THE MUSE'S CALL

THE MUSE’S CALL

The last of light is craved upon to fall

The shapely, longing limbs stretch to the tall

Smoothed skin as oil upon the water waits

My heart beats, sheds blood and lust anticipates

I hear her call, her song is as the Loralie

Her vision sees thus far, sees much more than I

Beyond the spreading of her naked limbs

She beckons men, and women, where fall begins

There is no pretence, no guilt, no idle play

This is the place where she will gladly lay

Command her wanting lust against the bitter winds

And watch the lonely man, again, fall into sin

The Muse is to dictate, none will be praised

Young men fall short within the loving haze

She is a whore, a tart, a lusting stone

And better men have risked, then left alone.

Don’t give the Muse a thought, her beauty tempts

None of us will last; remain exempt

She wants nothing from us but the tortured soul

Then disposes of the corpse up [on the cold

What is her epitaph for you and me?

Does she know or care or set any of us free?

More likely we will falter, step bravely to the fold

Be heard no more until the story told

One lonely night, one moment of despair

He felt the pain of loneliness, of lack of care

And in among the turmoil of it all

The was the faintness of the Muse’s call.

END OF DAYS

Growing Old

My thoughts are elsewhere, moving faster than I, with more grace and determination. The thoughts move in the past where a young man lingers and laughs at the body I now carry. I can move quietly in the market and remain unnoticed and anonymous to fresh thoughts of style and frivolity. I am unknown but to myself. Only I know what it is to live and grow old and even I am surprised at every turn. Those before me made efforts to explain and forewarn but they had only their own guide to suggest what might come of ageing. Like life, ageing must be experienced. It also must be understood. It is, ultimately the beginning of the end, at least one we can recognise. The reality of ageing is that we must eventually face the inevitable as it grows closer, knowing that what follows is as it was before: nothing.

As the bones creek and the joints ache, as the body processes falter and the brain loses its way, it is necessary to look back more than looking forward. Living brings us surprises. We cannot see into the future and even the present is uncomfortably brief. It is that past which we draw upon to give us hope. Reflection will provide purpose to what we have done. Disappointment will come from what we should have or could have done. Purpose and disappointment may be unnecessary in knowing that living is as it is and only our will to live provides us with motivation to do what we do, whatever that might have been. We cannot undo or relive. All we can do is to see the small wake we leave behind and know that we have made a difference no matter how minute and insignificant it might seem.

As I walk this way I know that I am one step closer to where I am going. I will not be surprised when it comes. I am content with what I have done.

The train.

 

How far to go, he called, when does it part

She waits for me beyond the converging lines

Through the tears and lost worlds of love

She waits for me, she waits in another time

When we were one, the only ones to know

Where we stood strong, true love still a crime

Young, sweet, innocent love fresh from the heart

Leaving others behind the walls to define

What we should be

Now the passage is complete, the platform stage

We no longer play, life took its toll, sliding doors

Close on us, kept us apart, allowing us to age

Facing the masters and mistresses, seeking flaws

In others, knowing only one destination can be

Where the passage stops, no longer be ignored

The wilderness has gone, once ravishing desires

Now playing out the fare to be in one place because

We are what we should be.

Missing

 

He stepped out for a while, to find some quiet time

Perhaps he's tired of this and that, of things defined

Being judged, misunderstood, misaligned 

With the parameters so clear, rigored, almost a crime.

His boundaries have collapsed, shattered and scattered

The frame is broken and the image spills, voices chattered

Upon an open grave, milk on a tiled floor, splattered

As if he didn't care, beyond the field nothing mattered.

It's not dark yet, he'll be back, shaking his thoughts away

Talking to himself, questions with answers, a mind astray

The picture is there, waiting, while he wonders what delay

The rest have in seeing what he sees, the motion of decay.

The words rest now upon his weary thoughts, too little time

Collecting the philosophy of others as a fence consumed by vine

Not baring fruit, not gesturing to others which way to climb

Reassured, resurrected, breathing quietly, smelling decay divine. 

Making time

 

What we see in art is of our choosing. Appreciation is recognizing the skills of the artist. We don't have to like it to appreciate it. We might pause to implore beauty to expose itself. When it fails to do so we might reject the art first hand. Or we can allow the art to stare back at us, allowing more to be revealed. 

Art is manipulative. The more we absorb ourselves in its innate nature the more we feel the effects of our appreciation. Art is often assumed to be easy. The very fact that not everyone can create art is proof enough that there is some labor involved, some understanding of human nature, a degree of compromise, of recognition, of persistence.

Appreciation isn't for everyone. It requires knowledge. We need to know what is involved, what the artist intended, the context of the ideas. We don't always have the time to devote to art. 

Make time: just once.

Blurred Visions

The photographers task is simple: be clear and sharp. The Decisive Moment is finite and must contain all that is necessary for the photograph to do its job. 

How unfortunate that this can never be achieved even if there is an element of truth in it, and I doubt that there is.

The photographers task is by no means simple and at no time will the photograph be clear and sharp. There are those that seek this end in futility, in which case they will always be disappointed. Even if they claim satisfaction, that satisfaction is most often left in the hands of others. Approval from others is paramount. A quick sale, a postcard to a friend, a 'like' on social media, a prize, received like a merit badge on completion of a poorly conceived and equally constructed camp fire by a Boy Scout. The fire is luke warm in both cases.

We are told to try harder, but with what and at what cost? Endless instruction and a continuous flow if technical prowess still leaves us wanting more. Following a rainbow is more fruitful. Praying for intervention has equal prospects. At the end of the day satisfaction will come from the value of the reward perceived or received from others. Judgement will always be based on the temperament of others. 

Mind you, some are quite content with this predicament. I have on many occasions heard this pursuit referred to as 'advancement' or 'improvement' or, heaven forbid, 'creativity'. 'Mimicry' is more accurate. More than once have I seen the eternal Sun set over another horizon and wonder how many times I need to see this particular one posted on Flickr or Facebook to remind me that someone with an iPhone was there as well. Living each moment as if it is your last was never meant to be taken literally, nor does it need to be recorded. Prosperity will have more important things to consider.

And what of the Selfy? How is it that we have moved from a society that once revered the portrait as a symbol of prosperity and social significance to a mode of self-indulgent narcissism. Not only do we find those that cannot pass a shiny surface without stopping to admire their own reflection but it is necessary to photograph it and reward themselves by posting said image on the scourge of intellectual companionship: the Internet, assuming their 'friends' need an update of appearances and an appalling lie that beauty beyond belief  has just graced their presence.

Ottoman in his investigation of the history of photography stated that the original meaning of 'photograph' has been diverted and somewhat lost in the new inclusion of digital enhancement. Be it that the image is projected onto the sensor and 'drawn' by light, the similarities to the original process has been lost in a flurry of photons and manipulation of pixels. The question we might ask, even if we are not purists, is: "is there a line and on which side will we stand when we say "this is a photograph"?

I don't yet have my own answer, or maybe my position shifts. 

What I would like to do right now is to do a bit of navel gazing