'Where rage consumes, nothing remains.'
The Sunset Vagabond
On the night of the rage
the manager of Ragetown
takes to his bunker
under the clock tower.
He sits in a rigid chair,
his pinstriped suit threadbare,
his glasses newly cleaned,
his hair a bramble thicket,
his eyes a pale lime.
Rumours say he's been in charge since childhood,
when he arrived on the train by accident
and never left.
If he has a name
he's never spoken it.
He sits in a purple armchair,
monitoring the rage's progress
from the comfort of serenity.
Frenetic servants scuttle about
to whom he dictates which fresh chaos
should be unleashed next,
all the while his suit turns wrinkled,
his glasses shining like morning dew.
At first light he emerges,
his suit reeking, and the lingering
wake of the rage greets him.
The manager wipes his glases clean
with his untouched white handkerchief.
Friday, 30 August 2019
Tuesday, 30 July 2019
Super Bat
It hides in its roost
by a stream in the day.
The moths gather in the gloom.
Sonar is a society norm
among those winged hunters.
Detecting their prey with pin-point
proficiency in the dark.
The moths flutter through the leaves.
The long-eared hunter takes off,
no radar to guide it.
Just the rush and thrum
of a moth's wing-beat
can guide it on course.
by a stream in the day.
The moths gather in the gloom.
Sonar is a society norm
among those winged hunters.
Detecting their prey with pin-point
proficiency in the dark.
The moths flutter through the leaves.
The long-eared hunter takes off,
no radar to guide it.
Just the rush and thrum
of a moth's wing-beat
can guide it on course.
Friday, 31 May 2019
The Oath of Rhain
This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that he may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.
Rhain, known to all as the Reaper,
countless are those I have slain.
My prey cannot outrun their fate
from the moment they hear my name.
I shall chase them to the world's edge,
my pursuit will never case.
Through the wind, the snow and the fire
nevermore will my prey know peace.
I shall bring my trophies to bear
and my task will be complete,
for I will not be eluded
I will never be dealt defeat.
This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that I may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.
these are the terms set in place,
that he may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.
Rhain, known to all as the Reaper,
countless are those I have slain.
My prey cannot outrun their fate
from the moment they hear my name.
I shall chase them to the world's edge,
my pursuit will never case.
Through the wind, the snow and the fire
nevermore will my prey know peace.
I shall bring my trophies to bear
and my task will be complete,
for I will not be eluded
I will never be dealt defeat.
This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that I may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.
Wednesday, 29 May 2019
Ragetown
There's a town out there
where few people go,
surrounded by a battered steel wall,
a gnarled and twisted gate.
Open to a single train.
The train arrives
at dusk,
and newcomers
enter Ragetown
through the carriage windows
or kick down the doors.
Ticket barriers are made
to be vaulted.
The streets ignite
after dark
with unadulterated pandemonium.
People choose their weapons
insensibly
as is the way of the rage.
The signal is a body
hurled through a bar window.
Mobs flood the main square
and the rage takes hold.
The fighting erupts,
blossoms into a no-holds barred brawl,
an incandescent blur of madness.
People unleash their fists and teeth,
some armed with cutlery and gardening tools.
Someone sprints through the chaos
waving a mace above their head,
another whisks their victim's face
into crimson abstract artistry.
A would-be chainsaw massacrist
caught in a flamethrower's blaze.
Windows shattered,
walls torn asunder,
houses flaming ruins,
streets obliterated,
the bank demolished
by an enthusiastic demolisher
with weapon's grade wrecking ball.
The bank manager
flings his cash as arrows,
then is flung into the next street.
Heads smacked against doors,
tables dismembered with knives and forks.
The road rage arrives.
Cars screech,
flail around in the dust.
Skulls and bodies
crushed under tyres
as a bus slams
into the steel wall
while lorries smash and crash,
horns ring down the roads.
A solitary woman in a trolley
careens through the mayhem.
The rage subsides
and the streets fall silent.
Only when the light returns,
it reveals the wreck of Ragetown
smouldering in the glare.
where few people go,
surrounded by a battered steel wall,
a gnarled and twisted gate.
Open to a single train.
The train arrives
at dusk,
and newcomers
enter Ragetown
through the carriage windows
or kick down the doors.
Ticket barriers are made
to be vaulted.
The streets ignite
after dark
with unadulterated pandemonium.
People choose their weapons
insensibly
as is the way of the rage.
The signal is a body
hurled through a bar window.
Mobs flood the main square
and the rage takes hold.
The fighting erupts,
blossoms into a no-holds barred brawl,
an incandescent blur of madness.
People unleash their fists and teeth,
some armed with cutlery and gardening tools.
Someone sprints through the chaos
waving a mace above their head,
another whisks their victim's face
into crimson abstract artistry.
A would-be chainsaw massacrist
caught in a flamethrower's blaze.
Windows shattered,
walls torn asunder,
houses flaming ruins,
streets obliterated,
the bank demolished
by an enthusiastic demolisher
with weapon's grade wrecking ball.
The bank manager
flings his cash as arrows,
then is flung into the next street.
Heads smacked against doors,
tables dismembered with knives and forks.
The road rage arrives.
Cars screech,
flail around in the dust.
Skulls and bodies
crushed under tyres
as a bus slams
into the steel wall
while lorries smash and crash,
horns ring down the roads.
A solitary woman in a trolley
careens through the mayhem.
The rage subsides
and the streets fall silent.
Only when the light returns,
it reveals the wreck of Ragetown
smouldering in the glare.
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #30: The Spring Tiger
In the shade of the sal trees by the silent grass
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.
The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her
until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.
She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.
The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her
until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.
She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.
Monday, 29 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #29: Herring Feast
A lone spout on the rolling sea,
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.
The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.
The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.
The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty
before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.
The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.
The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.
The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty
before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.
Sunday, 28 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch
Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.
The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.
An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.
The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.
The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.
An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.
The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.
Saturday, 27 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #27: Song for Home
Five tries, two conversions,
the statistics required
to unleash mayhem onto the streets.
They flood out of the stadium,
pour through the side streets
into every pub in town,
singing to the sky beyond the rafters.
In the railway station
the pigeons start awake in their roosts
as the thunder of a thousand footsteps
rumbles up onto the platform.
A cross-city trains slithers alongside,
every carriage a battleground
filled to the brim like fishermen's nets
and hauled to cities beyond the hills
reverberating with drunken choruses
along every mile of darkening rail
while the city sings into the night.
the statistics required
to unleash mayhem onto the streets.
They flood out of the stadium,
pour through the side streets
into every pub in town,
singing to the sky beyond the rafters.
In the railway station
the pigeons start awake in their roosts
as the thunder of a thousand footsteps
rumbles up onto the platform.
A cross-city trains slithers alongside,
every carriage a battleground
filled to the brim like fishermen's nets
and hauled to cities beyond the hills
reverberating with drunken choruses
along every mile of darkening rail
while the city sings into the night.
Friday, 26 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #26: A Fox and a Bulldog
The fox forages on the open field,
eyes turned from the glare of sunlight,
black clouds swirling ahead.
He digs through the furrows,
hoping treasure lies beneath his paws
while rooks shadow him from the hedges.
White tail-tip swishing behind him,
the fox spots something emerging
from the hedgerows, scattering the rooks.
Short and barrel-shaped, lolling tongue,
wide face and button nose,
the bulldog tumbles out of the leaves.
Never has the sharp-nosed fox
seen something so ungainly
as the bewildered beast before him.
As the bulldog approaches, smiling,
the fox appears to cough, then chuckle,
and the rooks watch on from the hedges.
eyes turned from the glare of sunlight,
black clouds swirling ahead.
He digs through the furrows,
hoping treasure lies beneath his paws
while rooks shadow him from the hedges.
White tail-tip swishing behind him,
the fox spots something emerging
from the hedgerows, scattering the rooks.
Short and barrel-shaped, lolling tongue,
wide face and button nose,
the bulldog tumbles out of the leaves.
Never has the sharp-nosed fox
seen something so ungainly
as the bewildered beast before him.
As the bulldog approaches, smiling,
the fox appears to cough, then chuckle,
and the rooks watch on from the hedges.
Thursday, 25 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #25: Lava Flow
Mountain of fire, overlooking the sea,
snow cascading down the spurs,
occasional steam from the crater,
a reminder to the town in its shadow
that the mountain sleeps for now.
Sometimes the ground rumbles
and the crater belches sparks,
flecks in a royal blue sky
as the caldera simmers miles
under the seaside town.
The fire thunders from the mantle,
cascades above the peak in a wave,
while the molten flows smother
the groves, hissing and glowing
as the rock cools into new crust.
New shoots burst forth
from under the mountain's new skin,
the olives fester on the young trees
and the mountain resumes its slumber
till the caldera boils over again.
snow cascading down the spurs,
occasional steam from the crater,
a reminder to the town in its shadow
that the mountain sleeps for now.
Sometimes the ground rumbles
and the crater belches sparks,
flecks in a royal blue sky
as the caldera simmers miles
under the seaside town.
The fire thunders from the mantle,
cascades above the peak in a wave,
while the molten flows smother
the groves, hissing and glowing
as the rock cools into new crust.
New shoots burst forth
from under the mountain's new skin,
the olives fester on the young trees
and the mountain resumes its slumber
till the caldera boils over again.
Wednesday, 24 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #24: Return of Spring
And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree,
watching as one season gives way to another.
Watching as the skeletal brown
turns to green, and the treetops
are now alive with birdsong.
Thrushes, finches, tits and robins
conjure up a chorus
of incessant cheer.
In the pond below the dove's perch
sits a chamber orchestra of frogs
all croaking in harmonic baritones
complimenting the treetop choir
heralding in the long days
and the longer sunsets.
And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree
singing as spring returns to the forest.
watching as one season gives way to another.
Watching as the skeletal brown
turns to green, and the treetops
are now alive with birdsong.
Thrushes, finches, tits and robins
conjure up a chorus
of incessant cheer.
In the pond below the dove's perch
sits a chamber orchestra of frogs
all croaking in harmonic baritones
complimenting the treetop choir
heralding in the long days
and the longer sunsets.
And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree
singing as spring returns to the forest.
Tuesday, 23 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #23: Rivers of Coal
Up in the hills where the collieries sleep,
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul
(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul
(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)
Monday, 22 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #22: Eggs of Time
Six eggs scattered in the halls of the past,
one for the beasts that ruled before man,
one for creatures frozen in a silent forest,
one for the statues carved from marble,
one for the tomb of the slumbering whale,
one for the tropical forest of giant dragonflies,
one for the hall of the dancing colours.
All lie in wait till the first light
their shells sport hairline cracks,
the first signs of a new birth,
windows to the past, the present and the future
waiting for those who go looking
and gaze upon the wonders of the world.
(So this one managed to be even more surreal that yesterday's. I tried to give this a vaguely Eastery feeling, but once again something different emerged.)
one for the beasts that ruled before man,
one for creatures frozen in a silent forest,
one for the statues carved from marble,
one for the tomb of the slumbering whale,
one for the tropical forest of giant dragonflies,
one for the hall of the dancing colours.
All lie in wait till the first light
their shells sport hairline cracks,
the first signs of a new birth,
windows to the past, the present and the future
waiting for those who go looking
and gaze upon the wonders of the world.
(So this one managed to be even more surreal that yesterday's. I tried to give this a vaguely Eastery feeling, but once again something different emerged.)
Sunday, 21 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #21: Letters in the Dark
The tunnel cloaked in darkness
less solemn than it seems.
Lines left on the bricks,
luminous bursts swooping up
to the ceiling in a neon flare.
Contorted, distorted, obscure
yet far from indecipherable,
lighting up the whole tunnel
as trains rumble overhead
and water drips from the ceiling.
Swirls forming letters against the bricks
in glittering gold, pristine purple
and incandescent green,
illumination in the shade
and dazzled pigeons on the overhang.
A message to be read
in the curves and twists
made by faceless artists in the hours of starlight,
the hours where the letters
speak the loudest.
(So this poem was initially inspired by the daily prompt from NaPoWriMo, suggesting to write a surrealist poem inspired by Federico GarcÃa Lorca, but this piece evolved into something much different to what I had in mind originally.)
less solemn than it seems.
Lines left on the bricks,
luminous bursts swooping up
to the ceiling in a neon flare.
Contorted, distorted, obscure
yet far from indecipherable,
lighting up the whole tunnel
as trains rumble overhead
and water drips from the ceiling.
Swirls forming letters against the bricks
in glittering gold, pristine purple
and incandescent green,
illumination in the shade
and dazzled pigeons on the overhang.
A message to be read
in the curves and twists
made by faceless artists in the hours of starlight,
the hours where the letters
speak the loudest.
(So this poem was initially inspired by the daily prompt from NaPoWriMo, suggesting to write a surrealist poem inspired by Federico GarcÃa Lorca, but this piece evolved into something much different to what I had in mind originally.)
Saturday, 20 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #20: Sibilance
Silently sitting on a stone,
singing songs of sorrow and woe,
seething with symptoms of sanguine symphonies
of soaring skylines and scorching savannahs,
searing sentinels on stony statues,
silent as souls surrounded by shame
and the savage set-piece of sharks in the sea
slicing seals and soliciting sneers
from sinuous sardines who see but don't smile,
sinuses of snakes suffocated by soot,
all in sundry and sonatas,
sonnets strung simultaneously
as it seems in a single sentence.
singing songs of sorrow and woe,
seething with symptoms of sanguine symphonies
of soaring skylines and scorching savannahs,
searing sentinels on stony statues,
silent as souls surrounded by shame
and the savage set-piece of sharks in the sea
slicing seals and soliciting sneers
from sinuous sardines who see but don't smile,
sinuses of snakes suffocated by soot,
all in sundry and sonatas,
sonnets strung simultaneously
as it seems in a single sentence.
Friday, 19 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #19: Firestorm
Single spark,
gust of air,
scorching soil
ignited by chance,
whipped up into a blur of a flame
ascending into a column
tall as the tallest jungle trees,
a furnace consuming the green
above and below
where the creepers crisp
and the branches burn
and the inferno engulfs
the canopy and the roots,
every animal for a thousand miles
runs, slithers, flies and gallops
for the edge of the jungle,
but the fire's wrath redoubles
the blaze pursues the denizens,
leaving clouds of ash and rubble behind
till the flames meet the river
and the scalding hot thirst is quenched.
gust of air,
scorching soil
ignited by chance,
whipped up into a blur of a flame
ascending into a column
tall as the tallest jungle trees,
a furnace consuming the green
above and below
where the creepers crisp
and the branches burn
and the inferno engulfs
the canopy and the roots,
every animal for a thousand miles
runs, slithers, flies and gallops
for the edge of the jungle,
but the fire's wrath redoubles
the blaze pursues the denizens,
leaving clouds of ash and rubble behind
till the flames meet the river
and the scalding hot thirst is quenched.
Thursday, 18 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #18: Tapestry
It's all captured here.
All written down,
all embroidered in stitching
as a song,
an eternal tale of war
told across millenniums
of three kings and three battles,
soldiers head to toe in suits of chain mail,
horses' hooves churning the mud,
shields feathered with arrows.
A time where any one action
could severe any thread
and the tapestry would unravel.
Yet all of it remains here,
the formations, the marches,
the victories, the defeats,
the conquest and the dominion,
the fall and the coronation.
All written down,
all embroidered in stitching
as a song,
an eternal tale of war
told across millenniums
of three kings and three battles,
soldiers head to toe in suits of chain mail,
horses' hooves churning the mud,
shields feathered with arrows.
A time where any one action
could severe any thread
and the tapestry would unravel.
Yet all of it remains here,
the formations, the marches,
the victories, the defeats,
the conquest and the dominion,
the fall and the coronation.
Wednesday, 17 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #17: The Angry Bee
There's a cat in the garden
and its chasing me
along the fence
I could just sting
but make no pretense
I will use it
in defence,
my last kamikaze
will be no use to me
if the cat gets away
Scott free
or is it Charlie free?
I can never be sure
but maybe I should
maybe I should just sting
the mewling ball of fluff
those claws aren't worth much
against the wrath of a hive.
and its chasing me
along the fence
I could just sting
but make no pretense
I will use it
in defence,
my last kamikaze
will be no use to me
if the cat gets away
Scott free
or is it Charlie free?
I can never be sure
but maybe I should
maybe I should just sting
the mewling ball of fluff
those claws aren't worth much
against the wrath of a hive.
Tuesday, 16 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #16: Horses on the Road
A pair of horses trotting
along a narrow country road.
Higher than the hedges,
with views sheep and pigs crave,
taking in the spring fields
flourishing with renewed greenery.
The riders steer their steeds
past the hedges
and over the crossroads.
The clip-clop of their shoes
on sun-baked tarmac,
a familiar percussion
in the usual farmyard tune.
Cows and sheep line the fields
as the two mares pass,
eyeing the riders with bemusement.
The barn beckons up ahead,
with the promise of fresh hay.
Chickens and geese herald the mares,
a cacophony of honks, quacks and chattering.
No other denizen of the farm
gets to tour the lanes.
A foal leans over a gate,
watches the celebration in the yard,
dreams of the day
when he'll roam the roads.
along a narrow country road.
Higher than the hedges,
with views sheep and pigs crave,
taking in the spring fields
flourishing with renewed greenery.
The riders steer their steeds
past the hedges
and over the crossroads.
The clip-clop of their shoes
on sun-baked tarmac,
a familiar percussion
in the usual farmyard tune.
Cows and sheep line the fields
as the two mares pass,
eyeing the riders with bemusement.
The barn beckons up ahead,
with the promise of fresh hay.
Chickens and geese herald the mares,
a cacophony of honks, quacks and chattering.
No other denizen of the farm
gets to tour the lanes.
A foal leans over a gate,
watches the celebration in the yard,
dreams of the day
when he'll roam the roads.
Monday, 15 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #15: A Tiger's Soliloquy
To what ends must I go
for the safety of my jungle home?
How far should I travel?
How many foes must I face?
Throw them back across my borders
or wallow in disgrace.
I thought the jackals an annoyance,
the wolves worthy rivals
and the infernal dhole a pestilence,
but the bipedal apes with their brazenness
and their fire-spitting weapons,
when they infringe on the jungle,
the combined strength of all my kin
cannot withstand their onslaught.
They slaughter and pillage
wherever they appear,
and I sit perched atop an ancient ruin
ensnared by creepers and vines
watching as their fires engulf the grass,
the trees, the gorges, encircle the waterholes.
The chital, the sambar, the langurs, the boar
all flee across the maidans to the hills,
and I can only prepare for the last bout
as the clever primates converge on my stronghold
and the jungle blazes into the night.
(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a poem in the form a dramatic monologue in the manner of Robert Browning or William Shakespeare. Never heard of a tiger giving a monologue before, but maybe now we have some insight into what that voice would sound like.)
for the safety of my jungle home?
How far should I travel?
How many foes must I face?
Throw them back across my borders
or wallow in disgrace.
I thought the jackals an annoyance,
the wolves worthy rivals
and the infernal dhole a pestilence,
but the bipedal apes with their brazenness
and their fire-spitting weapons,
when they infringe on the jungle,
the combined strength of all my kin
cannot withstand their onslaught.
They slaughter and pillage
wherever they appear,
and I sit perched atop an ancient ruin
ensnared by creepers and vines
watching as their fires engulf the grass,
the trees, the gorges, encircle the waterholes.
The chital, the sambar, the langurs, the boar
all flee across the maidans to the hills,
and I can only prepare for the last bout
as the clever primates converge on my stronghold
and the jungle blazes into the night.
(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a poem in the form a dramatic monologue in the manner of Robert Browning or William Shakespeare. Never heard of a tiger giving a monologue before, but maybe now we have some insight into what that voice would sound like.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)