Metamorphine and Other Poems

METAMORPHINE AND OTHER POEMS

  Adrian Sturgess

  Copyright Adrian Sturgess 2012

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  Cover Art: Beti Bup

  Brief Technical Note

  May I suggest that, should your eyesight allow it, you select an e-reader font size that is small enough to allow lines of poetry to sit properly on the page. If the font size is too large then verse lines will double up and become messy.

  The Dove

  A white carpet lay across my land

  And silence reigned.

  A white dove flew straight past and

  Its dark eyes looked peacefully

  Into mine.

  I heard the hateful sound of a gun.

  It blasted without pity,

  And the white dove lay quite still in the snow,

  A small pocket of warmth in the winter coldness.

  Dark red blood seeped from its breast

  And shone like a beacon in the snow.

  The dove looked beautiful in death,

  And the man with the gun wept

  Like a child at what he had done.

  (C. 1993)

  The Tree

  I stood at the chasms edge

  And looked across at the tree whose fruits were moons.

  From the highest branch, there hung a fruit of special splendour

  And as I gazed, it slowly filled my view.

  It pulled me to itself with gentle force,

  Until I lay and watched the stalk from which it hung

  Divide the sky,

  A dark umbilical cord.

  Far beyond, hung other shining globes

  And far below, lay the chasm, as dark as Satan’s heart.

  My tranquil thoughts were pushed aside,

  By a howling wind, that sent great shudders through the tree

  And I sensed despair.

  Not yet; not yet. Too soon; too soon.

  The thoughts of the tree echoed through my skull

  And I sensed malevolent greed,

  Floating up from the chasm’s depths.

  It’s fruits, nurtured since the dawn of time,

  Could not yet match that which lay at the chasm’s heart.

  They would perish,

  And time itself may not allow

  Of another crop.

  The growing force of the gale

  Sent me spinning from the tree

  And blew me far away, like a seed,

  To another land,

  From where I have no wish to return.

  I hope that the tree still holds it’s fruit,

  Until the day when it feels the time is ripe

  To let them go.

  But the despair of the tree always fills my dreams

  and darkens my days.

  (C. 1997)

  Metamorphine

  Torn canvas, head bowed low,

  Tell of aspirations out of reach.

  A cry of anguish in the night,

  Such beauty in an aged face,

  Gently bathed in pale moonlight.

  A soothing cloak of darkness falls,

  And I’m safely wrapped in my cocoon.

  Somewhere outside a lone wolf calls.

  A chiming clock stands in a room,

  A shaft of sunlight strikes the face.

  No movement in the room disturbs the timeless timepiece.

  Though time stands still, still, there’s time,

  To set the clock in motion.

  A sigh unheard drifts into space,

  The secrets of mortality to embrace.

  A small child dies,

  An old man cries.

  A lonely lover sits and weeps,

  An orphan hugs her doll, beneath the sheets.

  Drifting clouds on a summers day,

  Casting shadows of fortune.

  Footsteps sound in the next room,

  A door blows open, my candle dies.

  The card house walls start falling in,

  A clammy hand is groping for me,

  The fear of darkness is from within.

  A picture hanging on a wall,

  Ripples slightly, starts to move.

  The scenery becomes a mirror,

  Acting out life’s charade.

  The picture-mirror sucks me towards it,

  I struggle briefly then succumb.

  The room around turns outside in

  And I’m safely wrapped in my cocoon.

  (C. 1976)

  This poem warns of the fight we must all make against complacency.

  If we have a dream then we must find the courage and ambition to step up and try to achieve it, no matter how unrealistic that may appear to be at the time.

  Kitty

  Kitty sits quite still,

  A study in concentration.

  Her eyes are fixed

  And deep.

  Bottomless pits,

  That drag you down

  To depths, where,

  Fearing you will drown,

  You back away

  And go find easier prey.

  Her hair is the gold

  Of the setting sun,

  On leaves,

  In autumn.

  Her features are forged

  Of the timeless rock

  That saw planet birth.

  Her Gods were cruel,

  Inhuman beauty her lot.

  But, beneath it all,

  Her mind is poised

  And waiting.

  A young boy lies in fevered sleep.

  His life-force is

  The pallid hue

  Of the waning moon.

  Young,

  He has no one.

  Frightened,

  He reaches out

  And the sun dawns on his twilight world.

  He is calmed

  And kissed with a silken breath

  And given the life

  He will never have.

  Then, flown,

  To his own dream world,

  Where, knowing that he was truly loved,

  Peace will reign,

  Eternal.

  (C 1983)

  Kitty is a young girl of extraordinary beauty and with an extraordinary gift.

  She is telepathic and empathic to an unimaginable degree.

  She selflessly chooses to expend her entire life-force helping a young boy who is hovering on the brink of death.

  Jonathon’s Room

  As you walk into his room,

  You enter the womb

  Of Jonathan’s mind.

  There is no ceiling, just open sky,

  Where aircraft fight and dragons fly.

  To the north a fortress with an impregnable keep,

  Where a princess lies in eternal sleep.

  To the east, a plateau where starships land.

  Yet, the seeming disorder is carefully planned.

  A balance of power strictly maintained,

  Past and future counter-strained.

  A star-warrior, with more brain than will to fight,

  Is lanced through the chest by an armoured knight.

  An alien attack from the depths of space,

  Is dispelled by the hand of the lady-in-white-lace.

  The ultimate sentinel, queen of queens,

  She is the final guardian of Jonathan’s dreams.

  Jonathan’s room; the abode of Peter Pan.

  The reality of the boy,

  The fantasy of
the man.

  (C.1981)

  Focus

  Focus,

  Momentarily,

  On a single

  Blood-red bloom.

  Let not the pre-dawn chill,

  Nor the breathless beauty

  Of the fading night

  Distract,

  But wait…

  The frame is set,

  The picture slowly shifts,

  Until blue and red

  Just contrast,

  And then,

  The warming,

  Searching

  Tendrils of the day

  EXPLODE

  And the flower turns to

  A silhouette.

  A change of scene,

  A darkened room.

  Time has passed

  And near the tunnel’s end,

  A softly spoken word

  Enters through a portal,

  Echoes softly around the walls,

  Gains momentum,

  Endlessly circling,

  Shrill pitched,

  Deafening,

  Ever louder,

  All devouring,

  Beyond reason,

  A raging vortex,

  Mirror to all hell’s fury,

  Illuminating the darkest depths

  Of your soul.

  And, as your scream of hatred,

  Joins the beast in splendid duet,

  The unreasoned din is answered

  By a subterranean beat

  And the demon thing is gone.

  An insect whine lingers on

  Then fades

  And the door is open.

  Stale air exchanged

  For burning, blinding,

  Probing light.

  Beyond the door,

  A meadow.

  Summer laden,

  Fragrant,

  Long forgotten,

  Long missed and gently kissed

  By the morning dew.

  All this,

  A backdrop to,

  The stumbling plight of

  An agéd man.

  Hesitantly,

  He picks his way

  Through the pastures of life’s reward,

  To the edge.

  Where,

  With aching heart

  And trembling hand,

  He stoops

  And plucks

  A blood-red flower

  And is gone.

  (C.1981)

  This poem, right from conception, was intended to be displayed on the printed page in the form of an ‘X’ with the first half of the poem forming one leg and second half forming the other leg. The legs were discontinuous at the centre, so there was no overlap and enough blank space to place the title ‘Focus’ right at the centre of the poem. Alas, I cannot achieve this here and so it appears in the conventional format.