long poem by Tim Cloudsley
border art by Mary Johnston
Voyages, Explorations, and Dreams
Vast voyages of the mind
the deck of HMS Beagle
Like the voyages of music
the piano of Franz Schubert
Or the Search for a Theory of Everything
Einstein, Davies, and others
Or the dreaming of the Ninth Symphony
Beethoven, deaf, courageous
The glaciers of Tierra del Fuego
on the ice
through the retina
senses absorbing essences
A girl with a lovely laugh
- Is at
the heart of the mystery:
youth, and beauty -
in spite of all.
Knowledge is not gained through one means alone
that is talked of as Science or Religion
the Intuition that integrates all,
Imagination, Emotion, or Greater Reason;
Only in miraculous flash, it seems
quickly forget that phrase, before
becomes cliché) is anything happened,
this is the opposite of Dogma.
When the hallowed sound of Mozart
opened to your soul,
it is to be alive,
to such wonder.
Beautiful burning gods
can burn and bite
can eat and even turn,
pilgrimage of soul
With mandolin or charanga notes,
love, bleeding pain,
a beat of heart blood,
is of love's finality
At The Uttermost End Of The Earth
We can still do honour to the Ona
though they no longer exist
peoples: their blood, and some of their culture
but also there is memory:
guanaco and eating shellfish,
successfully inhabited this southern island
millenia, among glaciers and forests,
and winds, storms and green sea.
"I write of you: beautiful, gigantic,
your snowy, white-crowned peaks,
the bays interconnected with your valleys,
you I write strongly, vibrantly,
are the Queen and we the vassals.
"I was dreaming of your shining streets,
boxes, full of peace and work,
felled for the making of houses,
the future of energy,
in their thousands running on your shores.
"Today I write of your deeds in dust and
flies away, the other melts.
I become a wandering beggar,
petal from northern impotence.
are not a refuge, you are an Island of Fugitives."
At the snow-capped corners of the ultimate earth,
also we may see our fate;
the petrel flies or the bark sinks,
Here Imagination flies too;
- In a
crystal, quintessentially white,
snowflake of unbroken beauty,
Bright as the face of a cosmic angel,
without fear like a million stars,
myriad rings of silent dance.
War And Peace
How sad it is, that the Torre de los
'Big Ben clone,' as Lonely Planet calls it,
now been changed to the Torre Monumental,
in the renamed Plaza Fuerza Aérea Argentina,
longer held in pride and friendship
Britain. How miserable and mean
the Falklands War.
Centuries of hassle over those damned islands
- In a
different era, when control of them
so important for trade,
and Empire - both for Britain and Spain;-
not have resulted in 1982
- In an
old kind of war in a new kind of world.
habits and reflexes should have been controlled;
we always going to have disputes thus resolved,
the clash of force and armed might,
if, when two neighbours dispute a piece
land in their garden, the solution were
them to pick up a sharp axe each
fight to the death of one, over it:
this the answer to infinitely complex questions
political justice - just to bash,
- As of
old, with guns and killing?
Sueño De La Plata
O are you again chasing the crazy
in a vast river
flows with muddy dreams
rippled waters like divine hope
escape from all that does not work
reality. In ships with heavy anchor
only salvation in squalls and storms
and utopias of Caesars and giants
of gold or peace at last
O have they said there is a pure land
goodness and truth, or dripping with silver
in the interior like a warm womb
- Or a
clearing in the forest where no dogs bark
no savages attack you as you prepare your supper
the Virgin protects even the roughest man
the stars encircle the most perfect sky
They are counting their money from the day
- I am
pondering my dubious poetry,
pursues something to keep their heads
water, that might gurgle them down to death,
the temporary, precarious realm of living
outside all Eternity's play
endless inorganic and lifeless day
I wander the streets, I buy a book of Lorca
a kiosk; with dictionary in hand,
from Mendoza, and a dish of spaghetti,
take in the wonder, the cricket singing
the moon, your blue and orange
the afternoon that paints your mouth
- As it
passes through the mountain.
cupola, wind of silver,
mío, I have come
the seeds of questions!
plant them, but they do not flower.
O Lorca! And to be in Buenos Aires,
Rome if like anywhere else -
world! 0 gift! 0 time!
As I take a drink, a heavy, hot cocktail of
the star-trails plunge down to earth,
out the juices of ground-level dreams,
the air above is still in a night-blue
poetry is still a dark, difficult journey,
Joy soon swings into downward Pain.
Much more silent than a poet at night
the guitar, dripping colours,
Ariel to Miranda took,
the Gulf of deep Livorno
Sounds soften out to zithering quiet
- And 0,
what am I,
what is the World,
and leaves of grand trees
with cicadas and memories
Thinking of The Bully-Bosh
O Bosh, he is the 'son-of-a-wimp'
wills to be so tough,
he wants three more wars,
which he can unleash his boors,
leave the ground so very rough
his bombers bomb and maim
his ignorant arrogance makes its claim
defeat all common sense.
Everyone now wants to know,
can we join this Axis of Evil?
only three allowed to be
of the club?
does it suffice to burn the Yankee
to be included;
can only nations, or individuals too
join the throng?"
O Binny Lad, he really did
a goof to madness,
cleverly he provoked the Bully,
this Absurd World Disorder.
Bosh likes smart bombs
smart wars too,
loves to see an arse kicked
all his nobility.
Now Bosh, when he heard New York was whacked
quickly got out of there,
sent his bombers and many men
bomb the dust in Afghanistan!
so brave he wagged his finger
threatened all the world,
with me, or you will die
- As I
have all the power!"
Various creeps and sycophantic poops
with him so strongly,
were Blair and Saudi Arabia,
to clap so wrongly!
they had given Bosh a big taste
blood, it was hard to stop him,
when his pal Sharon
"Now lets drop a bomb or two
North Korea too!"
Bosh, being so very clever,
giving in to nothing, never,
Britain is such a lovely ally
earnest mask and shallow jogger
who tip-toes not too close
his beloved Bosh.
And Thatcher too, she whirled her bag
cried, "Kill Saddam Hussein!"
Mayor Guiliani was made a Knight
glorious London Town!
could see why Bosh did not
to bomb Colombia too,
Libya, Sri Lanka, or Timbuktu,
- As there
was much poverty, too.
The feeling it is time to go,
time has run itself out
you; re-embark upon the pilgrimage,
your juices, and your brain.
it was sweet, but also bitter,
other tastes, where all is mingled
Thus the seaman's and the earth-
motto, like those crazy
of the Magallanes -
Noort, Drake, and Sarmiento.
In The Sweetness Of Summer
I love to read and write
a star at night
Paraguay, or wherever the spirit
and feels good.
It is the Southern Hemisphere,
hangs the other way up,
the moon is bluer and clearer green,
- As my
And the girls are different, some like fire,
in warm looks,
in dark shapely freedom,
of another universe.
My deepest and most naive belief
that we are all brothers and sisters
this world: that is my Socialism,
is my basis for thought.
O so delicately dreams can spin
wonderment like the fine silk
fairies wings that gently ply,
queens in midnight's air.
And we move step after step, there
that which must be, there
ourselves and the world around
the musical colours of our dreams
Jimi Hendrix In Asunción
He was inspired in some outer star,
mind created from other spheres,
absolute control, absolute wildness,
in such rapid Dionysian exactness
Greeks would have been mesmerised.
me, he is at the ultimate pinnacle
some unnamed beauty, which I love.
Flying into this night, Asunción
love it here, peaceul, calm
members of the universe,
soul direct to the guitar.
O who might have a tragic destiny
a sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
a gipsy boy, 0 so yes
wanderer and the drifting dream
The Portuguese wanted Solís back,
mistake they had made losing him to Spain:
el más excelente hombre
su tiempo en su arte
the USA lost Hendrix to England,
did not see who he was at all.
Díaz de SoIís was a strange
difficult man, not unknown in prison.
suspicions and accusations
him throughout his life,
the border between Portugal and Spain
He was a mariner.
Strange, lost, exiled adventurers
hearts filled with strange dreams,
of a silver mountain; maybe
find Love somewhere
Hallucinogenic impulses and visions
like crazy diamonds
the ordinary, trying other
of extraordinary juices
Fruits of foreign mountains, bays of hope
hunger, the dead cold plodding life
like a poor baby
swaddling clothes outside a monastery,
to become an artist.
unfeared, or, at least,
to uneasy sleep.
And then when you want another smoke
ship turns because of a storm,
waves rain in fury
ship creaks in agony
Out on the edge of a ship that seems
- To be
sinking, every captain knows tricks
the moment of disaster or discovery
in a primitive part of the brain
Pushed to extreme, music floods
the medulla, danger dances
sublime tunes of invisible pipers
in the fiords,
depths of gulping hell
which all know they will go.
At that intensity and pitch
dense clouds crash
ocean gulps into its stomach
crunches with bare teeth
Could you really live under the snow?
not dark yet but its getting bad.
sick of love, l'm sick of it.
Dietrich would not join the Nazis.
emperor can love a courtesan,
servant-girl might love her master,
sunlight turns in strange forms
it falls to the sea.
is the world, like The Next Supper,
sucking crumbs from the table
dying of lies: everything grey,
was the vision from Paraguay.
fall among the morning stars,
change with every ray
the capricious sun, flickering eye-lids
pretended dreams, thus we die,
not until dogs have bitten bones
every chicken and dead vicuña,
so to do would insult the bins.
fools would rather eat a pig
dance on a fork, or dig a crumb,
will always scoop their dreams
frying-pans of alligators.
are Relationships anyway,
intense, they always die.
they leave poetry,
the dim sky after the night,
the floating mist on a lake of hope,
trees whose perfumes remind you of women,
seem then to dance on their every branch,
of the sexy moon,
the breakfast of dawn that needs a kiss,
- A red-lipped
kiss of the waiting dawn,
hope in the first light watering earth,
excruciating wish that noone knows,
dog-eared love of something on fire,
crucifying hunger for another night,
impulse flying beneath the boot,
girl who smiles with eyes like boats,
dreaming floaters upon imaginary trees,
hoarse cries of immense gulls,
flamingos whose pink toes pick
a marsh where worms wriggle,
dreams are plucked by goose-pimples,
silvery toe-tails are painted with sex,
the moon imparts its sleepy command,
nothing obeys lists of rules,
all disperses into a round circle,
never ends, like a jazz break,
- Or a
toucan biting your thigh in quiet
where adventurers plot their advances
farces and débâcles are breathed into life;
are the wisps of early cloud
the bluey sky of Asunción's day
to glorious rain.
death will not happen here
like I thought, there is some time
in a quirky loaf,
from fermenting wine,
up into demented flames,
wonderful witches fly about
sticks of fire, and the red sun
itself in its slain night,
the singing angels of sweetest life
each other and everything else;
I want to be.
Portraits Into Dreams
Lovely curved lady
of delicious touch
Artisan Guaraní molds
from basic mud
writhing from fingers
The sun seems, within
rolls of cloud
O let the Light rise above Great Wars,
that grind the brain
de los Héroes in blackness
Hideous the tombs there
over ghastly error
with Britains false glories
Death death black corpse
Victory killing idiots:
had the best guns? (baby)
Just shoot into the crowd, yeah!
a few outright, best,
No! rude tongue sticks out
AIf Garnet, Thatcher,
in lost brain cells
No! rude tongue sticks out
Bush, brute brothers, any yob
I hate those who always turn
War to solve problems:
- Yet I
no pacifist am.
No! Ill kick any bastard
tries to rape a girl
Maybe Ill die, no problem there
no War to satisfy Bush nor Blair;
War, no War, no War.
Preferable is the world of art,
Truth to Reality;
Don't try to deceive me more!
has violence as part of its
but not real war.