Richard Macwilliam » Formal Poems

Some hours we sing, and must make merry there

admin — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 13:50:30 +0000

Some hours we sing, and must make merry there:
Some hours we stare the tides and bones of man
And chase off fevered feelings to dark air:
Some hours we do the best, and best is all we can:

But who are you to judge me on my dallied tune,
Who are you to shape me to your vision’s world ? -
I’ll die – and when I do it’ll not be soon! -
But only when the pot is fin’lly hurled.

For then the hours will play out their dim light,
Then God’s hand will reach and touch what’s true;
Then will reck’ning be made of my fight,
And all the hours I lived be counted through:

For I am nothing, but nothings live and die -
And though a nothing, I’ll shriek out MY own cry!

2/3/99

We all have ups and downs in our lives, and do the best we can. Who are you to judge me on how I live, and the speed at which I progress through my problems? I’ll die when I die – and then God will judge me.

This Painted Breath

admin — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 19:30:11 +0000

This painted breath you see before your eyes
Is a darkling curse to hide bitter dross,
Miasma from a mind too used to lies
That greedy seeks to thrive off other’s loss:

Where’s honesty? In most it’s not been born,
The crabbing way leads blindly by the hand
The weak and spiritually forlorn,
That crowd of glitter-eyes that stalk this land.

Beware! The educated are the worst,
Their smiley half-truths, tensions buried deep,
Give brief success (’till something has to burst):
Compartmentalise – seems that’s how they sleep.

Deception, usually of the self,
Long-term, all ways, destructive of the health.

27/15/00

A sonnet about the sea of liars you’ll come across in life. The educated are the worst, as they try to rationalise their half-truths away.

Ultimately deception is only deception of the self, and is destructive of health.

No hour can call itself itself alone

admin — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 10:28:07 +0000

No hour can call itself itself alone,
Each mutters on the heels of that before -
The potter’s clay is nought before it’s thrown,
But our lives are shaped by different law.

For each thought must make the first tomorrows’,
Each sigh or smile consolidate that dream -
Though we deny owning joys or sorrows,
‘Tis our minds that bend life’s travelling stream.

We, and we alone, are our worlds true -
We make, and see, the sunshine and the rain:
We paint our future selves to our own view,
Then blindly criticise our God in vain.

So what will change me but a diff’rent sight?
Then for that vision I must fight.

7/7/00

Our thoughts and actions today determine what we’re like tomorrow.

Nihilism

admin — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 09:42:07 +0000

Every age has its nihilists, for sure,
But nihilists don’t find fertile ground
In the rich and lazy but in the poor,
Who suffer years of abuse, who can’t be found

Supping at the High Table, bellies fat,
Or in committees deciding the Fate
Of continents and lands, but struggle at
The edge of life in some eternal wait

For justice that never comes, for wisdom
That’s never shown, for compassion
That dies on the lips of those that mouth freedom
Whilst meddling in the hearts of their nations.

Say it’s not so, but brutalism reigns -
Perhaps the nihilists must break those chains.

8/10/01

We live in a brutal age – the most brutal are often the politicians creating policies that wreck the lives of millions. Written after 9/11

My Neighbours

admin — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 22:24:39 +0000

For twenty years they lived in this country,
Working hard, praying to God, living lives
Of tolerance in this land of the free,
And now there is a war the hidden knives

Are out, twisting and turning pettily
In racist xenophobia from fools
Whose minds, it seems to me, are completely
Swayed by whatever wind blows, whose only rules

Are to side with the Greater, the Easier,
The most Inflamnatory, the simplest
Course to violence, whose only real desire
Is to fight, and destroy whatever’s best

In anything, everything, in my land:
MY neighbours, MY relatives – understand ?

8/10/01

Shortly after 9/11 the world went a bit mad. There were all sorts of organisations picking on Muslims. I lived in a Muslim street for ten years and though there was the usual range of crooks, philanderers, druggies and alcoholics there were also some top-quality people.

Last line – ‘my relatives’ – there was one high-quality family that treated me like a brother.

Turmoil and toil

admin — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 19:25:42 +0000

Turmoil and toil, the daily quota grinds
In an endless dust bowl of existence,
Where the mean path walked so bitterly winds
Through baleful vagaries of evil chance.

Confusion contends, whilst from every side
Answers and lies seem to hold equal weight:
The worse – acclaimed for being wise -
Decide from towers of power their betters’ fate.

Despair now rules this melancholic plane;
Few choose to paint the sun or sit by trees:
We award wealth and praise to the insane,
Ignoring whispered truths upon the breeze.

And yet our hearts ring true with purity,
And listening to them will set us free.

May 2009

I might have been in a bit of a dark mood when I wrote this …

I have a fog that clouds my feeble brain

admin — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 10:25:17 +0000

I have a fog that clouds my feeble brain,
And wraps all sense in veils through which I see:
I have a mind that wanders dull down dullest lane,
And somewhere in that dull there’s dullest me.

Ah! To sweep away the dross and lift the stone,
To have a perfect mind shaped clear and bright,
To fetter on the power of this that’s flown,
And draw angels dancing down through the night.

Yes! I’d sweep my hollow place to victory,
I’d dream and dance beneath the summer’s sun,
I’d roam with Gods and lay down my great pleas,
And discourse on how the stars and heaven run.

Instead, I stare awhile at rooks that call,
And seeing nothing am the wisest fool.

Nov. 00

I could do with a sharper mind.

In this, the passion of our embrace

admin — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 07:54:07 +0000

In this, the passion of our embrace,
Stir embers of a fire lit long ago
When trembling we did touch and light apace,
And nothing in the moon or stars said ‘slow’.

Now Time’s hand has drifted off the hour,
Now, Love’s course has filled out in the run,
We – older – muse gentler in the bower,
And contemplate on what is, what is done.

Sweet! To dream and laugh and chase across the day,
Sweet! To live out our lives and easy be -
The bedroom’s muse is more than our bed-play,
Where two the better better see.

For we have made a life and that life lives,
The best to be ourselves, each takes, each gives.

July 00

S*x when we get older is just as much about talking and laughing and remembering and sharing as anything else…

I am

admin — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 08:36:05 +0000

I am: useless, fool, most stupid of them all,
I am Curse, and hide, and sometimes never try,
And often (too often) just feeble, small,
And seldom push and shove and question, ‘Why?’

There now, that’s me – the seasons seldom see
Much change in this boatful of meandering:
Stop and watch how now I crash in the lee
Of some fierce lifewind that’s chanced to fling
Itself around the rocks of all that’s certain,
How on a good day with steady breeze
I rush along in one blind run,
Marvel at this craft’s frailty, how pleased
It is to survive all storms, how estranged
From subtler truths, how – apparently – deranged …

15/7/00

This sonnet (well, nearly sonnet – it was one of the first I wrote) imagines life as being a journey in a little boat, pushed around by the wind …

Come, stranger, walk with me

admin — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 09:01:51 +0000

Come stranger, walk this path with me tonight:
Take pleasure in the dark – come – take the air!
Let my hand lead yours, your eyes hold back your fright,
Remove all doubt, release your burdened care.

Come, stranger, your buckling legs are too slow,
Your face as wan as milk within a pail:
We have a distance on this path to go,
A journey you did promise without fail.

Stranger! To sit and weep is misery -
Yours, not mine, for this way I know too well:
Take heart, you’ve been unchained, set free,
By the faint tolling of that distant bell.

Stranger ! Your dream is done and now we leave:
Let others weep for you, let others grieve!

2001

This sonnet imagines death taking the reluctant soul on its final journey