Dead Love

 

Oh never weep for love that’s dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.

Then harbour no smile on your bonny face
To win the deepest sigh.
The fairest words on truest lips
Pass on and surely die,
And you will stand alone, my dear,
When wintry winds draw nigh.

Sweet, never weep for what cannot be,
For this God has not given.
If the merest dream of love were true
Then, sweet, we should be in heaven,
And this is only earth, my dear,
Where true love is not given.

Lizzie Siddal (date unknown)

Forsaken

 

I search

for your soul

in every passing stranger’s face.

Knowing it is too late.

 

I dreamt

we met again

soothing all the pain between us.

The cruellest of dreams.

 

I crucify

time through mourning

yet it cannot hold back dawning,

of my emancipation.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

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My Knight

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I do not know who you were,

or when I knew and loved you.

You are not the man I am with now,

but there is an essence of his spirit

that has travelled through time

and rescued me

from some situation

that is lost in years gone by.

This life with you

where we met once again

I am reluctant, cynical and suspicious

and search for the look in your eyes

that won my heart hundreds of years ago.

I cannot see, hear or touch that soul but I feel it.

It was not there when I met you again

but gently over time, I feel him coming

over hills, forests and desert.

And I watch for him.

And I wait.

And I hope he does not arrive too late.

La Petite Mort of Creativity

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Let me bleed out a moment’s release,

from this contemptible inner peace.

 

my tears are too clear of midnight ink,

my thoughts are apathetic and indistinct.

 

I look for omens, cracks in bedroom mirrors,

for owls, magpies – among nests of unfamiliar

 

I churlishly spread my coquettish legs

seducing any passing stranger’s death.

 

To be touched – trembled by fingers of grief,

so I can weave a wanton poetic wreath

 

I call all gods to bring me a sultry storm,

traumas to ride wild into rhythm and form.

 

I hunger for blood of an illicit lover’s return

to break open my heart, leave me spurned,

filling this barren womb with words

that haven’t been born, read, or heard.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

 

Immortal Soliloquy

Immortal Soliloquy

They say that the worst kind of grieving

is when the lost antagonist is still alive,

whether sudden as a spring swallow’s dive

or a slow wintered bewilderment in the leaving.

Buried, burnt or butchered cruelly out of heart

that did endure with vexation and veneration,

fear of being alone or guilt of being causation

of their final yield to the wind that blows love apart.

 

But do we still wish to live in a solitary moratorium,

coveting our fervorous hearts in a slate stone mirth?

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

 

 

 

Clenched Soul

 

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

Pablo Neruda

Cacophony in the Second City

 

I amble amongst the snake trail
of crowds and loud streets
of consumer rights and political fights.

 
Then he came and  asked me
whether I had any faith at all
and I shook my head in a lie
while he thrust a pamphlet
of salvation into my hands.

And he said “Are you religious
as I am not and never was because
it binds you too tight but do try
as you might to turn to God my love.”

And he wished me a happy life
and a good day before he took
shelter in Subway as he was now
more than hungry enough.

Then I turned to a man who
had a plan through Islam
offering me an English copy
of the Quran while the busker
sung and smiled that he was
loving angels instead.

And my ego smiled back
and for that one moment
he was the prophet
that I sought amongst strangers.

Meanwhile, beside the homeless
and tomeless a lady mediates
in the rain for human rights
among the remains and pain
in a city of mistaken identity.

And I cannot hear any sound
of despair above the crowds,
but here in the air the
call to prayer is everywhere.

But paradise never comes.

©  Katypoetess 2016

 

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Sed non Satiata (Unslakeable Lust)

 

Strange goddess, brown as evening to the sight,
Whose scent is half of musk, half of havanah,
Work of some obi, Faust of the Savanah,
Ebony witch, and daughter of the night.

By far preferred to troth, or drugs, or sleep,
Love vaunts the red elixir of your mouth.
My caravan of longings seeks in drouth
Your eyes, the wells at which my cares drink deep.

Through those black eyes, by which your soul respires,
Pitiless demon! pour less scorching fires.
I am no Styx nine times with flame to wed.

Nor can I turn myself to Proserpine
To break your spell, Megera libertine!
Within the dark inferno of your bed.

 

 

Charles Baudelaire

Sonnet 65

 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
   O, none, unless this miracle have might,
   That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Shakespeare

Preaching

Preaching

 

 Acquire my peace within yourselves

 

She is nobody’s disciple,

a dither of image and noise,

amongst everybody’s daily causality.

 

No crowds will gather,

as she looks into the eyes,

that lie tied, and tired in front of her.

 

She is every colour

of skin, every age, every weather,

every obedience and whim, with no morality.

 

Dwelling in a magdala

of immortal solitude, amongst

houses of those who murmur against her.

 

Anointed teachings worn

that her saviour gave to her, more than all,

because, she – woman, was most worthy.

 

A heroine for faith

and faithless, contemplating salvation,

while drinking penitence from jar of alabaster.

 

She is subliminal free will

kissing thinning seperatedness

between determinism and uncertainty.

 

She is veiled opportunity

presenting itself, avoiding the past

that dances between resistance and surrender.

 

She is echoed resonance

of what might never have been

bestowing golden gifts of serendipity.

 

Staring at timeless stars,

loving with fear her own prophecy.

An outspoken, softly silent soothsayer.

 

Seven sacraments set,

yet no one hears her judgement,

that salvation lies in doing, not knowing.

 

But isolation is her myth.

All Gods and scientists roll dice,

 

and there is

no straight path

to paradise.

 

© Katypoetess 2016

 

*The Gospel of Mary Magdalene 4:1

 

 

 

First Love

 

I ne’er was struck before that hour
   With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
   And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
   My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
   My life and all seemed turned to clay.

 

And then my blood rushed to my face
   And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
   Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
   Words from my eyes did start—
They spoke as chords do from the string,
   And blood burnt round my heart.

 

Are flowers the winter’s choice?
   Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
   Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
   As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
   And can return no more.
John Clare

When First We Faced, And Touching Showed

 

When first we faced, and touching showed
How well we knew the early moves,
Behind the moonlight and the frost,
The excitement and the gratitude,
There stood how much our meeting owed
To other meetings, other loves.

The decades of a different life
That opened past your inch-close eyes
Belonged to others, lavished, lost;
Nor could I hold you hard enough
To call my years of hunger-strife
Back for your mouth to colonise.

Admitted:  and the pain is real.
But when did love not try to change
The world back to itself—no cost,
No past, no people else at all—
Only what meeting made us feel,
So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange?

Philip Larkin

Reconnaissance

 

Late arrival into meeting room.
You scavenge for me amongst
faces you command, commandeer.
I lower my eyes to defend
against bulleted frontline thoughts,
daring an agenda of fantasy.

Sitting opposite. Each others target.
Our kindred spirits embrace
only once throughout the hour.
Quick chatter accompanies slow exits;
you need “a word”, and blend me into
corporate grey carpeted corridor.

Enter. Pussy bowed, lace topped stockings
in boudoir of executive entertainment.
Machiavellian eyes spy femme fatale,
coquettishly stretched across bastion desk,
fetching sweet treat to couple with tea.

Professional advice given, attentive notes
carefully written; keeping hands busy.
Nervously tapping inveigling high heels.
I leave – before emotions get ricocheted
on the office floor like our biscuit crumbs.

 

From “Of Lilith and Anthony” poetry collection by Katypoetess 2014

The Silencer

 

She whispers an aberration,

with mouthful of soot stained metal.

Pointing out deluded self-doubt,

muzzling lies with targeted fire.

Seizing breath without sound,

at least four Turks and a Russian

With little or no repercussion.

 

Synapsed heart from sharp to steel.

Drinking shots after taking shots,

murdering time as it flies fast home,

past window of his decamped reality.

For queen and ungracious country.

 

As he ricochets between

brittle past – hyper-vigilant future,

she holds him shell shocked.

 

In the here and now.

 

©  Katypoetess 2016

 

 

The Sick Muse

 

 
Alas, poor Muse, what ails you so today?
Your hollow eyes with midnight visions burn,
And turn about, in your complexion play
Madness and horror, cold and taciturn.

Green succubus and rosy imp — have they
Poured you both fear and love into one glass?
Or with his tyrant fist the nightmare, say,
Submerged you in some fabulous morass?

I wish that, breathing health, your breast might nourish
Ever robuster thoughts therein to flourish:
And that your Christian blood, in rhythmic flow,

With those old polysyllables would chime,
Where, turn about, reigned Phoebus, sire of rhyme,
And Pan, the lord of harvests long ago.

Charles Baudelaire— Translated by Roy Campbell