The outermost edge of things

We took the No.12 to some place
then the 14
somewhere west
of there

this deep in the flowery grass

we gave up waiting
for the No.5
and took the 23

the crickety mound where the season sings

having missed the No.3
which was early
we managed to catch
the 15
which was late
and took us as far as

one green island, one gas tank, graffitied

that most accustomed of places:
the outermost edge
of things.

~ “Romantic Voyage” by Gregory O’Brien

Be here now

Don’t let your mind get weary and confused
Your will be still, don’t try
Don’t let your heart get heavy child
Inside you there’s a strength that lies

Don’t let your soul get lonely child
It’s only time, it will go by
Don’t look for love in faces, places
It’s in you, that’s where you’ll find kindness

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

Don’t lose your faith in me
And I will try not to lose faith in you
Don’t put your trust in walls
‘Cause walls will only crush you when they fall

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

~ Ray Lamontagne

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it—–

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?——-

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ——
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—-

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

~ Sylvia Plath

In this light and on this evening

I swear to God, I heard the Earth inhale,
moments before it spat its rain down on me.
I swear to God, in this light and on this evening,
London’s become, the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.

~ Editors

In my secret life

I saw you this morning.
You were moving so fast.
Can’t seem to loosen my grip
On the past.
And I miss you so much.
There’s no one in sight.
And we’re still making love
In My Secret Life.

I smile when I’m angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I’d die for the truth
In My Secret Life.

I bite my lip.
I buy what I’m told:
From the latest hit,
To the wisdom of old.
But I’m always alone.
And my heart is like ice.
And it’s crowded and cold
In My Secret Life.

~ Leonard Cohen

For my companions

 

Mustafah Abdulaziz with MJR in Perpignan for Visa pour L'image 2009

 

Perpignan, France – Late night in the south of France

I had an important conversation tonight. It came as a reminder of many things. An anchor, even. 

Simply, it was about people… and heart. Conducting your actions with truth and honour, doing justice to your companions and having the clarity to look people in the eye and communicate compassion, loyalty, sincerity, strength and being able to show them the importance of who they are. 

To hold them up to the light and show them the beautiful transparency that they are capable of when they aren’t afraid to truly see the nature of their heart. To recognise the family of your wider brethren of friends and strangers. To be happy for the successes of the ones who hurt you, to understand that people come before business and that to love is to understand. To live up to your name.

Mine means “To feel the music of the raging river” – All the beauty, poetry and soul of the thunderous and winding river that sweeps us along in life and humanity.

Truth and Honour. All else is false.

L’Ile

Barcelona, Spain – Every man, an island

“Each human being,” he read out loud, “lives in both a community and a state of loneliness and tension, confronted by strangers. The gap of uniqueness is too wide to be bridged. It is not a gap, it is an abyss. Two people glancing at the same object continue to lead isolated, closed-in existences. We remain strangers to each other.”

This was sad, dense, a little arcane, but also true. No matter how intimate people yearn to be with one another, there is very little lasting communion. Divorce rates are only the bluntest example. We seek closeness, but remain apart. We don’t really understand one another. We perceive someone else, even when we love them, only by our imaginings.

The truth is that we live as we dream – alone.

- excerpt taken from “Bridging the abyss – if only briefly” by Elissa Ely
International Herald Tribune
Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Sentient

Copenhagen, Denmark – Awake in the small hours.

Awake at four
with the old brain beating
its fast tattoo -
I want, I want -
I think of love,
of the hot scramble
of limbs in darkness;

of the mind
pulsing its secrets
in metaphor;
of synapses firing
need, longing, love;
of the body
with its midnight hungers;

of the mind
caught between dream and waking;
wondering what it is,
self-creating always;

of God,
whatever she is
asking the questions;
Who are you anyway,
and how did you get here,
and what is the distance
between two stars,
between two brain cells,
between two lovers?

Here in the rosy
pink-ringed dark
all the birds
are sentient in their own way
as we -
on the verge
of wakefulness
and song.

~ Erica Jong

Fly as you might

 

 
I am here but to give you my best
Stand by your side while you rest
’cause you’re my girl, ’cause you’re my girl

I will provide for you Bess
I’ve always liked you the best
Fly as you might, Fly as you might

I will support you through this
I’ll hold your hand while you rest
’cause you’re my girl, ’cause you’re my girl

I think my deeds will attest
I’ve always liked you the best
Fly as you might, Fly as you might

~ Julian Plenti

Wearing masks

 

I wanted to ask how much I could reveal about myself, whether my whole life was public property… dressed up for public consumption. Does this make me an exhibitionist? Is nothing sacred?

I walk right into the lives of strangers and ask that they bare all, the more stripped down, the better. Show me everything that you have, warts and all. Don’t be afraid because this is life, this is truth and we are all chained to it. There is nothing to hide.

So where does that leave me? Hiding behind the lens? To show or not to show. To spin illusions or give you, the viewer, the truth. The honesty of broken down relationships, shameful aftermaths, lust, darkness in conjunction with the light.

And if I do walk down this path, what of my friends?

Perhaps they will take to wearing masks.