Day 27 – a love poem (we haven’t had one for a while)

Just whipped this bad boy off. Today is gonna be crazy busy, so thought I should get a poem out the way, in case I run out of time later. I like love poems. Now if only I could find topics from today, instead of dredging them out of the past.

*****

night breathing

after telling each other our stories
till it was too late for me
to stop myself tumbling
you said: let’s lie beneath the stars
of course, how could i say no

you lay a blanket on the lawn

your face so fierce, so beautiful
with skin burnt by the sun
i was out in the middle of somewhere
not knowing where
not wanting to come back

i forgot to exhale

even curled up against you
i was cold but could not move
when the rain became too heavy
to endure we went inside
& lay on your bed, still talking

i am inundated

i wish to stay lost
in this place forever
want you to kiss me
but you don’t know that
or if you do, you don’t care

to love is to breathe

instead
i put your breath in my pocket
to keep for another day
because i could tell
— you were already elsewhere

*****

life_breath__by_m0thyyku

Day 14 – poem about weight

 

helix nebula

NaPoWriMo should cycle through the months of the year, because repeated participation throws up the same zeitgesty events annually. Today, a topic that continues to intrigue me.

14 sorrows

i.
all that remains
the kiss complete
sentence cast

ii.
weight is not great
merely wood, would
the rest weighed less

iii.
stumble, fall
twice more for
dramatic effect

iv.
love i’ve denied
before me where
others share, i’ve hid

v.
brother shoulders
compelled to bear
what he’d gladly choose

vi.
a cool cloth
give her my face
& my thanks

vii.
halfway to skulls
stagger again, stumble
tumble into desert dust

viii.
women weep
barren wombs, dry breasts
call mountains to crumble

ix.
fall
a third time
at last, almost done

x.
stolen clothes
brigands barter
naked before the gods

xi.
metal bites
wood absorbs blood
more than flesh hangs

xii.
enough
call for poison
the sleep of death

xiii.
amid weeping, relief
the weight off
down, done

xiv.
lie, in darkness
hopefully, finally
some peace

April 4 – Day Four: ruminations on passion (& an “easter egg”)

Today I saw a friend perform in a musical version of Christ’s Passion.  It was an amateur production, with all the accompanying issues.  (As an actor he makes a great poet: I only hope he’s not upset by today’s offering…)  It was the second time I’ve seen it.  He is my friend & I want to support him, even if I don’t share his convictions.  But the darkness of the theatre, & the ample moments of downtime, allowed for many chances to reflect, to think, to meditate, to nap.)  

& I chose to think about perhaps my favourite disciple — after Thomas, who I rightly slag off in today’s poem — the one I believe has been most maligned, misunderstood, & misportrayed.  That is of course, the Kissing Disciple, Judas.  

Sadly I feel this is my least successful effort of the month to date.  But the idea of NaPoWriMo is to challenge oneself & create work one might not normally attempt.  Maybe it’ll look better in a week or two, with some distance behind it.

Your “easter egg” is not one you have to search too hard for – it’s just at the bottom of this post … as a second bonus poem.  (Does this give me a credit for tomorrow?)

 

Two Versions of The Cross

 

1.

The Disciple Whom Jesus Loved

“It were better for him never to have been born”

the thing most Christians miss is Judas had the hardest job
they lavish love on that snivelling denier, Peter so-called Rock
or poor Thomas & his doubts (understandable, but inexcusable)
leaving the red-haired BFF to swing forever weighted by silver.

it’s easy to paint Jesus White & Judas Black, crudely simplifying
perhaps the most complex decision ever made by man: betray
or believe in the impossible — in return from death. who among
us can act correctly not knowing the consequences of choice?

the argument: Peter didn’t know the plan, but what if Judas
did — if the motivation was to accomplish Christ’s mission
then Judas is the catalyst for the event which (allegedly) saves
humanity — by sacrificing the man that clothed eternal life.

the truth then, or at least this one possible version of it
is your, my, our salvation (real, wishful or delusional)
is built upon one man’s not actually a betrayal. a man
who may, have been the truest bravest disciple of all

 

*****

 

Copy_of_el_beso_de_Judas

Image:  Copy_of_el_beso_de_Judas

 

2.

A Review in Free Verse of a Musical Version of Christ’s Passion

From a practitioner’s perspective, it was hard to appreciate:

The multiple missed lighting spots.
Stilted movements. Stilted frozen tableaus
Strange forced perspective flats of the room
where the last (Escher-esque) supper was held.
Repeated use of downstage hands to mask faces
wildly gesticulating arms & finger pointing
as the only way to communicate emotion.
Stepping forward to deliver a line,
then returning with a snap to their ranks.
The pristinely clean costume shop clothes
(Pilate’s crushed velvet robes were a cack).
The perfectly timed too quick sound cues
(the impatient cock had already crowed
before Peter had denied three times).
Corny dialogue, poorly delivered.
Corny lyrics, not poorly delivered
surprisingly sang with a strange naive beauty
by far the most emotive element of the show.
Over-produced synthesiser-rich faux-pop score
Although lines like: He’s no messiah. He’s a lunatic, a liar &
Jesus remember me when you come (come) ((come)) into your kingdom
are memorable for the wrong reasons.
Thankfully though Mary Mag was a hottie
(as she should be), although some colour blind
casting might have helped. Poor Asian Judas
& Asian Pilate opposite a dull whitebread Aryan Jesus
who he seemed to spend almost as long
up on the cross as he did 2000 years ago.

One can’t fault the cast’s earnestness,
nor their conviction, nor even their faith
none of which I share. All seemed pleased
& the audience full of school children bussed in
from religious schools, all seemed impressed.

However,
the thing that sticks with me the most:
is the primary school boy who said in a whisper
to his mate: his heart’s still beating

 

Tableau

 

Wrestling in Front of Escher’s Supper Room.   image: moi