soundofmanywaters

  I hope that others look on me as deep, Witty, perhaps, serene and debonair: But I’m known by the company I keep And I’ve got you behind me everywhere. Others I try to approach with dignity To give a good impression to their mind: I turn to go, another view of me Presents – yours is the face I leave behind. My softest paper shows consideration, I faithfully transport you to the loo: Why must you interrupt my conversation And air what hardly passes for your view? Prelates and professors, potentates, Please don’t look down on me for my poor bottom: Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, and William Gates, And Taylor Swift - you all know you’ve got ‘em. Almighty Lord, that has made all things well, You know the secrets of the things we hide. You know it’s bad for us when egos swell: You gave us bottoms to bring down our pride.

 NEWS from Sound of Many Waters This poetry blog has been going just over a year. It now has 25 poems* on it, mostly new, although one or two older ones have been freshened up and come back out into the sunshine for a new tour of duty. If you have already read Homo Disneyana, do have another look as I have added two more sections to it, following the suggestion of my friend Jon, who said there should be a sequel Since it started, Sound of Many Waters has received over 1,500 views. Frankly I'm astonished to have generated so much interest - thank you so much everyone for giving your time and attention!  It would be lovely to have your views and reponses to the poems - please use the comment button if you would like to share your opinions. Thanks! Colin. * 26 now, with publication today of Bottom.

    Silence is a kind of torture. The nicest child Would sooner be naughty than ignored. He who speaks hearing into the ears of the deaf Is silent now before his interrogators And the importunate impotence of their kingdom.   Silence too upon this bare spiked hill. The sudden-hushed Babel of the universe Wears black for its quiet and wasted king, For shame at loud men. It is for thieves to rail; He seems to have no business but to suffer.   And God is silent as the sun goes blank And a veil moves slowly over the heavens. No-one contradicts these bureaucrats and butchers As they congratulate themselves upon this killing. The silence bites into his soul. "My God, my God" -   Now these loud shouts. Now it is our turn To stare dumbfounded at the power of This crushed body and hoarse thirsty voice - Which tears graves open, ripping like a curtain The tortured silence forcing God from men.

  Towards Bigger Poems “The mountains skip like lambs… the trees of the field clap their hands”   Immobilised, these mountains Have no heels for skipping But they dance in the swaying of their trees.   These sitkas, oaks and cedars Have no hands for clapping But the breezes shake their branches.   These branches have no song But they lift up the birds And carry their carols skywards.   But the birds have no words…   Here, little sisters, take mine. Let me be your librettist That your song may resound in me   That my song may be healed with Your ancient majesty, your green upwelling, Your swift-winged melody.   Then our dance and our applause, Our music and our meaning Will be offered in praise to the One   Whose party is just getting started…

    I am not sure if I have ever seen you, Indigo. Perhaps my heart leaped up and I Overlooked Your shyest of tinges, by brighter shades Shaded. Maybe the rain rinsed you until you Faded Into neighbouring violet or blue, or Evaporated By the sun, who likes red and gold best, you Withdrew From the bolder six, or maybe you Never Existed except in the thoughts of some Dim Numerological completist, who Wanted Your name to score a perfect seven? Hope Not, but I would like to know More people tinged with Indigo.

Homo Disneyana Lopes through the litterscape Of the late Anthropocene Leaving a trail of  discarded identities From whose throes arises An army of the maimed. Disneyana stands, turns, Proclaims his creed as  a counter-curse: “I can be anything I want!” But the spectres unimpressed Crowd forward and The pursuit begins.  II Scrolling through the screenscape Of the early thanatocene Disneyana hopes a void  To echo his vacuity…  But the stardust drifts  into disturbing shapes Almost as if there were a mind… Jabbing out the cosmos, He rams in his earbuds And grabs for a safer app -  “I’ll catalogue my selfies!” - Not to hear the Voice,  Not to see the Face: “I can be anything I want,”  “Except Yours.” III Saints Walt and Jeff, Saint Mark and Saint Elon Are gathered round the bed he lies upon. They’re watching every flicker of his eyes And planning means by which to monetise Each moment of his rapt attention. As he performs his daylong adoration Be...

Master, how many ways are there that I am yours? As the poem is the poet’s, You conceived me. As I am my mother’s, by Your Spirit You bore me. As my hand enacts my thoughts, You embody Yourself in me. As the field is the warrior’s, You conquered me. As the dragon’s hoard is the hero’s, You despoiled my enemies of me. As the pearl is the merchant’s, with all You had You bought me. As a house becomes a home, You inhabit me. As a chair fits to its carpenter, You fashion me  As the garden is the gardener’s, You labour in me. So Yours that if You cease to think of me I must return to quanta fizzling aimlessly Into the void, and can no longer be. Then since I am Your own so variously One more way to be Yours now offer me, The grace to give myself, entire and free. So I am Yours, You mine, eternally.