sketch pad

meine umwelt

avec moi, sans moi,

par moi

Ahh… and the tales I shall unfold

May blast comprehension if the truth be told

An ode to the masters, martyrs and whims

A satyr on life and sullied daydreams


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Watching the leaves fall, I see the budding spring

Closing my eyes to the smell of the hay

I feel a snowflake brush my cheek

And the wind whip about my hair

Listening to the children’s gaggle and laughter

I hear my father’s voice caress like a knife

To the shivering strings of my heart

And I remember the tears that cut my face

When my chest felt urged to implode

Leaving my boyfriend weathered and torn

I find the path to a dream. His pain calls me back

But I’m lost in clouds and fields and stream

His love not even a memory, vaguer than the dream

I’m searching out an older groove, far deeper for to hide

And Fear, she beckons, cajoles and satisfies

The dread that lies within, of all unknown

Of known that struck me once and challenges once more

And like a frightened, obstinate, naked child

I’ll dare to damnation again, burying thought

And Fear and dread, and my father, and my security

And I’ll lift my face and pout again

And reel before the stinging slap

And raise myself again

If I ever lose my fear, I’ll lose my courage too

Keeping both I lose instead the gem amongst the wheat

Security will tease me still as always she has done

And for each tear that pulls apart

A radiant smile will glow above the bent back

And a beautiful dress will hide the shackles and scars

And falsity’s front be denied by the pain inside

Each year as I grow older, it gets harder to keep the child

It takes longer and longer to retrace the path

And find an old playground

But some weary nights they open up, old familiar sights

And beg me come play again

And invitation rejected, they hover and hover

Until I need them

When like will-o-the-wisps and fairy lights

They twinkle on an evaporating mound

And sink too far inside

(29th Mar ‘95)

Falling from precipitous crags

Floating in mists and thought

From eyrie to glen to forgotten riverbank

Where herons fish deep in experience

There’s an underworld forming

Like clay in the potters’ hands

Moulding and forming

Taking no definite shape

Existing without existence

My will is in my submission

Freedom’s within these bounds

And I’ve yet to find a lover

Who’ll close his eyes and be led

Within an aromatic maze

Who’ll press his finger to the rose’s thorn?

Who’ll savour exquisite soul-agony

As the reflection of sensuous pleasure?

Who will balance on the rainbow’s edge

Or that of the smouldering volcano?

Who’ll close his eyes and let me lead

Come fair, or come foul weather?

I have no face, you’ll learn of me

Through the pressures of my hand

Will you trust me even when

I take my hand from yours

And watch you stumble blindly

On highlands and on heath?

Will you sense me by your side

Guarding every move

Will you curse me or cry out

As gashes streak your feet?

Will you know when I am gone

Will it really matter?

My eye! My eye! I’ve lost my blessed sight

I’ll take no guide, no damned lead

No fool who thinks he sees a shining light

As blindfold fades to dust

The convolutions of the mind

I’m lost in a labyrinth, no spark glimmering

No happiness shimmering

Doubting sensation to the touch

Will the resonances of your voice imbue in me

A childish kind of trust? Will I bathe in hope,

Lie in the warm stream you flow past me

Have tension eased from aching limb

And a laugh forced from my frame?

Blue light streaming through the cavern’s rock

What illumination strikes like a match

Within my fantasy land, cold hard rock

Revealed to tender eye

Imagination playing, impaled on stalagmite?

(2-3rd Apr ‘95)