PERSPECTIVES

Phillip Pulfrey

for June, with love.

Not the modern novel…

Not the modern novel,Nor manual: each wordHurried passedTo a useful conclusion.Words still, unmoving;To be contemplated,One to another.Sat and conversed with;Tried and testedAgainst different ambience:Light and atmosphere imbuing nuance.Revisit them with memoriesUntil they become familiarLike friendly rock,Worn into comfort.

Words

Caro

My mountain, my lake You are;My sea and my beaches.The far reaches of my beyond,The here of my now,The dream of my forever. You Draw the world together.Meaning you are;My poem, My endeavour.

My World

The perfect landscape;An unexplored continent Perfumed with possibility.The scent of longingCalls me on this warm breezeToward the unknown,Untouched, beautiful, absolute.The infinite possibilityOf the unknown.

Perfume

The infinite possibilityOf the unknown.

To youI would benothing but a faint breeze:a gentle caress,spontaneous.Fleeting as memory.Sensuous,fragrant,perfume on night air;full of mystery,elusive as happiness.Innocentin desire,complete as now.Intangible as love,fleeting;essence preceding existence.

This is not real;I tell myselfAll that I feelIs invented,An unslept bedEmpty, silentSmoothly untroubled By entwined bodiesImprinting historyInto the vulnerable surfaceOf pillows.The catalogue shot: Not turned and tossedIn the nightly puzzleOf separate bodiesNegotiating settlement.

untouched

You nudge me from complacency,Stirring fragments of memoryBefore desire and disappointmentFolded over me.Desire not desiring; an acheFor absolution, forgivenessGiven freely: purityTo wash the crust cakedOver my spontaneity.The too human desireTo return homeAccepted, enfolded;Completed.

perfection

I could die happyIn the corner of your mouth;Enough for one man’s lifeThe tracing of destinyIn the fine lineBetween your severityAnd a smile.Blessed beyond redemption,Pillowed on this fine silk,Ribboned in perfume,Willing sacrificeTo unknowing. )

All pervasiveyou permeate melike heat;Pressing into meSlowing my limbs,Melting hours with desire.Suspended timeDripping from meOne thought fixedObsessively: The inside of your wrist.

Women reproach me;My words,Beautiful They say, butSo disappointing,The man Doesn’t measure;No pleasure in promiseUnfulfilled. You don’tDoAnything.

Poet

Lets face it;An ugly headReared(Or swept into parentheses).Noman seesHis primeval motivation.Less Woman,Revealing red lips,Binding surrenderInto this conjugal conquestAnd secretly feelingThis timeIt’s Love.

Sex

Believe me,Death is no picnic:The Absolute, last Moment and you can’t change anything.

Death

OnceI wasI think, perhapsThus–Full of promise, promisingFuture:Glory perhapsPassing,An instant…LeavingMe, here,HasBeen–

Once Upon a Time…

Colour poised on the wingbeat of time,Immaterial in a shaft of sunlight,Giving substance to the ethereal;Dancing yellow eluding the present,A gentle vibration of approximation,Existing only in improvisation.The measure of lifeEluding your ruler.Real life here is found only,

(The parenthesis of restFinding confession in the elusive.The edge of nothingness)Where sensation surprisesExpectation.

Butterfly

(

Not pinned, our lives,Like butterflies, categorizedIn the trick of fact.But like a dance of gnatsDartingIn and out (of shadow,Light and time.Longing and regret;Wisps of the inarticulateMerging in movementMeaning.Defining the intense reality of evening light:Specific as sensation,Fleeting as now,UngraspableChallenging perception.

Gnats

) q

I tell you,Your life is not worth the least of theseIn your forgetful life unperceived;God’s wisdom does us surroundWhich false prophets attempt to drownWith promises of all the earth.Simple and astute the ruse;In our confused minds to confuseGratified and satisfied –Any protest can be smotheredWith the paraded success of othersThis mechanism of fameHolds us up to shame.

The bird cocks its head at meWinks sideways, and sings for free.The only wisdom is there you see,In its eternal humility.

Little Brown Birds

The Bumblebee refuses to believeIt cannot fly.It will not be argued out of the skyBy the laughter of birds;To itself it murmurs“Gravity is a heaviness in the heart of man;What I amNeeds no explanation,Language brings limitation.All debate and descriptionIs but a circumscription.That cannot contain the universe”.

The humble bee;This anomaly,Catches a breath of breeze,Buzzes happilyAnd Flies High,God’s lesson for allWho wish to see…

Bumblebee

Time, miserable with cold,Freezing even memory.Despairing days,Endured blanknessNose-numbing whitenessMasks colour and scent.An eventless landscapeWaiting,Empty of thought.Watching, the hareForgets meaning,Until a melting tearRolls off the snowRedeeming the captured scent,A distillation of hope.Sniffing the air,The nostrils quiver,An electric shiverFrom nose to tailAnd hope springsWith improbable daisies.

The Hare

Improbable Daisies

“In 1500, Filippo Brunelleschi Invents Perspective”

“Yes; I have heard of this alchemy”;He spat, ground the pigment with derision,“This new–fangled invention;Geometry of optics and polished lensesThat cost a year’s wages:And to what intention?Theatrical illusion; a showster’s trick,Sensationalism for the rich:That one they call Big Tom – Flat as my hand the wall,They say you would swearThe room was real!The work of the Devil,To trace the hand of God!And to what end I ask?Will it help me paint an angel’s wing?My God, He swore;Some poxy whore with a pretty face;Model for The Virgin’s face!Is this a taste of the Humanist?Noble man! Full of crap and pissAnd the stink of decay I say:Leave him in the bawdy house.Let him come here to wash his sinMy work is to inspire devotion:Uplift the soul in meditation.I need no reproduction –

Perspectives

Why reproduce Reality?Artifice, pale shadow: A narrowing of visionTo one, unmoving, point of viewYou will see, Man will soon believeIt is he, not God, that rules the universe!His arrogant nature is that perverse.Thank God I’m old, my days are few: ‘Old fashioned’, they say,There is nothing I can do –No one will pay me now.Perhaps my last work this –An Annunciation, a favourite theme;Good news: the gift of God,Salvation.If you pay attention;The Lily: note the grace of line:A symbolism to transcendThe here and now: Embodiment of the divineSee the echo in her robe,The modest gesture of her hand.Thus we understand her grace.God’s vessel; the chosen one –Three florins an ounce, that blue;A pure translucent beauty,The embodiment of purity.

So, you see, beyond appearance here,I seek the deep significanceThe moment brings: an aid to prayerAnd to meditation, I should like to think.Modest contribution to a troubled soulThat seeks salvation.Not a sad reproduction of what the eyeCan see any day outside.It’s but fashion – table talkFor Medici dinners.This newness sews dissatisfactionAll around the guilds.It is the skills past down that buildTradition; the glory of the state.No, Please! Do not leave:I perceive an interest in my work:I saw at once a discerning eye –If I may say, a connoisseur –Do not defer to trend:The tariff need not be high,An arrangement could be made –My needs are few with age: A little wine, some cheese and bread.Six months would do, I am not slow.At your behest, I assure you,Nothing but my best…No, please, oh sir, don’t go…”

It seems God smiles

I learn more about GodFrom weeds than from roses;Resilience springingThrough the smallest chink of hopeIn the absolute of concrete.Small seeds secretedUnder man’s designings;Roads and city plans,The humourless utopiasOf arid dreams.It seems God smiles:A head of goldSo delicate yet strength enoughTo bring temples to their kneesIn time.What is left of GreeceIs the work of weeds:A humble persistenceOf unobserved beautyThe force of life enduringThe follies of men.

Weeds

Blue –Bird skies,Cries Punctuate eternity.(In parenthesis,Waves breath)The in-and-out of timeAnd IExist.

Blue

Thin line:A porous membrane, capable of tears,Visioning the worldThrough emotion, memory, desire, or time.A flux of temperatureSends me spinningInwards, close to death:Faced with myselfAnd the frail flame of GodWe, reticent, kept aliveOr extinguished in neglectWhile beyond,Silver flickered by windTowards the transparencyof Horizons,The finest nuance of differencePromisingA different futureThe lifting of limitations.

Horizons (fever)

memory

emotion

desire

time

The wind sculpts the seaIts form and its motion;The flick of a deft handWeaving light into the ocean,Urging each waveTo a crashing culmination.Spray leaps to the airIn spontaneous elation:A moment is still,In vibrant expectation;Fuses with lightIn transubstantiation.Overhead the skyBathes in the seaConfusing the horizon;Translucence; Transparency:Separation and fusion.Light, sea and airIn continual movementRefusing reductionTo human dimension.

Windwashed on this rockOn the windswept sea,This Presence embraces me;I become Ocean.

Ocean

Each object, pinned with light;Separating into lucidity.Pure, graspable sensation Wind-cleared airSurfed by seagulls;Flecks of foam against the sky.“Now”, they cry. “Now”And momentarily stop timeSuspended on the heat.“Forever”,Murmurs the surfShaving rocks imperceptibly,Beaching minds.Erasing thoughts like footprints,Tossing days Like pebbles on the beach.

Mediterranean

Beeching minds

What can I tell the wind?What can I show the sea?Does this rock even register me?

We outshine the stars,We outrun the sun,Oh,So proud of what we have done;We moved the rock to have more fun!

We choked the wind,We drowned the sea.Didn’t leave much for those after me –

Don’t fly the wind,Don’t float the sea,Don’t hear the rock singPatiently …

The Song of the Rock

Thinking of the futureBought a computer:No doubt about it,Can’t live without it.Organize my dayOn my P.A.Never failTo check my email.Sorry, I’m late:Got to keep up to date.It changes so fast:I’m always living in the

past.

Now

Smile now,Breathe easy:It is time to leave.

Step out now,Shed this skin of borrowed time,Go lightly toward the sublime:Fear not the parting.

Laugh out loud now,Let go this partiality:This separation,This finality.Enjoy the joke:The striving mindCannot find the absolute.

Delight now,In all you livedGod’s gift,Blessed in your sight –Unique.

Joan’s Song

Leave behind now,Your creation:This separate visionBehind your eyes.A cumulated world,Mirrored experience –Beautiful and transient.

Accept now.Go now. Bridge the span:Heal the riftBetween God and man.

Let go now,The pain, the weight:Life is consummate.

So carapaciousBitter rock in forgotten depthsTwo eyes unfocused hint despairAvoid contact from their lair:Cold calculation of want,Not need, feed habitDrink divides time,Fulfils and offersTreacherous consolation.Foolish, not fond,This man; not even old.Like skin, lifeShould grow thin,Porous and transparent:Permeable;Less separate from the universe.So spirit more easy breathes,Shedding place and timeUntil, grown dry and fine,This husk, now unheeded,Is left behind.Unneeded.

Skin

Not like this:Closed down, starved of laughter,The empty halls echoingTheir silence. The play of dustSuspended in angled lightAvoiding memory –Locking withinA trapped shadowOf my father.

irrevocable

No preparation for this:Flayed,Raw life,Truth inescapable:You are, have been,This –

Intransigent decision,Death.Unmoved by excuses.I, now, would…But am able no longer:See yourselfFor what you are –Fatherless,PowerlessManBefore what passesBeyond Understanding.

Passed On

It will be beautiful, even in its ending,The Earth.Even as God’s son, no amount of mockingCould demean. Neither can our petty scars,Our mean and sullen purpose, touch such dignity,Even in final destruction.

Gaia

Secreting existenceOn the surface of eternity

All passes but passage:The eternal returning.Our nature - (we were granted this)The intense flowering Of a moment’s acuitySecreting existenceOn the surface of eternity.

“It Will Pass”

O R I G I N A L S

© Phillip Pulfrey 2006

an originals production