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Saturday, July 26, 2014

Sounds to Beauty

Loving elderly couple
In Four Parts

what is beautiful
can be without substance, even immoral
in the wrong context,

where superficiality buries us
in shallow graves, bodies revealing
themselves all too quickly
before feelings take hold
in the blood;

but who are we to judge why
beauty must emphasise
the importance of meaning? when we are told
to ignore substance
and to concern ourselves with style
and everything else
will take care of itself:

and we wonder why
we are insensitive mourners
with no depth of breeding;
where empathy can be misleading;

-- and then in the next moment
here we are out of context,
claiming idiomatic physiognomy
over the lingua franca of our poetry,

failing to tell whether
it has changed the context of us, or we have changed it;
from the social influence out of the mouths
of the myopically obsessed; of those less than babes;

of the cynosure of eyes
that darken into desuetude:
diaphanous dust that casts its dark dyes
over the efflorescence felicity
of loving and its courage to be
sumptuously ravelled tighter
in a panoply of redolent scent; a summery panacea
concocted by serendipitous bent;

where what is beautiful
can give you substance, even give you morals
in the right context,

where we are buried in depths
of warming blankets, bodies revealing
themselves slowly over the years
as feelings embrace the voice
in the blood, and lovers make love
the old, slow-fashioned way;

and such beauty
is food to the empty stomach; we feed
on our need for this medicated honeyed gauze
our mothers would carefully patch
on our grazed knees,
when the present would move to scupper
our future intent; for how we live
is more volatile than we like to think;

-- but love is a lissome dancer
that catches us from the brink;
and it's a dance that doesn't have to end
if beauty is more than skin deep;

an opulent two-step
split into two equal moieties,
mellifluous parts
that join to protect against
how quickly the present can seem like the past;
and how fading
the actual material of our lives --

how lights dim within
the littlest fragments of daily dying
in which we waste our precious time

with the private celebrities of our social circles,
the latest restaurants we must go to dine,
how much we are willing to spend on wine,
who we are currently fucking, or who's doing who,
can change profoundly in a matter of months,

if beauty is merely
what we see outside our apartments,

but, like in life, just when we feel
we're almost totally asphyxiated
with obligations and unfairness,
in comes love

like a dose of fresh air;
a godly voice-over, the driven narrator
to grant a reprieve of breath:

and we start to see
the good news we ignored before;
that however hard this market tries
it can never make everything absolutely
about profit or greed, or its need;

for our lives will always seep towards love
like the river to the sea sweeps out
towards freedom; and we can be
trashy or hilarious or messy or sexy or whatever,
but we can be it better together,
moving towards things that call
beyond economy or idiomatic physiognomy;

and here we are
in love and
claiming back the language of our poetry;
and no matter how hard the greedy amongst us try
they cannot make us about money;

for love steps out from every page break
to put us back into the context of humanity,
and freedom gives us the true depth
that reveals we will never solely be
what they make of us;

for love is that diligent documentary:
rather than assumptive and ephemeral,
it prefers to pass on the judgemental;

it's all but impossible to read
and not spin a theory about why
we are written the way we are;
how the sea pounds at our hearts
even when the shore is so far;

and how we yearn for its exhaustive demands,
to drown in its loftiness of tone
and grandness of vision
meant as an antidote to the prison,
to the daily deaths of what is written (and forgotten)
without its hand, and how we yearn to ask love

the purpose it holds for us,
against all etiquette, for it's considered unseemly
to ask the novelist about motive,

although love's not really a novelist,
for that would mean love is its own fiction;
and to merely try and grasp
what is at hand is to ignore
the emotional substance at its core;

that only in retrospect is it obvious
why love will always come for us,
turning us into its inventive work
of non-fiction, how love is written
exultant in a way no mere clever premise can be;
how it suggests that there are epic forces
at work in you and me, in this simple blood and bone

we are not alone -- there are tacit collective
story lines that join humanity;

we are sounds to beauty sounding out
their reality: systemic but secret reasons
it speaks in us in these serialised versions
throughout the centuries, to question

why we live the way we do; and why we love
is not the mystery, not even its how,
but when
we shall love, falling madly
to that place when it can be said:

here we are
pushing back the idiomatic physiognomy
over the lingua franca of our poetry,
in every primordial stanza
of every homology,
where without love, we are out of context
where words sound empty
instead of differently,

and we wonder why being unique
to just one person rather
than being unique amongst billions matters

more to the heart; does the cause of uniqueness
mean being a single part of a greater whole,
rather than a single island set apart?

and when love tells
us we're no longer alone, is uniqueness then given
its purpose to shine? even as
it shatters the illusion
that you are single, and individual, or at best
each a snowflake, so willing to forsake
itself to melt
merging into a greater lake;

and to be sure, it doesn't matter to everyone,
but love makes the exception and the rule
which begs (yet another) question:

if we had the power to stop all pain,
but it meant having no feelings,
and no love as natural mentor
or mediating light to what the darkness brings;
would we suffer the pain
over feeling nothing at all?

and if I said that love might be
all in the head, and in
the bed, would we regardless
still want its
story read out to us?

say yes: for love's beauty is the grace
given to every soul,
out in the open or hidden under
the circumstances of daily life,
and lost too easily
if we choose to ignore it

to pour its given beauty
selfishly all back into ourselves;
perforated human dresses pungent with perfume
realising too late
that no toilet water can flush away
feelings of hurt, betrayal, and shame,

only until love enters
the basement of the body
can we find any redeeming sweetness
in past bitterness we've hoarded away;

for only true beauty helps you find
your rooted tree in life;
to root you to life
and dare you to look
in the face of the sky;

because being unique doesn't mean
wanting to be lonely; it means wanting somebody

to love you just for who you are;
and for you to love them uniquely;

even if that means a little pain
now and then; for every discovery
can in parts be beautiful and painful;
upheaval to the stable,
uncomfortable to the comfortable;

a kind of death of what you knew;
but its beauty is the thing
that sounds the call
to make life worth living;

to love someone as special as they
love you, as only they can love you,
to make love at once the most
unique, for being the one and only,
while simultaneously being
the same one and all
for everything in the world;

and in its absence
what is beautiful
can be without substance, even immoral
in the wrong context,

where superficiality defines us
as shallow graves, bodies revealing
themselves all too quickly
before feelings take hold
in the blood;

but who are we to judge why
beauty must emphasise
the importance of meaning? except to follow
the purpose love would have for us
means to know its mind

or risk being thrown to indecision,
wasting its preciousness, when we are here to share
its vision and bind our lives
to its golden string poets speak of,
as we work out how to find a way
through this maze to love,

and not to allow
our individual sounds of beauty
to be converted by words or arguments
from the crowds milling around our apartments;
for love doesn't contradict,
it realigns you to the soul you are;

and to discover love is not to discover
why we are here, but to get an idea
of who you are; to awaken to the part
of yourself so hidden from sight
you refuse to recognise it until love
persuades you to believe
in more than your own eyes;

for love is not merely an idea
or a concept in some comforter philosophy;
she is the very ground of presence
right in the here and now
in our every moment we enter

and encounter the sounds to her beauty
as a fact of existence, and our existing mystery.

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