The stream (all workshops)
The poem is about a famous collector of antiquities who left his collection to the people of Glasgow. This is housed in a custom - made building in the woods in Pollock Park. There the River Cart flows and my imagination was fired. Enjoy !
THE BURRELL COLLECTION
William Burrell's Merchant Fleet
Brought wealth to buy antiques and art.
He gifted all to Glasgow City,
To be kept in Pollock Park.
the white blur
like an albino dream
black satin filled with crystal wishs
star fallen in the faded well
I soared in the wind
Rose above the trees
I could have gone farther
Into space far up
To the stars and the sun
But the cord won’t let me go
It was only a wish
I am bound to it
With a little boy at the end
The boy understood my desires
Helpless though
He let go the string
But that which I thought
Tied me down
Was in truth
Holding me up
words pop into my head:
"Cambodia",
why on earth would I take
a ship through the pillars of Hercules?
I'm not an oarsman or an oracle
nor am I in favour of mutiny
words don't hop off the page with
regrets, pink-eyed and ready to fuck
at the drop of a hat
you just give a poem your best shot, write the
words down before life skins you alive
and you are carried away, still mouthing words that
would have been poems.
I am a plain man
simple in wants and needs
slight of stature and vision
small pieces
seamlessly woven together
a creature
unique
individual
me
sometimes happy
with many attending joys
at times sad
oh! so sad
of which nothing will be said here
all of me
experienced
in parts
at different times
Passion is the tides
Surge, ebb and flow
The roar of an approaching storm
Fires of hell burning
Bright
A lion’s hunger
When on the prowl
To the ocean’s depth
It is felt
Lust never fulfilled
Love is a comfort zone
An unconditional giving
Where no boundary lines are drawn
A knowing without a whisper
A reading of the signs
Love always fulfilled
Passion without love
Is empty
Love lacking passion
Leaves a void
Why can they not co exist
In one
what if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?
give me a few words or give me
poetic death,
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
in the morning,
or a bumble bee,
neither too
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight,
I go now to repair a bridge.
It serves the road which runs the ridge.
Just a few boards need replacing
on the floor and in the bracing.
I'll do it while the branch is shallow,
now when the far side field is fallow.
My old truck will take me there.
I won't get stuck if I take care.
The land is rugged on this side,
on the other, flat and wide
where crops grow in deep dark soil
which makes this bridge worth all the toil.
the west side of the gatehouse crumbled
and fell,
(did anyone hear it?)
now eight or nine planks of board hold it in place
and the stately entrance
is closed and cordoned off,
I'm the new kid on the block and
while we were picking artifacts such as names
and dates,
toppled headstones and sunken graves
spoke to me asked me
who they were,
did I think these
progenitors of
wealth, these boat people of
Europe
live a good life?
On the tripod
A candle burns
In symbolic marriage
Of wax and wick
The flame is the baby
A spark of the essence
Known to the ancient
So the vestals tended
To preserve the light
Constance was the glow
The flame, a hidden trinity
The child’s earthly sojourn
Of consciousness in nuptials
Of soul and spirit body
Dancing in the wind
Liquefied wax smoulders
Rising amber with blue base
Wrapped around the wick
Revealing, life enfolding
In the flare of spirit being
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