My winds, my trees, my moons etc

Jul 16th, 2008 | By | Category: Readers Contributions

Perhaps I could rename it, “Fear and Loathing in London”. I might say that the whole thing is a parody of the poet, the melancholic universe created by the young hopeless pedestrian, flashing eyes at everything around him, his heart seething with discontent.
When I wrote this, I was just in that “state of mind”. Reason didn’t come into it. There is no definite precept or method behind the swing I used.
I had a notebook; I wondered through Kensington and down towards Chelsea where I sank into my dream. Thought carried thought until I was completely carried away by my feelings. Of course, to write something truthful (however fleeting that truth may be), you have to quickly tighten your grip on the moment and give that moment a deep meaningful breath. And so, by closing my eyes tight and concentrating the senses until they could be kissed by a single word (you will find that the senses converge at some finite point, and thats what you need to write down), I tried to find expressions that would carry the mood.
My life has changed, but those feelings remain, stuck there in the moment. They betray the instant and prove that everything moves on, evolves, and that nothing is a slave of time. Bad memories and experiences can be looked at poetically if you have the strength to will it.


That is the beauty of Poetry. It’s movements can be discerned only afterwards, when we look in on the feeling, from above it. We find out that as humans we are stronger than our moods, and that happiness is a spell that none can resist, and all are capable of.

My winds, my trees, my moons etc

Hungry and empty a helicopter drops itself like syrup through chemical skies.
Tired I sit and mellow in the pluck of violas and guitars, a tide of doubt shut behind ray-ban gold and plastic fantasies. A quark wave spins quickly. A long white arm riddled with tiny freckles and pasted with Eau-de-Gautier flumes past, carrying in one hand the whole of London, as if it were a designer handbag or cage for birds.

I see; the electric pylons, betrayals, torn factories, wings of cranes that out-hang ruined masonry, spleen, sulphuric blood at contagious levels, a map of absurd lines and geometric puzzles with no architect to claim its author, lusts, stupendous lavishing of china and marble gravestone, odours of India, China, Arabia – every way you look, filthy looking students with manias and nervous tics, troubled widows with too much shopping, oversized torsos with the banner ‘This might be the new aphrodisiac!”, contortionists of maladies and aggressive claustrophobia, silk flowers worn by little girls to museums of antique memorabilia, the clap, high art and contraband leather in hallways, flower houses flashing in great parks and webbing the air with safrole, eucalyptus and lavender perfum…….

And imagine that! A throng of Australian flags come to town! – A seamless spectacle of goofs and beer smugglers (the twelve year old Barbie with citrus skin has gone to hiding); – and on the day I curse to enjoy the quiet spell of winter sunshine! The clamourings! The impunity of it! I have awoken from a miserable stupor to lose myself in chaos. Loud screams and whoops of silver-phlegm lick my boots. I get on the bus in search of new arbours – my winds, my trees, my moons etc

And so my thought loosened (An instant remedy for the poor in spirit!), and my approach became far more idiomatic…….

My winds, my trees, my moons, my loves
I realise your smiles are the death I brook
I no longer know what friendship is, or what it is
To love the image of one sylph gazelle

Away from the taunts of fleshy chins
Away from sweetened lips of nectar from dreams
From the boys who look good in clean check
And pomade, and (bless their souls!)
Don’t know, and won’t ever know, a thing

I no longer know what to do here!
They paddle in the ardours of pigmy romances
Their trite obsessions and cotton-wool language
If not disgusting then quite non-descript

I think I know what’s coming on
– A great sun is winking and telling its time -

Here – my mood has just changed and has become quite anaemic……

I’ve seen men that look like goats, caking themselves in butter-oil and squawking mild profanities as if they were really talking. –

I’ve been down in laymen factories where they are forced to bray for a piece of bread. –

I’ve sung up tragic slopes where air is compressed and my heart is pulled over dead stone. –

I’ve felt sicker than the hunger for fame; stronger than Gideon without a drop of sound in my horn. –

I’ve contorted this soul into so many ugly avenues and kept vigil to learn what is good and righteous for man to know. –

My search has tacked itself to the memory of fools and fiends with dismal eyes, breaking Christ’s commandments at every syllable they spit. –

I’ve never had a taste for grandiose plans, not d’or maisonettes, Spanish tapestry, Persian rugs that drag poor eyes into cruel misgivings; – you can check the almanac if you like – my tastes never went much further than bread crust and water.

My lot has been a stupendous silence of action and purpose, and yet I’ve huckled my way through every cruel rapid bleeding in Bedlam. -

And are you refined poor soul?
Do you hoard secrets that change lives?
Are your tempers polished in a whitewash of uplifted prayer?
Do you roost in self-pity, or roost to console?

– Well here I am, the poison of 25 years slowly dying away. Sobbing, my frustration ignites in the winds, in the trees, by the faint light of a pall moon, – my spirit heaving with complete and total desolation.

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