A few more Poems

by

John S Moore



By the Banks of the Wandle

              Through midge clouds see how

                Shaking creeper downward grown into

                The racing river, makes pulsate

                A mass of vegetation.

 

          From nearby fence

                The creosote smell

          Reminds how

                Recent stimuli,

                Evoke

                Old memories

                As now a face this morning seen

                Recalls another.

                'Lumpen' says the voice

                Of one long dead.

 

                And thoughts of death that force

                Concepts of value

                              When mental pain

         Negates all value.

 

                But hope of consolation

                From this fast current

                Drifting tufts of grass

                To link with earlier selves

                Earlier efforts to link up

                With yet earlier aspiration

                Marred by mawk.

                The bad man

                Who has no music

                The child, the schoolboy

                The young man

                Approached by one

                Who cared about something

                Or other, resenting

                Something in my presentation.

 

                Discard nothing.

                Anxiety and hypertension

                The water weed

                The strong distinctive muddy smell

                Of this fast moving water

                Grandparents &

                Descendants

                Yet unborn

                 Places gone to regularly

                For a season, years ago.

                The quality recalled,

                    As of that face

                In that encounter.

Stepney '99

 

Damp complaining,

Hate the climate

Hateful thoughts

That congregate around this

Butt end of the nation

That integrates its

New recruits

By getting them to read

Some filthy rag

 

Living still

Among the

Bangladeshis

One odd remnant

Of an earlier wave

90 years on

Stiff and pale

Like the corpse

She soon will be

Compos mentis

One group among the others

What I think, what does she care?

 

Within the room

One sees upon the television

Dancing girls

An image that

Bestows a kind of  fictive

Childish pleasure.

Perspiration

Alien power

Far more

Titillation and denial

What we did

 

Their assertion

Son retired

Sort of pleasure

Per erotic

Deeper meaning

Concrete promise and denial..

 

 

 

 Caprilic

 

The words of force, the Lords of power incarnate

Moses and Temujin

With open ears ascended to the lofty places

Distilling ecstasy from refuse of unsatisfied desire.

 

The goat triumphant

The goat of the Sabbath

Sits in the seat of secret power and invites

All who will to join in

Antinomian delights.

 

All bar one who may not touch,

The lonely man who weeps too much

Encircled by a screen

Of heaps of crashing Hollywood images.

Which hides from him the scene.


Do I fear…

 

Do I fear that I dream

When I dream?

Or dream that I fear

That I dream?

I sit on  the side of the bed

And argue

About your level of reality.

You try to tell me “never mind”

But the matter is serious.

I am the same.

That is my misfortune.

You have the provisional reality

Of a succubus.

I talk to set my mind at rest,

As good a reason

As any put forward

By the man I saw yesterday

Talking to himself, who said

“Let's get everything into its proper place

Proper place


  Frost 

Frost on the grass

And the fallen leaves

Like cornflakes

In bowl of milk.


In the crowded


In the crowded railway

Compartment

The black clad fanatic

Proclaims his law.

Always wear black.

“We are wearing black", jest

Two fat women wearing

Moleskin coats,

Which, all concur,

Is worst of all.

As some old cynic snickers

"What about your knickers?”

Another one pulls  the alarm.

 On entering Granada Cathedral


(To be read as a reply to Aleister Crowley’s poem
 ON A PROSPECT OF GRANADA CATHEDRAL FROM THE ALHAMBRA)

 

All the saints of Christendom

Pay homage to the bearer

Of the new dispensation

As once in ancient India

The daevas all bowed down before

Gautama the new Buddha.



WOMEN SEEN ON TRAINS

 

Inside her work ambitious regulation

Skirt and jacket business combination,

Secretary girl begins her day,

Riding on the Bakerloo line

In the hot and stuffy tube train

Secreting sundry perspiration

Kept in check by chemical spray.

 

On Network South East

Chatting, talking for an hour or so

A quality of ordinariness

Contingency, a sister or an aunt.

Something seen in dreams or fevers.


 

Another, stylish, beautiful,

Kissing, mischievous,

Even her excited hair delighting;

And when she goes

And leaves her man behind,

She somehow seems a

Thing cut off, with

Mundane business to perform

Purposeful, preoccupied.

 

 

The recent arrival

Will learn to conform

To foreign ways,

Strives to adapt,

 And keeps up with fashion

As well as a native.


The bone philosopher

 

I am alone

Said the bone

 

I shall enthral

Corrupting all

 

Within my Hell

Shall all men dwell

 

Till all shall see

I have the key

 

Which shall be shown

Said the bone.

Train journey

 

Over the rooftops of the city

From the moving train

Sense of so many

Possible things

That might be enjoyed

As so much

More easily

By a disembodied spirit

Free to move and to penetrate

Into all the riches of the

Various life

Displayed below

This is an

Argument for

Angels to exist.

 

The white sun

Through the leafless trees

 

As we know somewhere there are

Paranoid symbols

That rip the fabric

Of the world apart

So also, elsewhere, are

The opposite tokens

That more happily disclose

A world

As high in delight

As the other in

Horror.

 

Pursuing a creative inspiration,

Taking it far, taking it further,

Pushing it as far as it might go

Further than was reasonable, into

Unknown territory

Holy grails, redemptresses

Objects

Like this

The best in the world.


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