Monday, 17 September 2012

The smear



Screaming at the world on the inside
Sitting quietly in the corner on the outside.
Nobody knew
And
Nobody
Knew
The quietness of his life
Was
The smear of his pain
Across the bandages he wore
To hold together
To
Hold
Together
This thing he called a life.

Monday, 3 September 2012

The Unhappy Condition

Every man is for himself, and with his death everything is dead for him.
Yet each assumes he is worthy to be loved by others.
Contrary to order, the world tends towards itself.
They want to be great and cannot see that they are small.
The further evil of deliberate self-delusion.
To be so full of faults yet take every precaution to hide them from themselves and others.
Yet knowing their faults are worthy of contempt. 
They react in the most unjust and criminal passion.
Their deadly hatred for the truth turned outward.
They cannot eliminate this truth in themselves. Not being able to destroy it in themselves they destroy each other.
And so they come to an end in themselves and only the faults remain. 
- B. Wheatley



Most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Blaise Pascal's book The Mind on Fire.




Sunday, 2 September 2012

Stride



Some ploughed their own furrow in the sea.
While others waged a war against the pilgrimage and lost.
For something so fundamental can’t be rooted out.

The compulsion to walk, to flock, to sail.
Barefoot on snowy roads, green hills, sand and stone,
On the path of the gulls.

Not everyone finds what he is looking for,
But everyone finds something that he didn’t have before.

They battled their way,
Through hardship unimaginable,
And found what they needed.

Doing something with what they had,
Muscle likes being worked.

Arriving they drew a boat and named it Domine ivimus,
Lord, we came.

- B. Wheatley
Most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Charles Foster's book The Sacred Journey.

Saturday, 1 September 2012

In an Outrageous Country



I cannot conceal from myself,
Can scarcely master,
The anxiety which grips me.
It confronts me,

In vain have I tried,
With calculated carelessness,
Of the depraved designing mind.

I approach in thought,
Unlawful paths,
Seeing the most fantastic figures,
Not easily taken back.

How, then can we explain,
The fruit of the journey.
Something outrageous,
In misdirecting a traveller.

The lost traveller,
Consoled by the change of country
In every change, new hope of a way out. 
- B. Wheatley
    
Most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Soren Kierkegaard’s book The Seducers Diary.

Exiles

Grieving its loss and struggling with humiliation,
I am happy to see the end.
Increasing marginalisation,
The thing that will wake us.
To the marvellous,
To the danger,
To the confronting.

We are on foreign soil,
It is time to live as exiles.
To tell our stories,
And to sing our songs.
We must make our promises,
And must live like we believe.

For too long have we kept silent,
But now,
We cry,
We gasp,
We pant,
And something new is birthed.
- B. Wheatley

If I'm truthful most of the poetry I write is "found", in random words or the pages of a book or notes in a meeting, this poem was found in Chapter 1 of Michael Frosts book Exiles.