Dominic Palmer-Brown
My Inner Garden
I’m guarding
my inner garden
to protect it
and perfect it
Some tumble weed
or strangle weed
or alien seed
might be toxic
like a lake of plastic
So I won’t stop guarding
my inner garden
at dawn,
in the morn
and in the sunlit afternoon
Plants sprouting,
fronds flaunting,
hollyhocks towering,
gnarled old bushes
snarling
Every resident of the garden
determined to have its say
before it fades away
in the mud of dismay
like a soldier in a trench
one hundred years ago
May some connive
to peacefully survive
in a kinder garden
wise and wide eyed, gazing,
technicoloured and amazing
listening acutely
with each petal twitching
in the breeze of chat
that’s snitching and snatching
through the foliage
that I’m guarding,
in my inner garden
Must get out there,
do the weeding
The flower bed is pleading
A million hearts are bleeding
but life goes on,
the plants need feeding
or pruning
Those noisy parakeets need tuning
Must get out there
do the weeding
A spit of rain
a fist of seeding,
the climate goes on changing
inside us and beyond us,
within or without us.
Two Rivers City of light and melancholy shade. Moon city, Sun city, which city are you? Are we confused by two rivers? Are you my bridge over doubled waters from Left Bank to South Bank and back again? Are we two sides of the same rivertimeflow? Are you the Paris in me. Am I the London in you? O Paris Paris. Home of the idea of the idea of the idea of the idea whose gargoyles weep for the philosophy of lost generations. City of abstract implications and concrete, of victory-defeat; dystopia, occupation and utopia, of The Last Metro. Come let us speak from the heart and the head at the same time to make twice as much sense, convert pound-pence to euro-cents. Go with the flow that the river invents. Which river? Let time go fast or slow. Hydrofoil, speed boat, narrow boat in tow. City whose zen heart beat is the chime of Notre Big Ben. If time is up who called it? Stephen Hawking said you cannot be before it. Predictions of its end are exaggerated, but never outdated. Apparently, Time began with the split of nothing into two perfect halves of something and will end when the the two halves meet again Zen zen zen zen zen zen then Time will never have existed. In the meantime we may have the urge to meander and curve, to dodge the issue as we swerve, to hold our nerve, to return life's dodgy serve, to preserve what cannot be preserved, observe what cannot be observed; phantoms the mind has made in cities of light and melancholy shade; as if we knew what anything meant, or simply be content to let time's river invent the next twist and turn, to let our spirits burn as you do in me and I do in you. So, hold my hand over doubled waters from Left Bank to South Bank. I am the London in you. You are the Paris in me.
dominicpalmer@hotmail.co.uk
Unreel Why should we allow ourselves to feel, To unreel, if it is unreal, Like a spool When as a rule The line is a tool To trick or fool The observer to go further Into themselves or their lover, To uncover, To dive in to the flesh within, To cross the line that is so thin Between calm and passion, To wear our inner selves like fashion; Because to unshield Is to Egon Schiele, To be as naked as we feel. https://www.instagram.com/p/Bg8_reDBjUa/?igshid=1p2eu660fkiga The little melancholias are swimming and fooling in a pool in the park in the dark, dazzled by moonlight under the first star to appear that night, lost and alone in the depths of space, and under that star one little melancholia refuses an embrace or to place sadness in his rightful place. Another melancholia is overwhelmed by obscure memories that remain impossible to explain. The sweetest melancholia is a melody, played enigmatically. The most solemn melancholia hides in the begonia. There are many other little melancholias in the park café…. a half done crossword a burnt out cigarette a lonesome cafe table a deserted coffee cup ignored by the waiter who is in a melancholy mood, as a lost soul reads the menu's faded litany of food, tarnished by the hands of time, and a melancholic sun is setting resolutely in the sad dunes. The moon herself, indistinct in a mist, is of course a melancholic disc spinning on an planetary turntable where the sound is disabled. All the little melancholias, dripping wet, gaze upon the night's face, speckled with stars and on a distant dusty place where an interstellar rat has run its race and left in disgrace, leaving no trace except for the star-glow and the deep thoughts of space. Until dawn appears and then all the little melancholias melt away like fears in a haze of forgetfulness. Noelism Hey ho Way to go Play the game Watch that show Xmas come Christmas go Feed the wolf Stub your toe Happy times In the snow Say you love it Say you know All the answers Let it flow. Happy tree Brighten up reality Brew that Christmas tea That tastes like an oily sea Spread this year’s honey from the bee Look into the advent calendar To see what you might see. Let’s dress to kill Like perfect needles on a tree Forever falling on the carpet of eternity Be dizzy Be fizzy Be hazy Be lazy Be sensible Be crazy Be flashy like a Christmas light Be all there then out of sight Be confident then full of fright Be everything at once on Christmas Night Let’s celebrate our human rights. Hey ho Way to go Play the game Watch that show Xmas come Christmas go Feed the wolf Stub your toe Happy times In the snow Say you love it Say you know All the answers Let it flow. Symbols and Skies What do we symbolise, to the gargantuan skies that fill our eyes? Our garments may be cloaks of despair, or wings to the air. I’m going to wear my favourite t-shirt today. When I wear it, everything is okay. Your questioning smile lingers for a while. What is the meaning of the silk or the satin we are wrapped in or strapped in? When you swing by in that red dress the world swirls around you in a total mess. The priest’s ear buzzes with the need to confess. The swish of you dress soothes the earth’s distress. A man on a balcony quivers in his vest and turns to see his naked guest, wondering, what happened to her slippers. Did she give them the slip? I’m going to wear my favourite t-shirt today. When I wear it, everything is okay. This shirt it has some kind of understanding, or so it seemed when I saw you on the landing. You were wearing your favourite t-shirt, and not much else. We went into the garden to drink our cups of tea. The sunlight played a melody on the table top in front of me. We were startled by the buzzing of the bee. I saw the moon reflected in your spoon, by the light of the midday sun. Then we bounced so high on the trampoline, we went under the skirt of the sky, & could see into the neighbour’s attic room, where they keep all their secrets and play their favourite tunes, by the light of the moon. If you wear your favourite garment today - guaranteed, everything will be okay. For all the symbols are aligned, in the stars and in our minds.
copyright: Dominic Palmer-Brown
