voices rising in the dark.

A Poetry Showcase from David Hay

David Hay is an English Teacher in the Northwest of England. He has written poetry and prose since the age of 18 when he discovered Virginia Woolf’s The Waves and the poetry of John
Keats. These and other artists encouraged him to seek his own poetic voice. He has currently been accepted for publication in Dreich, Abridged, Acumen, The Honest Ulsterman, The Dawntreader, Versification, The Babel Tower Notice Board, The Stone of Madness Press, The Fortnightly Review, Nine Muses Poetry, Green Ink Poetry, Dodging the Rain, The Morning Star as well as The New River Press 2020 Anthology.