Psyche
And not that a man be not sad, but arising
before day and biding circumspectly in the
communion of an old tree, leaning his chin
On the last fading star, he beholds at the end
of the fasting sky great things and pure that
Unfold to delight.
St-John Perse, Anabasis,
Translated by T.S.Eliot I’m very sorry, a wicked wasp, stung you in Bushy Park
From the happy shade, casting caught, shifting shadows in my old, shoaled Oak
I watched you come, to sun worship; wide spreading, blue/green towel, on the small
fairy hill, which regal graces, high Heron dotted banks, of a carp deep
lily covered, aromatic lake.
I held my breath, in supplication, as you removed your jeans, to
reveal, four beautiful legs. Ilium illuminated. You bathed
basking, my braising beauty, sidhe shimmering visions, arisen, in Holy
Spirit, whole woman, Saint Paul anoints, celestial cellulite, soul
bright, woman wine, chime’s serene, loud like, lighting strike, Loki’s bolt. Eureka!
I internalised; truly, madly, deeply. Theosophy’s treason,
Theocratic forbidden fruit, man foil forever; Venus Cyrene.
In a terse pink dress, you knelt, then, on Aladdin’s magic carpet; a
statue, houri’s golden goddess, called Cali, my Virgin Mary. I
was teleported, mothers singing song, men’s mystic union, to which
all belong, stole as a sinless Sinbad, all those, far-flung distant shrines. Before you came, I lay, looking up, at vast branches of the Royal
Oak. Happen stance. I internalised, how extraordinary and
wonderful, were the myriad of cobwebs, spun rare sliver
across living, breathing, flying buttresses, our rugged Cathedral
a home for every one, if you don’t mind, insectoid reflexology. They say spiders are ugly, though Robert the Bruce found his Bannockburn
and Alba’s pugilistic thistle; held in haven hedge schools, by heavens
hairy teachers – this riverdance Lord, with his hundred eyes!
Insights light, rang church bells and I fell, like Quasimodo, so far
below, their eight armed, bayeaux Tapestry weaving; silver bullet
piercing, Book of Kells stealing, sacred high, Hindu waltz; it was so
simple, as happy people reeling, at a 1950’s, cross roads dance. Then you tied up, your sun washed hair, the mind’s mole, fish flew, gill gaped in awe
you were more beautiful than all the Ariadne’s, trapped in ancient
antiquity. I was worried, that I might be intruding on your
privacy but it somehow, felt hale to hail hello. As a pastoral
philosopher, I feel, that even the most humble Lancelot, should
as red Adare, to love a lot, lest his lot, be to not, to have loved
or least loved and lost: only failure, failure to try! So, butterfly
I, asked myself, would my snorting Id, not regret, never reciting, posh
polite, Polly pretty, your ego invading, I’m self inviting.
Imagine my grey haired grief, should I, good God willing, live, to be, as
Brothers Grimm, Granddaddy, as baldie be, such sights, not see, 65? Green light. Emotional troubadour jumps, jumped, Paris pushed Para
(on winged feet, he who cares, wins!); blazes bowling, my sensitivity
Time’s chariot panzers, Athena’s hour, tick, tock bower, to grasp the
warrior’s heavy hand. Faint heart never won fair maid! So gathered
to rally, and shed the good thief’s blood; in a bloody, ragged Tampax
taxing, amorous advancing, amphalos, lost cause. I prayed prayers
to circle, purr perfect, pristine precious, pull prey. Now I felt, nervous
legs bow, heart flip and quiver, launched Blake’s ebullient arrow, of desire
clearing silent glade, my grave, as lost Loxley, embedding wings, for Psyche. Whist! Whilst watery washy William Tell, fumbled his casting spell; fools
aim for apples; I target honey higher, Zen’s zero flyer, wiser skies,
I guess you guess why. To hell wormy apples. I’m hunt haunting, senses seek
saint vipers, rosary riper, Newtonian frisky, fallen fruits
Owl wise, come all ye bonny boys, whose hearts do wish do woo. If you notch
an arrow, to shoot at the sun; then believe in your vision, whole hearts
huckleberry, then your dream, will carry the shaft, swift and true, even
if the very string that loosed the failing shot, in reality, were
rent in twain. As God’s manacles move, man handle, moundy mountains, whirls
her wind whispering, angry Angels; around trinity’s tines, the three
spinning white flights, faith remember, Angel’s wings have feathers a plenty. Cowards die a thousand deaths, the hero only once, I rose again
set broad shoulders sailing, to voyage in the fearless wake of Saint
Brendan the Navigator. By the Pink Lady’s tiller, I steered towering turbulent
waves, generated by Native America’s, totem pole; which stood,
like sitting Bull, a baleful reminder, that no one man, can speak all
seasons, or own all sacred songs, song lines, autistic Solomon - wrong. This spiritual lighthouse, flood light lit, existential, clashing rocks, the wild
bee seas, now dew soft, deck rolled, Tatiana’s, Tor towering glade.
Who pulls manikins strings? Pinocchio hot, I truffle nosed, coloured
bricklayer brown; a Hottentot berry, with Zorro’s mask, to ask, then
borrow your sun tan lotion. This was my poison potion, pint of lies,
liar, liar, pants on fire. Why? On my honour, t’was the soul sole deception
that I, will ever tell you. Please pardon, this coward’s late corrections.
I guess, I just didn’t have enough, tanned goat, around my bashfully
bobbing boat, ford Saint Michael’s mount, saucy, saucer eyed, discovers
archaeologist recovers; Holy See, relish relics - new found land. So beneath the watchful, guarding eye, of the majestic, totem carved
hungry eagle, as sun beams, red devil dived, swallow swooped, through wind
massaged, laughing leaves, we chatted amiably for some time, until
you had, to homeward flee, as every weary doe must do, into the
comforts, kind kept and keeping, firm fern fields, scuba deeping, richest grass. I talked too much. I was anxious to weave a spell with words, which could
summon, God’s come on, a lovely Unicorn, new dawn, fawn Siobhan
I feared, I lacked, the purity, child’s innocence, of spirit, to
Shamanic fly, the timeless magic, hold eternal, held in trust
between men and women; their blessed holy, luminous, neon lite lust.
Your freckled skin, is the swan’s real wing, invoking; song to sing, your softest
scent, deep denim buried; Pan pipes for gold. Mirror’s joy, joss sticks, burning. When, by my pen, I recall, how that evil dart; barbed, hateful hook
buried deep into the back of your shapely thigh, as hard as if by
conquered Cupids, defeated bow. You had been asking me, if I believed
in God. I was in the process of telling you, when calamity
Jane, a jumped up, joyful Janus, my lucky strike! Struck, then firmly stuck. I had been impressed when you told me, that you had discovered the
Wisdom and courage, in your self; to taste the ecstasy of C ofE,
the faith of your mothers. To my mind, you seem, as dreams, a most
intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive person. I greatly admire, the
Anglican angles, for their progressive, enlightened, fighting stance, all
Inclusive: woman priests, gay bishops and tank tops called Derek.
To full answer your question, as to whether I believe in God; when I held your warm white, fulsome fetlock, by the hunters talon'ed hilt, I
heard coyote’s yipping lilt, from wheat quilted plains. Sanga sure, that trickster
happy Hermes, was smiling light, right bright, a upon me, (and you.)
Harbouring hands, roughened through, lonely years of man’s labour, fingers tips
softened by the type writers intuitive bawling, brawling Braille, toolsused;
to draw forth, from sweat sheened, laboured body, fading angry buzz,
hisunholy lance. My skills gleaned on a work place, Saint John’s Ambulance,
firstaid course. Your hypocritical Hypocrites;
I knew I had tosuck the poison from your reddened skin. Yet I felt confused, uncertain
lest my ardent attempts, to help, might embarrass you. Instead, I gently rubbed a leggy
lantern and thrice wished to ease your pain, feeling your heart
voice the deer’s cry, tearful, breath fluttering sensations. You might have
misunderstood, my intentions, as perhaps, an intimate kiss, from
Sigourney’s predatory alien? Yet I assure you, my heart was chaste
My beast dialled, 999, not 666– at least, on that occasion. Further felt, faltered, Pandora locked, wed womanly stillness; because
I was worried, was I actually dreaming? Still, asleep beneath the
mothering arms of a Proud Oak? I feared that I might wake, too soon
summoned to humour reality, by my alarming alarm
clocks quavery shells, night’s napalm, discordite fright. So I paused, lest break this
charm, sweet Morpheus, had laid a upon me, with a Reiki masters touch. Our moment of hush, bartered with a mutual blush and my inept
Octopus operation, at least your doctor Dolittle, ran with
the ball, scoring a D.I.Y, try. Yet when I’m sixty five, silent
in the timeless shade of an old tree, resting my chin, on the last
fading star, I will be able to remember, that despite life’s airy turbulence
there are indeed, great people and pure, who unfold to the heart’s delight. Should you be dating someone else, for, rare emeralds, don’t lie, unloved
a upon the slopes of the mountainside, unrequited long. I’m happy
for you but I felt, I ought to give you, this love poem, deep deer park
wrought. Because, even were it my doom, to be ridden by the furies
fair, and wander lost as old Aengus. Yet in good faith, the thought strikes me
hard, as was the eagle’s glance, that what worth is life, if not every
beautiful woman in the world, does not receive one poem to give
her justice; (and most sincerely, I agreed fully, with Angela
Mayou that all Women are beautiful). Were I as rich, as the King
of Spain, cursed with the eternity of Tir-na-Og. I would compose a merry
missive for each and every Unicorn; thanking you, for the kindness
of children raised, your wars not fought and impossible tasks toiled. Finally
I would libations pour, Zeus’s golden shower, on your daunting
emotional complexity, of which, even modern Hera’s, such
as Germane Greer and Dawn French, can but paint the palest sketches. All blessed, soul sainted, witch hazel eyed, wonderfully wicked women
own your individually embroidered, universal sonnet to
an innate, divine, feminine mystery. Each verse, a battle
banner, boy’s bane, girl’s garlanded, lady laurels garlic, against the bite
society’s sorrow, nasty narrow minded, mad misogyny
Glad, gladdening glyph, noble nymphs, the child cherish. Life’s lavish, life belt
acorn adorns. Amidst the rich racing waters of our busy, joyous, tranquil
adventure, this rich river. I call, name true - the love of life.
The word Paradise comes from an old Persian word “Paridaida” which
translates as “encircled garden”. Perhaps I will never find out, if
mayhap, you have a tattoo, or watch, enthralled, as you stand, smoking a
cigarette, in the door way of my flat, haloed by crisp dawn light, whilst
safely armoured in my tiger striped, Rugby shirt, to ward off, the
chill crystal air, forever held, in the ether, of a new days, soft
promise. Yet I heart thank you, for sharing with me, Cyrene’s secret garden. I give heart-felt thanks, as well, unto the great creator of all and all; that
I could be baptised again, within such splendorous splashing
Votive pools, unplumbed depths, God’s great green eyes, (or brown?), real realise
that I could touch, deep within, my own crock of gold, my innate good
fortune, strike sparkling facets. Could I be, Platonic wise? As Saint
Dahillan revealed, orange peeled, so secret beauty; held in you and
also me. Snapped your essence, Diana quick, shot soul, frieze freeze, framed
forever; in my loquacious Haiku, the camera never lies. So like the lost Druids shadow, armed only with his broken staff, I
ghost flitted a way, that day, back into the suckling, comforting shade
Columba’s spiritual home, my Oak grove, meditating on the
concrete, absolute burden of living proof - the existence of Angels. In failing to rescue you from that dragonish wasp, I feel like a
Paltry, palfrey poor, Templar Knight, I hope you will pardon my tale, not
protecting you; if I failed as well, to offer, as a two legged
Saint Bernard, hapless happy brandy, a medicinal, soggy kiss
I hope you will not take it, too amiss, and invoke, as Indian
Sadhus conjure, art magic’s, the unus mundus raise, rope of hope
despite my unloved, frowning pope; you’d feel, wood weaved, ear echoes, chanson
de geste, does, all ladies, big justice. Lancer, I, tie your pennants high,
Bless Ladies, the gentlest, strongest hands, Queens of quiet thoughts, dryads with
shapely, quadruple thigh and Siobhan’s cantering, storm tossed, Keltoi eye.
Time’s wheel, spins full circle. Roulette, she’s well met. It comes to pass, in long
shadows, totem cast from Hampton Court, wearing the big footsteps of
my distant ancestor. I, too, birth anew, Samsara old, throw down a
poet’s cloaked gauntlet, mail mailing velvet, on muddy wind tossed pages.
With old Ovid’s ovaries, I fill the scented chalice, cools convex
connecting, tops up, the parted glass, divinity’s hunting cup, drain
Witches brew. The Green woman’s overflowing, ovulating ovaltine.
Raising insurrections, spurn man’s, power crazed, narcissic reflections Doomsday directions, map reads wrong. Some an army of horsemen, some an
army on foot and some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest sight
on this dark earth; but I say, with a Merriman's certainty, that all
women are Goddesses. As long as these florid flowers, foolish flow
falling float, mad Mardi gras, shield bearing, beneath your gorgeous manu
mans manna, forged finest, kindly floats, peaceful purrs parade, hair curling
gossiping, north stars, ever men’s compass, all encompassing embrace,
hand holders humanise, wind enfolding, soul sweet, sainted foxy feet. Should you still, feel cold, in days and years a flowing. I defer to better
men than me and give you, this soft toy to cuddle. The words of my
Parish priest, Padre Paddy O’Kane; at my sister’s Sligo wedding, this
Celtic Benediction, to Orange guests, most elegantly recited,
“Deep peace of the running wave to you
Deep peace of the flowing air to you Deep peace of the quiet earth to you Deep peace of the shining stars to you Deep peace of the son of peace to you.” (One down, 3 Billion to go…) Jonathan Enright Go to Title Index Go to Author Index |
