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[caileanwattuaid]

A little warmth, a little sweetness

A little warmth, a little sweetness, this  Is all I ask for, this is all I need:  A warm bed on a winter's night, snug bliss! The juicy bite of fruit for which lips plead! Such minor pleasures a home must possess. And windows brightly lit to sit and read, As molten sunlight floods the page the stress Of days so melts away, our simple creed To live, and taste, and breathe, to let the rain  Refresh your skin and moonlight guide your sleep, To ask not much of God, relief from pain, Perhaps, if lucky your own room to keep. To these, the smallest comforts, grow not numb, Or to great bitterness you will succumb.

[caileanwattuaid]

Stray cats

I see a little grey cat as she Runs through the grass, with a graceful ease Dodging the trees, so lithe, feline, free. 

I spot a fattest orange cat as he  Lays there so regal midst flowers and bees, Lazily ruling all that we see.

I spy a stylish black cat as she Crosses a street so assured that these  Cars shall stop, each one her devotee. 

[caileanwattuaid]

Streetlights comparing themselves to the Sun

Is not the ancient light of Sun so much Wiser in its warmth than our pale beam So callow and so cold, for after such A summer’s day we but naively gleam. Is not its kingdom too, so much more vast: It claims the clouds, each blade of grass, the trees, From first of sunrise to the sunset last, While we are smallest islands in dark seas. Against sure obsolescence flickers our  Electric artifice, compared to Sun Which burns eternal with a primal power. Of man’s inventions rivals there are none.  Yet when you’re lonely and lost and it’s late, To our lamps you will look to guide you straight.

[caileanwattuaid]

A life in screens

A screen is its own pale fire,  Snatching light from your soul.

In a dark bedroom you sit, Dwelling in its tepid glow, Watching videos of naked  Women and vulgar displays, Freak shows and fringe conspiracies. 

The images entrance you, Arouse you and disgust you, They bulge and buzz in your brain, Wreck and rewrite your nervous  System to reflect their spectacle.  

In screens you make love, In screens passions are inflamed And extinguished so trivial.  Faces appear and disappear,  Bodies are conjured from digital  Netherworlds, black, white, and brown,  Thin and fat, erotic and repulsive. All are ghostly presences, Real and unreal, lines of code Detached from mortal flesh. 

The screen is darkened, All is blackest void, a universe Has come to its cataclysm. To a dark bedroom your life  Is once again reduced.

[caileanwattuaid]

Footsteps

In Augustine ’s Confessions  I read, that past things themselves We draw not forth from memory, But words conceived from their images, Images they implanted in the mind,  Like footsteps left behind in the senses. Perhaps like footsteps in melting snow, As ephemeral as the season itself.

So what then of your face as I beheld it,  Or the first time I heard your voice And was surprised at its melodious shape?

Footsteps each in melting snow, As ephemeral as the season itself.

[caileanwattuaid]

Savouring the last of sunlit evenings

It is almost early September here. The air grows cooler as shadows  Creep across the lawn and daylight, our  Ever lesser refuge, withers into night.  It was not so long ago, just early July, When warmest Sun was splashed on happy patios, This ancient god at his most generous. And it seemed only yesterday, just early August, When his golden colour still adorned the tops  Of the old mossy rocks, a naturalistic painter  Of nostalgic afternoons growing late.  But now, as grey autumnal mornings Haunt our dying summer evenings, One final sunbeam sits upon your cheek, Your body the last ray of illumination.

[caileanwattuaid]

My new language

My body wants to make a noise As the animals do. All of our  Old words seem too civilized, too civil, So it wants a voice as wayward and wild  As a bear’s ancient bellowing,  Or a frog’s cryptic croaking. It wants to bar bar with barbarians, To speak the violent vernacular of Vandals.

The shape of our language now Is that of commerce and commodity, Of banalities and buzzwords, So my desire is to find expression Of the body at its extremes: The scream of a child’s ecstasy, The howl of a man in pain. For these are the last living dialects In an age of deadest metaphors.

[caileanwattuaid]

Consider now a humble line

Consider now a humble line: A most concise simplicity Extending infinitely forth. How easily you draw its length; How endless in its essence still.

Or query here a question mark, The curl of its inquiring mood. The way of asking it suggests, Must always be a winding one.

Or write your name upon the page, And study every letter’s shape, The myriad anatomies Of ancient Latin alphabet:  The shapely slithering of 'S,’ The joyous dive and splash of ‘J.’ Each one so elegant, alive, Anarchic, meaning wondrously  In motion, sound exquisitely  Sculpted in writing’s primal act.

[caileanwattuaid]

For verses long vanished

Whispered along a winter’s gale To conjure ancient rhymes from frost. As lupine howling summons pale Full moon, they called on rhythms lost.

On wishful pillow softly sung, To sweetly dwell in dreamy realms, You speak there with a joyous tongue, That nightmare never overwhelms. 

So dare not ask the universe Return your words, but let them haunt The hearts that yearn in ghostly verse, In lonely hours of lyric want.