THE THIN PLACE

A MAZE OF POETRY AND  PROSE

The poets funtion is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing that might have happened. e.g. what is possible as being probable or nessessery. The distintion between historian and poet consists in this, that the one describes the thing that has been and the other a kind of thing that might be.                

Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statments are of the nature of universals, where as those of history are singular

(Aristotle)                

REFLECTIONS OF GLASS.

I still remember the bells of old london,

Each groan accustomed to its time,

And I feel the pealing of my homeland,

That brassy silver nursery rhyme.

A swinging song of old church steeples,

Tolling the lullaby of a pious people.

A possitive vibration for strong headed vagrants,

A sacred sound of joy,to welcome in the May dance.

I return to the looking glass shop

On Old Compton road.

What a jolt, I see I could have been

Just some bum passing by.

What happened to all those yesterdays

Reflected in my eyes.

My damn moustach droops and I need a shave,

I look just like one of those bad guys on T.V.

Now my mind is like a soped up sponge.

There is no way back to my teens when whispering

My name softly, I wept at night for mummy.

I had two friends then, just like me.

Now one is dead and the other,

Out of jail now and sick.

I havent thought of them in years.

Their nothing special, these friends,

Its just that their pains are so deep and red.

Real and yet so pityfull.

Its too sad all right, my sampling

To early for the taste of things.

Somehow I will feel better in the morning.

When I clip my moustach,

Shaving memories !                      

How I miss the lonly times.

Enjoying solitude when I desired.

To walk again that track through

Dismal streets of old back London.

Kicking rusty old tin cans,

From the rubble of my memory.

And broken bottles,back into the gutters

Where they were born.

Where once there glowed a cherry fire,

Amoung the bombed out building sites.

There I gazed upon my feet,

Placing one boot before the other,

Watching my eyes traveling before my steps.

Filling my mind with canyons, allyways

And snow capped mountains.

Inwardly crying at the beauty of the clouds.

I stop to turn out my turn ups,

Examining the collected seeds

And other debris of my existance.

If planted, will they sprout anew,

Some weird wisdom ?                                                        .

Theres a hawk out there sometimes,

Seeking his substanance on the thermal

Of his glide. He watches me,

He watches everything, his mate by his side.

I see him also,such fine lines.

I strole into the saloon,

Where the simple solilique of our songs.

Ecco earally.

In the corner a lowly lowbrow sits,

 He drinks his lagar with added bitters

Demanding his rights and wrongs,

At this his local sepulcur.

He pulls his shirt sleeves up

Above his elbows and contemplates,

An argument about the cost of beer.

But he also wants to play darts.

Someone has got to clear those pigions

Off the roof !!!.

Ahhh !! There was a "time gentlemen please"  

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