BY CANDLE LIGHT ON A SUB-ZERO WINTER'S NIGHT

I awake out of terribly real dreams,

drowning

in a sea of loneliness

where memories are ghosts

and God takes on such a fearsome aspect that He is afraid of Himself.

Being becomes panic and I am alone in my self-made

20th Century dungeon,

this wintry, northern, carbon-monoxide night of cold madness

in our civilized nirvana.

After Eden we scream to run free

-such winedrunk anarchy!-

to escape our self-imposed shackles

which we accepted like beasts of burden,

destined to end our servile days without ever questioning.

I stagger in the haunted Hereness

bang on the walls of the cell I made

through cleverness and knowledge:

"Is this what everything amounts to

in Final Sum Totality, is this what it's about, God?"

But God does not answer and the Northern Dawn is unspeaking.

"O sub-zero dawn, why don't you speak?"

I am its unwilling prisoner

and the night, not satisfied with mastery

of fleshly dimensions, hints at monopolizing my soul;

those softer memories, so elusive,

its frozen nature demands a negation of life.

Here I am then, a sleepless wreck

trying to disown my muttering ghosts

and a final rhyming of knowledge.

The eternal skypilot tries to save his airplane

from a drop into chaos: "I need to stay high!"

O gentle, magic man who walketh on the waters,

your soul so light it defies earthly gravity,

I cannot ask your help because I must find you tomorrow

again and again,

And you must have another name.

Bringer of the Light,

I'm not sure how to understand you.

Yet, everytime I turn away in hopelessness,

your mythical figure returns and the clinical silence

is full, once more, of your remembered Name.

At last, the secrets are lived out

though there are only the sounds,

coming from the headphones of my friendly hi-fi,

where Roussos sings, rich with Greek meanings,

and brings the Message to life

through a most unlikely electronic source.

My rational mind still gibbers on about

the Occidental Myth,

superstitions and cult figures.

Yet, my heart responds and asks no proof,

no explanation of the mysteries.

Already, the educated shriekings are gone

and the idiot returns to the sound of water flowing

and life which is happening

like the flame in the candle which flickers slightly

but stays clear this cold night.

How good the welcome is!

I am quietly returning to the silence

which knows how to speak without ever making meanings.

The Wise Man inside me says:

"Friend, you were never alone,

you just played your clever little game of hide and seek.

Now, go to sleep until it's time to wake again."

I find I can sleep now

and blow out the candle, feeling glad in a quiet way.

RW, 1st draft, c.1977 - 2nd draft, 17.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SUNCHILD

Looking for freedom in my prison

I found you in yours,

Looking for the same hope.

Two children of the light,

wanting to fly free again,

Looking for the sun,

two Geminis on the run.

Looking for something,

I don't really know what,

Looking for Utopia

can be a scary kind of game.

We talked and talked

about our lives and hopes,

Talking of things that

others don't always seem to understand,

We found two minds so very much

the same.

Sunchild, I know you very well,

admire the way you fly,

the rainbows shining in your wings!

Sunchild, your hair glows bright,

is there a place for us here tonight?

Sunchild, in this Age of Aquarius,

my mind's so high,

flying into the stratosphere!

But flying so high into the Sun,

my wings begin to burn,

My mind is overcome with fear,

the dangers of finality everywhere

And wings of wax are frail things

to travel on so far!

Science, whose creatures we became,

made us into what we are:

Too controlled, too alone in a Heroic Future

that never happens,

Will we ever learn?

Our Age is now Aquarius

who bears the water so lightly,

Flowing drops, gently,

feeding the forests and the seas,

Flowing through our minds and bodies

the Symbol for a change.

Sunchild, lend me your rainbow wings,

I need their strength today.

Let's fly together for so long,

let's go together,

Find Utopia in the Here and Now.

Waiting for Utopia is a hopeless cause,

waiting, instead of flowing,

In the waters of our Time we can only drown.

So meet our future here today,

though looking for freedom's never easy,

Even though the change is begun.

Sunchild, can I tell you this

in words that know no fear?

In looking for another hope and freedom,

instead, I found you here!

RW, 1st draft, 1984, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

SOLITUDE

Sitting here,

in times of unwanted solitude,

wondering why,

what has brought me here?

The walls do not answer

... sitting here,

In these strange times of solitude.

RW, 7.V.84.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

THE ONE YOU'LL NEVER GET

This is the one you'll never get

written this empty day.

Suddenly, the world dissolves in tears,

not dewdrops.

This is the one I had to write

to stop going out of my head;

Jumping off another cliff

when I'm getting too old to fly straight.

This is the song you'll never hear,

an unfamiliar tune meant only for

The crazy one wandering through ...

RW, 30.XII.84.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

STRINGER'S CANDYCOLORFUNPOEM (1968)

ZRINGDANGG! It's happening all the time!

AND YOU STILL GREEN AND HATLESS!

These are the signs:

today Herr Stringer (poet extraordinaire)

returned from his mythical city,

bringing with him a golden cageful

of superintelligent parrots

ALL SECRETLY TRAINED TO SING THE MARSELLAISE

IN TUNE WITH THE AVERAGE CATSYOWL

(accompanied by pianoforte).

ZRINGDANGG!! IT'S HAPPENING ALL THE TIME!

I have noted Stringer's musical talent

AND THE FACT THAT HE'S BEEN IN EXCESSIVE CONTEMPLATION

FOR THE LAST FORTNIGHT OR SO ...

Don't let out the cat tonight, mother, something is in the air!

RW, 1st draft, c.1968, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

FALL, 1967.

1- Bushey Park, Tuesday.

leaves on naked trees

fly with autumn gales

but do not forsake branches yet

2- Hampton Court Bridge, Friday.

circling below black clouds

a flock of seagulls waiting for

white rain

3- By Tagg's Island, Saturday.

deer nuzzling grass

under redden'd leaves

turn round to stare at strangers

4- In my garden, Sunday.

the last swallow

is not flown south -

fly, little one, before the snow!

5- "The Nelson".

at dusk the lights

are lit

to save city dwellers from the night

6- For Sonja.

love made

on a cold, rainy night

is forgotten, now we're apart in daylight

RW, 1st draft, c. 1967, 2nd draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

NOW, WHEN I HEAR THE "ARANJUEZ"*

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

a midnight fountain

spills its crystaldark ice

into the streets of Granada.

Lit by a halfmoon,

slanting its gold against this winter Nevada,

I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

I smell the green scent

of oranges we stole

from the groves of a real castle in Spain.

Walking in the haze of December,

I hear the words of my dream.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

the broken steps to my life

wind back through the dusk

And I wake to the swaying cypress tree

which lies between me and the song of my dreams.

Now, when I hear the "Aranjuez",

I hear the songs from my plain,

the plain which, before, was less than a dream,

the words of a dream which were less than a song -

Now, the song of my dream which I hear in the hills of December,

the real dream of such a winter as this,

now, when I hear the "Aranjuez".

*The "Concierto de Aranjuez", by Joaquín Rodrigo.

RW, first draft, c.1967, second draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013