Now Gone the Buzz

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Photo by Hoang Loc on Pexels.com

NOW GONE THE BUZZ

 

More lust than love
More greed than need
A risk too far
A stolen kiss
A snatch at bliss

A chance to fly
To challenge fate
Perhaps to catch
That passing star

Danger denied
And fear defeated
Replaced by want
By hunger
Longing
Oh, the need

Heedless of falling
Angst riven
Success driven
The wire so near
The fire so strong
Fingers knuckle-burnt
Dipped in greed

The risk taken
The book not played by
Rules deformed
to suit my purpose
The world being mine
To redesign

One night of passion
Now gone the buzz

Regret came later
As it does

 

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The Black Bra

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Black on Red
It stood
Proud statement
Discarded in frenzy
All passion spent
Improperly passive now
Objet trouvé
Found flotsam
Overstating its status
Bright
Bold
Yet benign

No threat 
No danger
The sad music of lust
Transmuted
Statuesque

Fashioned by whim
Now become
A seafront memento
In memoriam
Of some casual
Teasing escapade
A littoral reminder

Perhaps
Of a purple period
Of passion
Part Bikini
Or
Plain Brassiere

 

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Photos by kind permission of Canadian artist, Alma Kerr

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A touch will be enough

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Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

A touch will be enough

I think of my first love
who escaped south
and who now faces old age
with a brightness
far better than death’s impending despair.

My last love,
All passion spent,
Was of a quiet deep fulfilment
of silent bliss
engaging me
while the blackbird
for both of us now
sings in the highest tree
and, with a distant touch of the hands,
a slower walk with the waves
on that distant shore,
bird and sea,
my soul is fed,
listening to their songs
keeping at bay life’s end.

For now
I dream converse,
I listen to my memories,
resisting that clouding of the vision
which elapsed time brings.

I allow perception of days to come
in which appreciative eye
and halcyon heart
will enable a new closeness,
one of being together
in harmony with both past and present,
and the future becomes again
brighter.

A touch will be enough.

 

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‘Syntax’ by Carol Ann Duffy

[  # 81 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

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Carol Ann Duffy (1955- )

‘It is not always easy to speak of love.  The words we use to do so are often tortured and can be made incomprehensible by passion and heedlessness.  So, how then do we speak of love?  How does the poet speak of love?  Is the language of love pre-ordained?  Should it run to a formula?  The formula, perhaps, of formal English speech – syntax in other words?  The expression of love surely by-passes such strict rules, and resides in the lips, the eyes, the heart.

In short, simple precisely to-the-point words, Carol Anne Duffy, Britain’s current Poet Laureate, in this poem, unlike any other love poem I have ever read, conveys the thoughts, desires, hesitations which beset us in the search for a meaningful form of capturing such feelings.’

Syntax


I want to call you thou, the sound

of the shape of the start
of a kiss  –   like this, thou  –
and to say, after, I love,
thou, I love, thou I love, not
I love you.

Because I so do  –
as we say now  –   I want to say
thee, I adore, I adore thee,
and to know in my lips
the syntax of love resides,
and to gaze In thine eyes.

Love’s language starts, stops, starts;
the right words flowing or clotting in the heart.

Re-printed from ‘The Times’,  Saturday September 3rd, 2005
First published in ‘Rapture’, Duffy’s volume of love poems, first published in 2005. 

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Here is a spoken version of the poem “Syntax” by Carol Ann Duffy (read by Tom O’Bedlam) . . .

 

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The Brain is a Lonely Place

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‘The Brain is a Lonely Place’ – WHB: Pen & Wash Dec.2017   

The Brain is a Lonely Place

 The brain is a lonely
whispering place
Tended solely by me
No one else can be allowed
To trespass on this hallowed ground

It is forever mine to keep
Forever secret
Shy
Demure
Locked and sealed
Never revealed

The home of thought
Of hopes
Of passion
Never in
nor out of fashion

Existing solely
to be just me
My being’s essence
My life’s one key.

And so
As life approaches death
It concentrates on what it is
That is about to cease to be
Concluding only
Whatever is lost
It will be for others to count the cost

 

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[ My apologies if the ‘approaching death’ phrase which I use in the last verse startles anyone.   Hopefully, I am thinking in generalised terms, and projecting into the long term.  Well – we are all doing just that from the moment we are born – are we not!? ]


 

My Distant Star

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Van Gogh – 1888: ‘Starry Night over the Rhone’ (detail) … Musee d’Orsay

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MY DISTANT STAR

 

It’s not what I meant
by following my star
but that’s how it is
you’re so remote and afar.

so in my reflections
I make the connections
I’ve been living your life
I’ve laid siege to your mind
and fenced in your feelings
thinking your thoughts
and wishing your wants
your dreams I’ve been dreaming

 so what am I doing
with this surrogate presence?
what will I find
and what can I prove
amidst mist and fashion
by chasing each clue?
a sense of your passion
that essence of you?

I need to give you a meaning
to capture that feeling
of truly belonging
no longer just dreaming
no longer an adjunct
no remote stalker
given to stealing
your dreams, thoughts and wishes
your love and your kisses

 and then if I dare
all that I want
is your love to snare
rejoice in the glow
all else is despair

 

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A Broken Heart

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‘Hands On Heart’ Photoshopped  Photo: WHB – Sep., 2017

PALPITATIONS

When palpitations
of the heart
start
that sudden
gulp
that gasp for air

is it love
or lust
or life itself
forcing me to face
my future

that unwonted throb
unwanted gasp
those ensuing reverberations
erupted flutterings
flip-floppings

before I am returned
to that steady beat
that controlled thump
which promises
certitude

My heart
that part
of me
held dear
so near
yet no longer
steady
nor ready
to yearn
to long for
and to desire
to allow free reign
to emotion

now caution
rules
demands attention
ectopic beating
atrial contraction
call it whatever
heart-hiccups
love-stutters
heebie-jeebies
screaming habdabs
all one

palpitations
once a passion
now a symptom

a broken heart
is not
just love forgone
it is
a life in peril

 

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To Titillate The Tourists

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TO TITILLATE THE TOURISTS

To be beside the sea
That is our nation’s fashion;
It’s obviously the place
For promulgating passion.

But how do seaside shoppers
Decide just what to buy?
Are they tempted by advertisements?
I often wonder why.

Well, once upon a summer,
On a hot and sunny day,
On holiday in Devon,
On a stroll around the bay.

I came across this advert
Along the promenade;
I must admit initially
I thought I’d have it barred.

A touch of seaside whimsy
That’s OK and I’m all for it,
But such immodest come-ons,
Who’d have ever thought it!

‘KNICKERS FOR A NICKER;
POUCHES FOR A POUND’,
To titillate the tourists,
Well, such ads are all around.

But on a seafront shop
I didn’t think it right;
I even thought that something
Was wrong with my eyesight.

I don’t know why it was
I was so overcome,
With thoughts of indignation
I really was struck dumb.

It was just a bit of fun,
Why was I so upset?
But when little George cried ‘Look Dad’
I broke out in a sweat.

“That’s what you and mum wore
When I spied you yesterday.
Can Sue and me have one each,
Like you?”, I heard him say.

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NOTE:

‘Nicker’ is Cockney Slang for One Pound.  The OED says it’s origin is unknown, but suggests it could be originally horse racing slang.  The term … has …  London associations … and dates from the early 20th Century (it explains that terrible old joke: ‘Why can’t a one-legged woman change a pound note? Because she’s only got half a (k)nicker!’ and which nobody seems to know the origin of).

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