Beating Heart , livre ebook
30
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English
Ebooks
2019
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30
pages
English
Ebooks
2019
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
04 avril 2019
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9780722349168
Langue
English
The Beating Heart
Brian Wilson
ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA
Established 1898
www.ahstockwell.co.uk
Copyright © Brian Wilson, 2019
First published in Great Britain, 1998
Republished in Great Britain, 2019
The right of Brian Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the copyright holder.
Published by Arthur H Stockwell Ltd.
Digital version converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The Shaded Path to God
He lights his pipe with a lighter
And ties it up with string.
He owns a bishop’s mitre
But never wears the thing.
For he’s a non-believer
In the deeper spirit life,
Despite a black retriever
And a very pretty wife.
He laughs at dinner parties
With splendid roars of glee,
Joining all the hearties
In thirsty bonhomie.
For he’s the bishop of night and rite,
The prelate of Voodooland,
A holy man, a rolly man,
The shadow of innocent day.
O give him a cock and a silver moon,
Three drums and a silver spoon.
O dance in the breeze beneath the trees
Beside the bloody fire.
Old instincts of a pagan day
Submerge the pliant mind,
Treading new the pilgrim way,
Leaving God behind.
If the men of the earth eat and drink
To do their massive deeds,
Surely the Power, one would think,
Masticates and feeds?
On what? On blood and sacrifice?
Why not?
The blood of the martyrs shed for Christ
Was spilled on the dust of the land.
Has the blood of the voodoo cock sufficed,
And the drums and the spattered sand?
Shine, moon, upon this scene
Of spiritual power.
Whiten that darkness, dimly clean
The shivering, bursting, quivering, thirsting, orgiastic
hour.
Man acknowledges a god
No matter what his name.
Moping
I’m milked, devoid of thought,
Dry bone of conversation
Hardening in the sultry blasts
Of other people’s jokes.
O give me a drink and an easy chair
And the peace of my barren mind.
O leave me to frown in a basilisk stare
And belch if I feel inclined.
For I have no wit this empty night
Nor the fringe of a bright idea.
1 cannot chat nor be polite,
For I’m feeling very queer.
The crackling knucklebones thump round
Their syllables of joy.
On the hot bare sands of my exile
I’ve lost my social chances.
New Year’s Eve
An hour before the midnight chimes
I thought it was a dullish year,
Comparing it to hopes I cherished still
Within the well-stocked files of desire,
Where stood the folios of skill
Unbent towards the imagined fire.
But then, under the hypnotic purge
Of drink and music’s urge,
I remembered more. With indulgent pride,
Flat memories grew to mountains square,
Seeming nearer in the thinnish air
Of time so neatly severed.
One year of age and I must prove
That life to me was not a waste,
Must show that God’s great boon,
The vigour of the mind encased
In Man’s one selfish body,
Had not a better cherished home
In some domestic dog.
The details magnified across the months,
Spinning the landscape with their dots
Of personal success - or woe.
And I, subdued by Action’s rugged blows,
Thudding dully on the breast of Time,
Snatching pleasure on Life’s tumbril ride.
