Psychology

Reasoning with Icarus

IMG_1606

* 

Icarus, mate, come on down from that ledge

Lest a mischievous breeze tip you over the edge

Icarus, mate, you’re a worrying sight

And your winged silhouette is obscuring the light

…

Begone, Doubting Thomas, stop talking to me

I am glittered and feathered and wild and free

The skies sparkle sapphire, the winds are all still

And I’ll do what I wish, and I’ll fly as I will

…

Icarus, dude, you’re just not talking sense

And you’re coming across as unwisely intense

Your delusions of flying are frankly absurd

Mate, don’t get me wrong, I’m just having a word

…

And what would you know about flying with wings

You with yer earthly material things

Go crawling back under yer sensible stone

And leave my ethereal being alone

…

Icarus, mate, we all know you’re odd

Just a little bit Satan, a little bit God

You can call me a stick in the mud or a liar

But Icarus, mate, you are Not the Messiah

…

Fool, look at my wings, and admire my glory

Generations to come will be telling my story

As I shimmer with beauty, all shining, transparent

Oh, see me and weep, I am spirit apparent

…

Icarus, friend, it’s like clearly your call

But isn’t it rather a long way to fall

Come down, smell the flowers in the meadows of Crete

For the grass on this side is as lovely, and sweet

…

You’re bugging me, friend, you’re a bee in my bonnet

Bear your own cross and hang sighing upon it

Put down your bow and desist with your arrows

And go back to flying with pigeons and sparrows

…

Icarus, mate, you’re as high as a kite

It so pains me to see your precarious plight

And unlike the Devil, I’m here to insist

That you turn from the edge, and like Jesus, resist

…

The breeze stirs my wings, all my quills are a quiver

I am flustered with light and electrical shiver

As I fill up my lungs with cold rarified breath

I am all full of grace, and not frightened of death

…

Icarus, mate, don’t do it, don’t do it

Come down from that height and we’ll sit and talk through it

For this lyrical mystical flight you intend

Is madness, just madness, my mythical friend

…

Talk to the wings, for I can’t hear you now

Hazy legions of angels are kissing my brow

No dark lamentation or dubious prayer

Will stop me from drinking the wine of the air

…

So I watched in dismay, as Icarus flew

For a moment he shone like the sun on the dew

I told you, he shouted, triumphant with glee

As the hint of his shadow swam light on the sea

…

There was pain in my heart, and a tear in my eye

For a moment I thought, perhaps he will fly

Then I watched in dismay, as he dropped like a stone

In a flurry of quills, and of wax, and of bone

…

Oh we all die alone, it is said by the wise

All dissolve in the sea, or are took by the skies

But black is the comedy known by the dead

For I died when Icarus fell on my head

*

© Gail Foster 2016

The One

 

He was The One, The One, The One

He was The One, it was true

And it would have been perfect, but for the fact

That he wasn’t just one, he was two

It was just like a threesome, most of the time

There was me, there was Jekyll, and Hyde

Jekyll was honest, and loving, and kind

But Hyde had the devil inside

A turn of a sixpence, a phase of the moon

Imperceptible shifts of the light

And dear Mr Jekyll would turn in to Hyde

Who was darker than graves in the night

I just wanted Jekyll, just Jekyll, you see

But Hyde came as part of the deal

The addition of me, making two in to three

Made a triangle spin like a wheel

It was my fault, all my fault, everything

According to Hyde, in his view

They’d be better without me, Jekyll agreed

So that’s when the three became two

 

Good luck to the pair of you, Jekyll, and Hyde

As you skip, arm in arm, to the sun

Well suited, free, but quite useless for me

For neither of you were The One

 

by Gail

 

 

Too Late For Words

IMG_1608-1

*

Oh, when they were alive we never said

The things we say about them now they’re dead

Too far away now, too far gone to hear

Gone, never to return or reappear

Too late to say how much they meant to us

Just hollow words, and funerals, and fuss

And sorry tears, and memories, and pain

And wishing we could see their face again

That gaze exchanged by eyes when last we met

That lingered a split second, we forget

That precious image, vague, so hard to find

In cupboard corners of unconscious mind

*

Why didn’t we just tell them they were great

Too late today, too late now, all too late

We had that thought that day, we didn’t call

What if we never called that much at all

Or when we did, droned on and on and on

No chance to listen now they’re dead and gone

And our last words, a blessing or a curse?

A dirty joke or elevating verse?

*

And what if it was bad, so very bad

Unreasonably difficult or sad

Too late to shake hands now, forget, forgive

For they have gone and we have stayed to live

To reconcile our difference alone

With icy wind and cold unyielding stone

With questioning, with anger, fear and prayer

And all the time just wishing they were there

*

They change us most, our dearest kith and kin

Lay waste the landscapes that we dwell within

Leave shattered palaces in ruined wake

Leave with that part of us they chose to take

Make waves rise up on ponds in silent glades

Blast particles of light through sunken shades

Part oceans with their leaving, break the sky

Leave fish upon the shore line high and dry

*

And even those we never thought we knew

The ones we thought were simply passing through

However long the number of their days

Do change us, in small subtle little ways

Make dust prints on the table in the hall

Leave crumbs on plates, and scuff marks on the wall

Blow gentle breezes soft through window crack

That whisper ‘I am never coming back’

*

The more we loved the more we miss, the more

We yearn for some strange loophole in the law

Unwilling to concede the battle lost

To pay for love, and ever count the cost

We search in dream, in lonely mountain walk

For one last touch, for one last quiet talk

And briefly, in the corner of our eye

We see them come, and go, and wave goodbye

*

At every funeral we stand and swear

That next time we will say how much we care

Say that we love them, call them on the phone

To let them know that they are not alone

And every time we fail and forget

That well intentioned heartfelt course we set

I loved you, did you know that, tell me true?

Unanswered echoes coming back at you

Dark holes within the soul and endless night

Bright angels lost in distant blinding light

The empty vase, the upturned empty chair

Deep lesions of the heart and songs in air

*

by Gail

The Tale of the Wobbly Bog

IMG_3655-1 - Copy

On the subject of the unwanted water feature down Wobbly Way…

*

 Water, water, everywhere

In rushing rivers down the wall

As loud as grand Niagara’s Fall

In to the Wobbly Bog

Pouring, pouring, endlessly

Insistent flow of running streams

Unwanted runnels carved through dreams

Swelling the Wobbly Bog

Soaking, soaking, soggily

The puddle deep, the muddy ground

‘Tis said there was a postman found

Drowned in the Wobbly Bog

Dropping, dropping, gravity

Bleaching brick with scale of lime

On damp of wall the mark of time

Shadows the Wobbly Bog

Gushing, gushing, noisily

Unbalancing the Feng and Shui

No wind to dry the churning sea

Flooding the Wobbly Bog

Madness, madness, sanity

By white noise of incessant drip

Is sunken like a sodden ship

Wrecked in the Wobbly Bog

Misty, misty, spookily

By moonlight come the boggy sprites

With mischief and their tiny lights

Haunting the Wobbly Bog

Wishing, wishing, hopelessly

That some good knight with tool or sword

From Aster or the Water Board

Might conquer the Wobbly Bog

Watching, watching, grumpily

The paint that never dries; dismay

As Wiltshire waters pour away

In to the Wobbly Bog

*

by Gail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Satire and The Soul

Kevan Manwaring, in his book The Bardic Handbook, suggests that we

satirise ourselves in order to see how it feels…

 

With satire comes responsibility

Thus spake the bard, regarding cosmic law

‘Tis true that thought and act and speech are free

But heed the truth learned by the bards of yore

What goes around and round will soon return

To that dark human place where it began

And pain shall be the lesson he shall learn

Who points his pen in anger at a man

Lest he forget, we none of us shine bright

That are not sullied by some silent shade

And he who seeks another man to slight

May curse the pen that bore the words he made

For what we see in others, we have known

Some simple human neediness or greed

The weakness we perceive is like our own

Who knows a tree that has not seen a seed

So satirise yourself, so spake the bard

Before you dare another man to mock

And turn upon yourself a light as hard

As that with which you wish a man to shock

Unshadow your shortcomings, write them true

Or fall upon your failings like a sword

For this is what you would to others do

And thine own self hast thine own pen ignored

Now weigh the pain you draw like blood from light

With cut of blade, of swift and vicious pen

Look down upon yourself from lofty height

As you would fain look down on other men

What do you see, but merely flesh and fear

A naked frightened soul that cries for love

All sorrow bound and clothed in darkness drear

With eyes up turned in hope to light above

Have pity, spake the bard, for every word

You wield will have the power to wound or heal

Remember what you here have seen and heard

Think twice before you cause a man to feel

The lacerations of your jagged wit

The schadenfreude of your savage ire

Lest you be made to join him in the pit

Lest you be so consumed in that same fire

He snuffed the candle flame, picked up his book

And left the poet, wise from sorrow shown

An unveiled mirror’s face in which to look

At imperfection that was his alone

 

With satire comes responsibility

For what goes forth returns, of that be sure

And you are that which you in others see

The naked frightened soul the poet saw

 

by Gail

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holding Your Nerve

Well, knock me right down with a feather
It’s true that some faith in whatever
And holding one’s nerve under fire
Can result in the things we require
Being sent to us served on a plate
By God, chance or synchronous fate

So, cross fingers or whisper a prayer
Take small practical steps up the stair
Fret ye not and have hope for the best
And watch time take good care of the rest
Who can say what the future will bring
When we wait for fat ladies to sing

by Gail

 

 

Love and The Art of:

Motorcycle Maintenance

 

 

*

Cold and careful hands

Dismantle love’s elements

Methodically

…

The eye detecting

Fragile fractured copper threads

Dispassionately

…

Concentrating fire

Melting metal, soldered wire

Mending circuitry

…

Testing, one, two, three

The current, interrupted

Now set flowing free

…

How beautifully

Cool flux and hot flame restore

Conductivity

…

Love’s analogy

Motorcycle maintenance

Electricity

*

by Gail