Eudaimonia

My name is Oli. I try to write. My Primary Blog

[evidently-not]

England Has Died

England has died, and I am not at home. England has died, and she is not alone. Watch her, schism’d land, Watch her while she burns. England has died, and I may not return.

[evidently-not]

Ténèbres

Et quand vous éteignez les lumières,

Est-ce que vous vous endormez ?

[evidently-not]

Small Things

I am but little in a world too big, So large as to intimidate my being, And grand so as to question why I’m here At all. We are not silenced in a world too cruel, So violent and so hateful of them all, Those others: mothers, brothers, lovers, Who wish For nothing but their peaceful habitation In a world too large to allow the wishes Of those too small to fight for them (As I would fight for you). In the quiet absence of an essence, The heavy swelling of a storm So forceful as to crush the movements of My chest - Of love (for you), of hope (for us), of peace For us all - Will not suffice to stop the way the small things call; It’s the small things that we’re fighting for.

[evidently-not]

Eve

Warmth cascades

On sorry, sodden skin;

Accompanied by electric hum,

Misplaced hairs

Cling to shower walls

As I would cling to lies:

Barely covering

Silent cries for help.

Slithering,

They eke a journey of 2D planes;

Volition, bleak in outlook,

Moves absently a finger

To trace a path toward the edge:

Unguided and disdained,

But clinging all the same

To the unfortunate tile it happened upon.

Crying out,

Head between knees;

Water splitting skin on shoulders,

Coldness rising from beneath,

Misplaced youth and

Misjudged means:

Life will flood as water and blood,

Rising 'round your feet.

[evidently-not]

Spatial (reprise)

People are made of places,

As stars are made of empty space;

         It doesn’t really show,

But what you are is where you came from,

And pipe dreams and the papers which

         You read them on,

         Or wrote them on,

And the places it all happened in.

And people are bright, shiny things,

With so much creation and life that

         It doesn’t really show,

That their words cite their cities,

That their hopes come from home,

         Their tempers from travels,

         Their love from long days,

         Their boundaries from beyond

Recognition of their origin.

Your love is all in a location –

Those memories are made of mirrors,

         Reflecting sunsets on shorelines

         That never really met,

And the colour of flowers in

Each other’s eyes,

         Which you don’t have to see again;

         You can leave it all behind,

Safe in the place where you made it,

Safe in the place where you left it.

We’re all but times gone,

But words and hopes and tempers and love,

         Mis-memories and tall tales

All wrapped up in soft lights from views

Perhaps we didn’t even see,

         All but borders on ourselves

         And on the places where we found ourselves –

One of many selves, in one of many places.

The world is all so spatial,

And our awareness of it thin…

             And it doesn’t really show,

That we place each self that we have known

Inside a box it will call home;

             Love in Paris,

             Peace in Rome;

Neither one so much themselves to you

As that part of you they hold in them.

People are all made of places,

And places made of empty space;

What you are is where you came from,

And what you do is leave yourself in them —

The places it all happened in.

[evidently-not]

Spatial

People are made of places, As stars are made of empty space;           It doesn't really show But what you are is where you came from, And pipe dreams and papers           You read from,           Or wrote on, And the places it all happened in.

For love is all in a location, And memories are made of mirrors           Reflecting sunsets on shorelines And the colour of flowers in Each other's eyes           Which you don't have to see again;           You can leave it all behind, Safe in the place where you left it.

And people are bright, shiny things, With so much creation and life that           It doesn't really show, That their words cite their cities, That their hopes come from home,           Their tempers from travels, We're all but times gone.

[evidently-not]

(petrichor)

My book’s blown open;

Winds move seasons through to rain;

Your folio folds.

[evidently-not]

Ode, Slowly

Goodbye, sun, Your song is done, Although you have Another one.

Hello, moon, The night is new, The stage is yours Some moments few.

Twinkle, stars, You've travelled far, And though we're friends We're worlds apart.

Goodnight world, I think you heard, I'm tired of hearing Morning birds.

[evidently-not]

Are you the same?

“What are you?”

(Refined)

A human being or a person,

Biological, psychological,

If this is the sort of person he was,

If we found distinct identity,

In an unchanging essence which persisted

Like the soul,

Whilst allowing for change,

Is it the same?

To illustrate a thought,

The soul, and consciousness?

He would be that

Bodily identity:

With an argument,

Digits, and limbs.

Sameness is memory.

Even we are

(As in all, he argues,)

The same.

Something which perceives itself as itself

Is a difficulty –

Suppose memory falls foul.

A brave child,

In later life,

May remember the flogging

– If indeed he is the same.

These have no identity:

Memories,

Experience,

You.

I will bypass criticism

To individuals

Who were asleep.

Beliefs persist unconsciously.

I am asleep.

Overlapping chains encompass me,

It is the only way.

I follow his arguments

Toward being the same

As another.

All of my

– my mind –

Changes over time.

I am the same.

[evidently-not]

Roots

My roots go deep into this earth,

Where joy and sorrow saw me grow,

But I forever looked to leave

These summer suns and winter snows.

[evidently-not]

[evidently-not]

Bliss is this

The way in which your fingers intertwine with the strands of your hair;

The shimmering, calming depth of the green of your irises;

The ever-so-slightly pouting, ever-so-gently parting, of your lips;

The cool gaze full of warmth,

        As you watch me as we kiss;

The way in which your hair goes up and down and up again

In messy, carefree buns;

The scented skin on your neck, wet with planted kisses;

The softness of your apple-scented hair as it falls across our faces

The light that music brings to you;

That art brings to you;

That poetry brings to you;

          This -- the light which you bring to my life.

                The beauty which your joyous gaze may find in

                All the minutiae of the world,

                And all the beauty which all the world will find in you.

This is bliss (and bliss with you):

        In an early winter twilight we wear knitwear for the cold

        And we sit beneath the lamplight telling stories of our worlds;

        You're toying, twisting strands of hair (it's capturing my heart),

        Our veins are pumping side by side:

                    Where you stop, I start.

[evidently-not]

Winter: Three

Robin redbreast sat so still,

Frozen on my window's sill,

As though by chance it came to pass

The winter world was turned to glass.

And as I watched it not once stirred,

That pretty little garden bird,

So much at peace I might have said

The garden or the bird were dead.

[evidently-not]

Ad Infinitum.

Without so much as

Cursory glances,

           Over our shoulders,

           At the blood on your hands,

You intend for us to march,

Through ceaseless suffering

And to an insatiable end:

           We march to a song we ignore.

                         “The cracks still show, the cracks still show,”

                       Ad Infinitum.

  You intend to lead me

By my mouth and hand;

           The blind would lead the blind:

           You do not march, you stumble.

For though you lead,

You’re looking back,

Into my eyes, with hope:

           You march to a song you don’t hear.

                         “The cracks still show, the cracks still show,”

                       Ad Infinitum.

  And though I follow

I do not look forward.

           I am stuck on a moment,

           A cold, last beat of my heart,

Which is no longer broken,

But a splintered reflection

On the fragility of faith:

           It stabs at my lungs, but we march.

                         “The cracks still show, the cracks still show,”

                       Ad Infinitum.

[evidently-not]

Calm

I find comfort in

Dreams; still-water scenes of a

Familiar voice.

[evidently-not]

Amsterdam

We were staying in some foreign town, When last we had a fight, And cities have no sympathy For lovers late at night.

[evidently-not]

You Left (far from my best)

A folder full of photographs

From holidays we’ve shared;

A digi-store of memories,

But a bedroom wall that’s bare.

A mindset full of enemies

From parting words you cried;

A sleepless night, some calls for help,

But silence through the night.

A heart all full of heaviness

From dwelling on the past;

A multitude of happy thoughts,

But sad thoughts come in last.

I’m sorry for the misery,

The heartache and upset;

I’m sorry I was not enough,

But I was not my best.

A folder full of photographs

And loving words now past,

A sleepless night, no calls for help;

The sad thoughts come in last.