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AN ACTUAL POEM
FOR A VIRTUAL BOOK OF POEMS

HOMAGE TO BAUDELAIRE

Boredom, yawning gulf

of fatal insomnias -

chasm on whose brink

the abused soul meditates

in appalled resignation.

Vacant looking-glass

that always reflects the same

split enigma of

appearance-reality -

solitude's funeral frame.

("Entends, ma chère, entends la douce nuit qui marche")

*

'There is a moment

all too rare - when happiness

does seem possible,

when loneliness may not be

forever, even longer.

In the deserts of

total isolation, comes

to the traveller

in an empty world a small

oasis, briefly glimpsed from

the backs of camels,

the ships of the desert that

are unsinkable,

while you start waving farewells

correctly interpreted

by those on the shore

as a drowning sailor's last

cheery au revoir

before his spirit founders

in lost horizons' madness.

One of those moments

beyond belief, that alone

is worth the bother

of making belief once more

believable - that childhood

fantasy of fall

after fall into nothingness

when ita all goes dark

at the breakfast table, with

the headache of a bright light

drilling the spirit's

pop-up toaster, and the bell

for school can be heard

faintly like funeral knells

from beyond the tramway tracks ...

That is a moment

unlike any other, when

you suddenly feel

you don't care what happens, and

are intent on being late

for the hell of school,

and for your own funeral

projected backwards

from a faulty machine on

a screen you see is dead blank.

Copyright © James Kirkup 2003