Moments of Freedom Poetry by William Cook

 

 
 
 

It has been given . . .
 
 

What lies outside the heart and soul is restrictive decision
that leads an arterial bypass past life’s true intentions.
Love gone, never to be reflected in the passage of one’s lifetime
tradition all too familiar in the lives of many
too old to go back, to dream the dream
to partake in life’s big meanings.

Losing space in a trajectory of time
net advancement of four walls of fear
all else uninvolved, seems so far, so sublime.
Rain starts falling, damp blankets of ash
caresses turn from light to sodden
with frozen napalm kisses
the light fair fall of a night moth’s breath
a bludgeoning hammer-fall of sharp steel smelt
new ferocious pounding —years of distilled rage
comes racing from the Heavens, intent on forced age.

The capture of moments long ago lost it seemed
as past lapped the present and you became dream.
Marching becomes possible, even after Blindness occurs
programmes control programmers
with a subliminal switch, in guise of fashion
something new created, for betterment of humankind?
Something borrowed, twisted, mutated, mirrored as virgin
brings something broken into being.

The glass age flourishes with apparent lack of meaning
save, for something better, something new — created,
while plans behind the construction became lost forever.
Forgone was the reason and not known, were the results.

Journey we go, into a place where lost buildings of time
stack against each other in a delicate city of memories
walking these barren streets, searching for hidden clues
we get lost in the quest of looking for answers to the future
in gloomy poisonous back-streets of the past
black galloping pillows of cloud
hasten like advancing sentries of night
against the grey sky, proclaiming
ferocious thunderheads glory
blossom and stab tender side of the West
the East’s long sabre, draws out and twists
spilling gushing blankets of deep, deep maroon
all over mortal Earth
casting great floods from the West
decaying plagues ravage the North
famine bleeds dry the South’s cold haven
East connotes slow suicide in prophetic insane seclusion.

Green stems from the smouldering grey and all the glass age:

redeems itself back to the crimson beaches, whence it came.
As the journey recedes and tired time takes its course,
the past (to the future) is no teacher, but a painting.

Always hunting, without knowing
for three properties of motion:
the beginning, the middle, and the end.

Life, death, fire, water, Earth and ocean
bringing in the space of the old: the new
the idea, the propulsion, the result is seen in all things.

Cause, effect, and result of action
is a troublesome discourse
for those beyond consciousness
for those beyond feeling
for all those TV babies breeding . . .

 
 

 
 
 

The edge of the night
 

I

A table spread in a tomb, dinner for the dead
the dead! Why did you pay a visit to my eyes last night?

Night is the time for angels of dreams
we who, each of us, will one day return
to our hungry mother the grave. The darkness comes
from knowing nothing is ours, except death

takes bites out of my heart. O Asclepius pupil
teacher Chiron, please bring medicine
to my dead love, and I forever understudy
will attempt some sort of attainment

to wake with a sore splitting back from the cold floor
in borrowed clothes and eyes, lent by a saint
giving at the same time an encompassing embrace
‘Friend,’ is all he said in tears, heart big enough to feed

this dead world. To wake up and see the sun
if not the glare from beyond, glittering
on broken glass, beside stretched roadside
where some had sprayed symbolic worlds and signs

scars full of flowers – to wake is to see
again this unusual world, whose secret cannot be known
until we enter the sky, or the earth
takes the edge off the night, the memory of your smile

II

Judging this town of sleep, I found it had already been judged
the Lord on his axe-cut cross of cypress
he is an incurable domestic bore
a family man, who never swore a word

an only child with a hollow mother
full with the carved cares of a household
wearing his poverty as a coat of arms
for eyes to look upon that beheld no bravura of vision.

The crisp grass rattles and shakes ripely, dryly
and all of this in fidelity to death
it was the same old same old, the hard husk of the ego
won’t ever resolve, yet grinds down hard internally

into the swirl, the wine bitter-soaked seed
labouring lie -- vice is kindled, burned in loins that melt
peculiar smiles alive, of all hope
has gone to explore the forlorn desert all alone

far away from the security of grim towns
where a girl is safe searching numbly in the comfort of fear.
You have gone or strayed away, never to be found
I sit and hear sour hiss of traffic calling

this burned and gutted ghost, vague semblance of time
on and off like one long sick light-switch
electric dream/confused state of everyone
greedy for dead love, drain her life, her soul

from every side for me. Greatest dribbling cannibal
tired Bolshie future, sleep  .  .  .  with disease.

III

Torn in two, I stand between, the idol and the grave
I do not know anything, I do not know. I do not
of this world, know anything – nor do I want to
but I have misled the past and will do so again

bring the teachers to the fore, let them stand
and be accounted as emperors of their own disease
and demise. As the sky claps the earth -- wrings blood
from all rocks and far away I fly, every day

from the storm in the brain. The science of the mind
corroded the body, blinded every mile I ever burnt
in this life and the next if there ever were such a thing.
 
 
 

 
 
 

B&D
 

There I sit in Dunedin Public Library
my spine turned toward the Octagon
through concrete fences & facades
Robbie Burns’ statue shambles
arms outstretched
birdshit on his shoulders
to fumble through my pages
as I stand unopened
squashed between Baxter & Curnow
quite happily, at least . . .

& there I flourished
quite briefly, if nowhere else
in my florid imagination
at Auckland University Library
in the soft hands of a woman book-buyer
who took a chance on a ‘no-name’
(just file me under ‘C’)
to fill a quote with her order
& no doubt if she stopped to read
she would have found every typo
every tumour, but hopefully
she would have found the gold
beneath the grammar & heard
the breath behind the stammer
before she cast me on the shelf
somewhere between B & D
 
 
 

 
 
 

America
 

The bird danced across the branch
bobbing its dramatic head
            up
            & down
whistling insanely, displaying
its impeccable wit — man laid down
            beneath
in the green green grass
watching intently
unaware of the cold damp earth
            beneath
beginning to thaw — O, for a camera
such an absurdly American display
            of beauty
as the sun begins to burn against the night
            & great tanks of men thunder
            through sleeping towns
            & kindergartens
            trying to surpass the shoreline
            the history
            as the beaches run red
            America
            Is born again
 
 
 

 
 
 

Lost
 

I’m waiting
the night is down
the sweet smell completes
my solitaire sonata

through barking streets
your whisper bleeds
calling, calling me

I wait for the sound to die away
as it does, too quickly
lost again in the divided mind
between there & here

I call your name
in attempted harmony
as if this would make you hear me
any clearer

anything at all
to entice you from the black ether
from the other side of night
 
 
 

 
 
 

The Night is a Woman
 

The night was brunette
full blown — beautiful
& warm so warm
& tender like the inside thigh
of a goddess
eyes dancing with neon
sequinned contours
undulating in the dusk
her hazy musk burning
her moans so softly
whispered in my ear . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

Tabulae Rasae
 

As I look into the self, I see nothing but tabulae rasae — for as my eyes roll
across the blank canvas of the mind, words appear where there were none.

There are two states of existence: thought & action.
Before I draw I must think I will — I must create an approach to my task
— the least roads travelled to the nearest point.

& slowly words create an image, or a justification of an image & then
correspond that concept to my memory & morale
— integrating the textual into a visual realization of that expression.

My mind wills my body to act.
The interior architect dispenses the plan to the artisan
— theory always precedes practice.

Base bodily functions require thought in order to be executed efficiently,
effectively, & in the right place.
— Without, such action is mere function without purpose or performance.
 
 
 

 
 
 

One Minute of Freedom
 

realization
a never-ending vision
the horizon
perpetually receding
a being, spinning
quite alone
eyelids dissolved
that second of freedom
when the heart
skips a beat

I can make the sky cry
the clouds fume & rage
            worlds shrink
level hills/mountains
            smash cities
hold the sun burning in my hand
then swallow it
I am alien
            & everyone
            & no-one
a giant killer
            & a giant
I am dead & alive

where is the ritual
that means more than this?
where has it all gone
if it ever existed at all?

a naked couple
straddles the white steel flagpole
gazing hungrily at the twisting flag
flapping lazily
in the warm breeze above
sweat glistening on their slick backs
they squat in unison
tilting heads back
grasping the pole then
sliding up its length
shimmying, legs elongating
their bodies stretch & merge
transformation of national pride
into tumultuous serpent
twisting on a skewer

meaning — in pain
or in fantasy . . .
what follows us
will be our shadow
            our blood
hot & boiling
            with hate
wanting nothing better
            than to kill
our rotting memory . . .

to the insights
of the poetic vision
the truth dictates ignorance
to replace purpose

god cannot undo what has been done
she cries, after she hits me
this hurts me more than it hurts you
& she is right
my pain only occurs in flesh
my conscienceless heart
hung like a stone in cement
youthful arrogant sadism
wielded like a fist in her face
her daughter runs sobbing from the kitchen-knife
held playfully at her throat
now back in the drawer
hidden from view — coveted
she rids the house of all its weapons
to cut meat is father’s privilege
I make the most of my own collection
carving apples with a stolen cutlass
like ‘Jim Hawkins,’ considering
the spot between the captain’s shoulder-blades . . .

nothing is as plain as it seems
when you put words to it
when you apply words to the world
hopping like a sand fly
ducking diving dodging hiding
behind between on top of
wind-blown dunes
alive with writhing copulation
through the swaying swishing cutting-grass
pink bodies entwined in a sandy furrow

caught between
a gesture & a pose
you contemplate my gaze

            lost
in a beautiful moment
            your heart flows
out of your face
            into my mouth
burrowing deep
            in my throbbing heart
like a knife

I am your servant
my dry lips drink
            from your river
            from your wounded life
yet words don’t quench
my body’s love for you
            without you
the thick air I breathe
is poisonous & empty . . .

it is terrible without you
when you are next to me
            asleep
I dream we are together
            forever in dream
or reality — whatever
I will strive to be with you
to appease this thirst
with your beauty
with your evanescent presence
melancholy
your form eludes me
your effect
preys witness
to my beating heart

kids leaping clouds
as quick shadows scroll
across the concrete path
passing fast like planes above

drawn to a knobbled breast of tree
perched on a reclining withered trunk
whorls of years knotted in grain & bark
an iris of ages — a lichened Aeolian
the wind whistling across its gnarled chest
collapse = expansion due to reversal of time

everything collapses

My god, My god — why have you forsaken me?
Eli Eli lama sabachthani?

Why can’t we see wind?

Early on, I walked the streets & recognised good & evil at play — I first learnt
of their essential nature through TV dreams & broken books that wept from
septic wounds so bloody & so beautiful.
At home, I watched & participated in the tragic farce of human comedy
performed on every urban stage, set against the fantastic nightmare of
domesticity & banal relationships.
I painted hills with fire & houses with blood — walked on the clouds
throwing handfuls of dung down on skittering pedestrians hiding under
clotheslines, old cars, smashed mailboxes, pornographic magazines held
above their shaven heads . . .
I kept a journal painted with words & crude ink drawings, to record my
existence in terms of my surroundings . . .

Death becomes us
More & more
Shifting stark worlds
Impure to pure

the harsh white light awaits
 
 
 

 
 
 

A Question of Function
 

To piss, or not to piss?
that is undoubtedly the question
            one in the hand
& two in the bush
each — their weight — a boiled egg
hung by a rubber-band
ribald balls of soft allure
the firmament of spleen
            begs release
only to be asked back again
like a sinful thought retrieved

To piss, or not to piss?
it is getting harder
to contain my answer
            a backyard bum
grimacing in indecision
grinding in masochistic mastication
            fat half moons
a hairy ham face
grinning in agony . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

The Road Less Travelled
 

We travelled to Mapua
through Nelson from the Sounds
in the hot afternoon sun
between colonnades
of scruffy apple trees,
their burden of fruit ready to shed
sparkling balls of blood
dancing in the breeze
& the road rides on
to Mapua’s wharf & over there
is rabbit island, framing
the river mouth with a slab of dark pine
& on the other side
— the motorcamp, nestled between
huge trees, not meant for harvest
just shelter & ‘clothing optional’
the café now spawns delicacies
a small restaurant behind smokes
fish & oysters & makes the best
burgers around, yet here it was
that another world existed
& brave men ferried cargo
across the teeming strait
on timber boats the size of small trucks
— even using sails & oars
& people were withdrawn or deposited
on these planks long-gone replaced,
to make way for the new, repair the past
from Mapua to Nelson . . .
still in the sun
the bay sparkles & a bright sea mist
covers the horizon — the blue sky,
faultless — the fields flicking by
like cubist paint effects in drought
but still lots of green to lead us
into night & the broken white line
of winding black roads
littered with carrion & daylight
memories, meanders us back toward
the Sounds.
 
 
 

 
 
 

A dream dreamed awake
 

Your hand feels warm
so good as we
step into twilight
a new dawn
a new beginning
& sip hope

eternal summer wine

intoxicated with presence
enveloped in arms
saturated with essence
besotted by your charms

Slipping into sounds sanguine
words & lovers’
hearts entwined

eyes bloom dreams
lips speak love
everything echoed
in desires
a fragrance
sweet so sweet sublime
 
 
 

 
 
 

Principles
 

I believe the heart is a muscle
that the sun is beautiful
as it burns my vision

I believe there is no soul
that water is the purest form
after yours

I believe love is a word for an emotion
unnameable, indefinable by anything
other than action

I believe existence is beyond meaning
but worth living for
just to die in your arms

I believe there is no god
only goddesses
of which you are one

I believe civilization is uncivilized
that 'culture' is cluttered with clones
& clichés & other things beginning with 'c'

I believe I am in love with you
because you are none of these things
just pure form — an eternal dawn
poetry — a hand in mine
I've got nothing else to live
or die here for, except you
a presence in my thoughts
every minute — a feeling indefinable
beyond belief . . .

This way the river runs
slowly, laboriously
like some new language
winding its way
through channels of the mind
crowding vision
with its deafening advance
 
 
 

 
 
 

For what purpose
 

This life bemuses me
I am young in years
but wish no more to know
whence I came or why
it is a certain kind of bleakness
rather more melancholic resignation
what to use these thoughts for?
I have decided to live where the air is clean
unnatural sound minimal
fishing abundant
I will not die a rich man
yet my work shall be done
& it is what I enjoy
I will continue my art for the same reason
I will feel no guilt
I will use electricity because it is there
& a typewriter only hurts the hands
that could live longer on a keyboard

hopefully someday, somewhere
I will create what others call art
if accidents & fortune collide
I might give back some beauty
to the world
from whom I have taken so much

I am just a man who was once on a boat
on an ocean with no land
to contain its vast edges
who realised what you can't see
can still kill you
man is, as the ant is to us
& work I will, to give to nature
my cleanest hands & most courteous habits
for she is my host & I can only imitate that
already made magnificent
in that compliment
naturally, I wait for these noisy thoughts
& unconscious motivations
to cease — to be like the ocean
is my one desire now . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

When I see a bird flying
 

When I see a bird flying
I think of you
when the wind howls
I hear your name
when the rain hits my face
I feel you slap me with your tears
& when thunder breaks the sky
my heart drops away
either side of your memory.

Bring me a bottle of your warmest nostalgia
a taste, of your sweetest ambrosia

the dog bark of centuries
echoes across the back yard
cutting through clusters
of diamond memories
hung like a bead curtain
in the doorway of the mind

they are so obvious
            these metaphors of you
clichéd, pureed, all cut up
            kodachrome paintings
aesthetically arranged
            across the wall & floor

the lines begin to shudder
with each rank breath of you
this is the third stage
intoxication bleeds logic with contempt
until flame licks photos
as blue smoke dances you away
 
 
 

 
 
 

Another mile away
 

I used to fall in love
now I'm falling down
when I close my eyes I see
their sweet sad faces
all waiting at the station
those sunny times & places
& when I open them again it's grey
& just another fucked up day

I used to fall in love
at the drop of a hat
between the aisles
with supermarket smiles
& early morning sighs
& wine-filled woe
the brush of skin
& a whispered word
worshipped for a while
now it's gone

I used to fall in love
with any woman who wanted it
who walked like you
talked, dressed, eyes like you
in the middle of a drunken dream
I'd say "I love you"
apply it to the scene
& when I woke up again
I'd be another mile away
from you, my love
another mile away
from falling in love again
 
 
 

 
 
 

Seasons
 

then the seasons start to swing
with black & white Summers
Autumn reds & yellows
crushing Winter greys
& soft Spring blues

we are trees stripped bare
& cold, our knotted limbs washed
in shadows, years
towards each other reach
& the wind keeps our touch
beyond grasp, almost beyond belief

I look at you
seasons swing again
the curled ambrosia of your form
beckons with fragility
pure beauty permeates vision
a breath is drawn
a gasp of love

then a chill creeps through the blood
the distance is all too apparent
Nature’s emotive quadrant
diminishes aesthetically into the mire
again, harsh reality sweeps
the lovesick soul
 
 
 

 
 
 

The Calling
 

in the dirty morning light
            you said
“everyone is dead to me but you”
            & then you left
with your taste still on my tongue
curves still cupped in palm
your clutch still clutched
so snug around my heavy brain
‘am I in love . . . ’ I asked myself
‘or fucked up, once again?’

I lay there in the dampness
of me & you for hours
think after think
‘til dead-drunk with thought
I dragged my spent carcass
off the rack
cooked some eggs
on a white cracked stove
a beer with breakfast
a phone call from an ex
the sun through a gap in the blind
a sinful cigarette on the steps
rubbing you from my eyes
in the dirty morning light
waiting, for another night
            to call . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

Mr. Nothing
 

I’m Mr. Nothing again tonight
wasted bottle in my hand
pushing against the dawn
late for love
too lost for hope tonight
& it’s all making sense slowly
as yesterday beckons tomorrow
& I swing between

on a breath then a gasp
intentions blown away
another gust of regret
tumbles me into another day
to rearrange — apologise
feed the machine
fuel that beast that drives onward

remembered blackness
conscience bleeds as ink
now burned on pages turned
through the hazy gaze of a reprobate
drunk on drunken dreams
what remains to be written
remains, to be seen . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

with the blinds still drawn
 

each morning when awake at dawn
I lay & switch the currant on
imagining one million brains
all doing the exact same thing
as incessant screams
of alarm clocks ring
another day & with it brings
simple shades of mediocrity
action peppered with insanity
& still we feel
the strange blind pull
of existence
with the blinds still drawn
 
 
 

 
 

Adagio
 

the violin bursts my heart apart
the cello consoles its heavy pieces
adagio, adagio
wherefore art thou adagio?
what a sound to place the face
& what a time it was it was
here I hold your memory
in heart-filled hands
succumbing to mysteries
of silence, desert lands
the deep solace of loneliness
& strangers beckon through the sound
of laughter so soft so thick
a solid blue swell
slick with crystal light of being
& the solitudal  purity of strings
marches memories to the shore
to lap at bare feet
until water runs to flesh
& you are part of me again
until the tide recedes
& your evanescent light wanes
the cold wind, more visible
tugging at your hair
your kiss, still wet upon my lips
your touch, still warm upon my heart . . .
 
 
 

 
 
 

Prayer to Serendipity
 

To slip into simplicity
undergrowth beneath tall trees
the grass, that lay my head upon
the dirt, now grown above my form
stretched prone in serendipity

I contemplate the sky through
oaken tendrils waving over me
& breathe deep the silence
now whispers, in a shifting breeze

the tumbling clouds roll in above
to wet the fields with arid love
begin the birds — their songs so clean
let purity entice the worm
call forth the rivers’ open arms
& sway wild-flowers petalled charms

as deep inside it all I lay
heart pounding with each drop
soaking in another day
of trees that dance against the light
light winds that speak of things at night
rivers that encapsulate & carry
every weary mile & thought away

under canopy of ages
the familiar creak of ancient sages
shelter me with outstretched limbs
above, their spells cast down on me
invoke a hallowed sanctuary

the sun now broken through the branches
invigorates, exhales my answer
as into it I deftly wake
& pray the earth my soul to take
given up to dreams I made
I gladly slip into goodbye
in the sweet silence of the glade
my prayer to serendipity.
 
 
 

 
 
 

Invisible Man
 

I saw you again today.
You just stood there
            Beating my heart with your beauty
            Underneath a blossom tree
            Petals falling like small dead white birds.
You glowed in the spring sunlight
            People walking by
            Criss-crossed — blackened — melted away
            & you drew each breath from me
            As if reeling in a fish
            Flapping wildly in my chest.
The way you shifted your bag on your hip
            Your white hand — nails just so
            Long delicate fingers splayed
            — piano hands
            What music would you play?
You folded your knitted arm
            Across your flat stomach
            & subtly checked your watch
            Then gently cupped your elbow
            With your other hand.
The wind raised itself
            Winding leaves across the courtyard
            Your fair hair above your shoulders
            Then it settled.
You turned your head
            For one last look before leaving
            & caught my infatuation
            Your beauty crumbling before my eyes
            As you flicked your hair
            & quickly turned away into the throng . . .
As if I had violated you.
As if I could not really see you.
As if I were not there.
 
 
 

 
 
 

Dust
 

Hell is coming
             I watched a tree
             Disintegrate
             Before my eyes
             The grass yellow
             & crumble
             dust puffing
             from the baked earth
The sky bleeds red cloud
            Above a heaving ocean
            Cobalt coiled in centre
            Spinning into nothingness
            Infinity
& on the cliff edge
             I stare into the abyss
             Watch & wait
             Throwing stones down onto
             The rocks & surf below
A world arises from the sea
 
 
 

 
 
 

Sunburst Solitude
 

rings incessantly in my brain
            effecting a certain degree of numbness
            & a piercing whine in my ears
            — tinitus — the bastard disease of loneliness

people walk by
            hued with untouchability
            a halo of indifference
            softens their harsh edges
            to a malleable form

the sound of voices
            crash & merge in dull mechanics
            severed from source
            by intoxication
            & the impenetrable shell of misery

language is lost
            gone for a while
            adrift in the silence
            slowly spinning
            into the stars
            toward the sun
 
 
 

 
 
 

Crossroads
 

I went toward you again
            When the bubble burst my friend
            & my lips were dry
            & held no lies
            & my heart was sore
            & bled red
            & I had no bridge to cross or burn
            & all I needed was a friend
            & it’s you & always it’s been

Now gone is my stubborn pride
            & cultured vanity
            Curled up into a ball of love
            I roll my simple soul your way
            No hope or intent
            Just simple need — the puzzle plan

Towards you along the coast
            The great sea breaks
            Against the black grain
            Of your beach
            So burning bright
            In channelled light

& the magnificent breeze
            Winds its way through the sands
            Spelling your name out
            Again & again
            As I twist through the roads
            That whisper your song
            Into the heart of your country
            My love, come meet me
            at the crossroads
            of our hearts.
 
 
 

 
 
 

Liquid Morality
 

the morality of my youth
            has been castrated
            dissipated
            exasperated
            by rebuke & slow dreams
            green bottle blue screams

& everything in between
            romanticism denied
            has only crucified my love

& every unrequited thigh
            that held the pleasure
            of my burning eye
            has slipped into the ether
            into the never never
            of this booze filled dream
 
 
 

 
 
 

life is a metaphor for death
 

This is it
The excruciating realization
That I am a microbe
An amoeba under the moon
In the grand scale of things
A grain of sand
Washed up with a billion others
Indiscernible
& that’s how it should be
despite the presence
of mediocre intellect
& a natural tendency
to think of oneself
as important
of some consequence
to the greater scheme of things
(whatever that may be!)
‘truth’ that elusive quagmire
of common census
inferring evidence
that many can make one
reality
& that it is
without variance
indisputable  . . .
bullshit!!!
Statement of assumptions:
— everything changes
— smaller realities negate bigger truths
— mutability rules
— life begs meaning/purpose
— purpose/meaning is applied belief that is not necessarily determined by ‘truth’
— life is a metaphor for death . . .
— what else is there?