Friday, 17 August 2012

Life is a rehearsal pome for the day

The cyclops has a single mind
A judge without a jury
It makes him singularly kind
Takes two to make blind fury

I saw upon that island hill
A curious reversal
For where speak people in two minds
All life is a rehearsal

The actor plays learned lines laid low
Committed to the heart
And then upon the later stage
Becomes the later part

Director prompter future past
To each a certain share
As length and breadth times nature cast
Who owns the public square

I wonder to my Self inside
Then play by rote the role
And hear resound the feedback loop
Scream consciousness my soul


  1. Ah! There is a satisfying fullness, a feeling of weight and substance, when you get to the end of this poem that tells you it contains something. As opposed to a deepity which leaves you with a hollow, empty feeling.

    Probably three weetabix-worth in this one ...

  2. My unseen companion...

    Author to my agonised actor, he says suddenly,
    "Here. Here is where you tread next. Just here."
    "But, of course."
    "And here is what you must say."

    Ungraciously, I take my part, and still fail to see

    That it comes from beyond that event horizon,
    Towards which I daily dismiss all the stuff of my life, the good and the bad,
    And from whence is returned, new-formed, its next installment.

    He, my dark heart, unfathomable

    And I, self-styled, actor,
    We, step precisely and with perfect timing,
    Through the fleeting, endless entrance to our life.

    And there we are. It is his will be done,

    Decided by things I have no conception of, but,

    But, if we are to move deftly across the world’s stage

    Will needs to see my rehearsals, feel my agonising, to sweeten his script.