Maltthinks's Blog

Song for the Bastards of the World

maltthinks — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 13:00:52 +0000

Have you heard the anthems of the hopeful band,
as they marched through the dark streets, torches in hand?
How many, many ways have the poets decreed
that a new world be built, that change come to the land?

Have you heard snatches of jangling strain,
a song dampened by clouds or battered by rain?
Are any ears tuned to the anarchic sighs,
the artless despair, for which no song will suffice?

-Malt

Through a Glass, Darkly

maltthinks — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 13:00:17 +0000

I remember you
from before I began to know,
when all was clear blue sky on the
surface of my mind,
a canvas waiting to be splashed with colour,
still well water waiting to be disturbed.

Then I spoke in your music
and thought in your poetry,
and your moon still hung in my window at night
as prayer came easily from my mouth like flowing rivers.

Yes, before I saw others declare your name
only to be heard and my pure heavens
were tinged with grey,
once I did believe, once I did have faith,
and now the streaks of cloud
will return to their tubes no more.

Maybe a day will come
when we can once again trust in truth,
when sweet rain’s new fall, the first fall,
will polish the great glass of heaven.
Then I will see you as you are again,
as will a baby yet untired, yet unbiased,
when my days are done.

-Malt

Him

maltthinks — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 16:29:37 +0000

I saw the crinkles in the corners of his eyes
telling me it was that time again -
the swimming jigsaw of his face
before the faults stood silent,
all pieces in place, and
he smiled.
Blissful chance, heaven’s first miracle,
and sadness, waiting to collide, was held back
just enough for self-surprise at
serendipity to vanish on emergence.
He smiled,
and for a moment I saw a boy
romping in the grass,
treading on the daisies,
creating a little quake of his own.

-Malt

After All

maltthinks — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 16:27:26 +0000

Where are we?
Where have the fault-lines gone?
It seems that we were rocked to sleep
a fitful lifetime,
and then maybe the enmity thieves
came in the night
to steal our cocoons of Death,
the suckling mother.

In the gloom I saw a light,
and all at once no more
dying, fighting, fearing, filled
the gaping craters.
Light, light and the end of the war,
light coursed through my very being.

It is as I feared -
the scattered stones have gone,
stitched up with clotted life
to end all wrong.
A sort of bloody kindness has
swept over the land and
grimacing figures now united
by love,
the hatred
of which will keep souls together,
be sure of that.

-Malt

Marriage

maltthinks — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 16:26:03 +0000

From my father my sweet sending off,
My permission.
From my mother, dissent.
From cursed wealth its jealous warning.
To you my love, my all
Saving only that which
Fate would have me take back.
To my mother the reason.

————————————-

That was based on the following poem by R.S. Thomas:

Gifts

From my father my strong heart,
My weak stomach.
From my mother the fear.
From my sad country the shame.
To my wife all I have,
Saving only the love
That is not mine to give.
To my one son the hunger.

-Malt

New Year

maltthinks — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 15:03:13 +0000

Come then, let us lie back and
pretend to sleep, when really
we are waiting for death to take us
by the midnight train.
Wonder and rebirth to come
and jubilation and release
rock us into fantasy, but
with a rude jolt we start at the morning
and say to the old sun’s face,
‘I have seen you and your sorrows.’

-Malt

Compassion

maltthinks — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 07:48:30 +0000

Harder yet to groan for a dead child
That is not your own,
Or to weep with a remote family
Over a remote set of problems.
Is there anybody out there grieving?
Maybe the rare city folk
Mourning their smallness,
in an ocean where discrimination is
nought, the occurrences of good and bad
equally dependent
on the flip of a coin.

-Malt

The Cupboard

maltthinks — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 13:47:29 +0000

When it gets bad,
when all round predators approach and
everything seems to mean to hurt and defences collapse,
I shrink into my shell.
If you close the door tight all light is
shut out, and the dark mind gives way to strange fancies.
I could be being embraced, a lover’s or person’s or something’s
arms wrapped around me, soft clothes folds caressing me;
or in a cave pensively watching shadows of possibility pass;
or deep in the earth, tears from long nights’ sorrow past
nourishing flowers to brighten the barren stone.
For those few minutes you may not have existed for
all anyone notices, but do you want them to?
Pulling out hope by the roots, kicking at the stone
thinking it won’t ever collapse, or worse, engraving it with
expectations, high hopes for glory and talent.
One hundred percent termite resistant,
meets all your organisational needs,
first grade teak from Brazil,
you would know, would you not?
After some time I stagger out, wet-faced,
but that is soon taken care of. I appear the same as ever
I did, but in my mind I know I will go back, and keep going, and go
until I never see the light again.
Pick your outfit, quickly, and then get out.

-Malt

Of Establishment

maltthinks — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 15:44:45 +0000

If intentions only came with sorrow
And not with pride at their existence,
And want, with tearful determination to have it seen
Blurring the search for others with similar intent,
Maybe, solitude would lead the way,
And roads we start could end,
Could end with the ends fulfilled.

Maybe if affirmation were not needed,
Or were forced not to be needed, in a pinch,
Mere talk of a bright future would never surface,
Revelling in the relief of common thought
While time ticked at the flesh of the poor,
Would not be here.

Then maybe we ought all to stumble in the dark,
Stumble toward the light.

-Malt

Train of Thought

maltthinks — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 15:21:12 +0000

On the platform, on the edge,
Whichever comes first, I will catch.
A balloon, maybe, floating me to beyond,
Or boulder, down.
Here I wish away lost life;
I weep for lost love.

But the train is a happy place –
There is Adventure in the Journey.
There is Hope for the Future.
There is bliss in the fantasy
Of common optimism, and always moving
We have anything but still.

The first station, and the first door.
Oh, the delight of youth replayed!
Books under arms, boisterous playfulness,
A horde of high-pitched voices.
Most sweetly reminiscent
The boy who is joyfully knocked around.

The second door.
Beeps and sliding and
Shuffling and opening and gust of
Light, they forget or cannot see
The desperate, hobbling old ghost,
But I am sure this will make him stronger.

Third.
A cute kissing couple crashes upon my eyes,
Confusion, but valiant effort to understand
And then the final painful denial of denial
And to retain the maybe hopeless hopefulness,
When open eyes now see he was once mine.

-Malt