The first poem I published on Poetbay in my now deleted first account was a poem called Dreamland in 2011. Here is a reworking of it.
When I consider the landscape of my heart
it takes the shape of a foggy moor, overlooking
a steep cliff. Recollecting this I’m thrust back
to a portion of my childhood I spent hidden
in the attic of my aunt’s bungalow, where was
a sole window that looked out into the hills.
A dusty road away, there was a moor, wild,
but I was a timid child and I never ventured
towards it, content to simply gaze, content
to imagine and will mad adventures upon it.
That was my world. The attic was my cocoon,
but strangely, when I look back upon this time,
the setting may be the attic but the chorus of memory
sings of the moor and the pseudo-psychiatrist in me
can draw a straight line from here to the shape
the landscape of my heart became.
Even after the cause of my hiding was solved,
or duct-taped to be less a problem I was involved in,
whenever troubles plagued me, be they dissonance
from a world, a culture, a country I felt jaded of,
or a sense of alienation stemmed from immaturity
mixed with overconfidence, the witches brew
that froths out an egotistical child,
with the core of the crybaby I always was, I’d find
myself retreating to that moor in memory.
Eyes closed, I would frolic and dance upon it,
like Kate Bush in Wuthering Heights, I’d sing
of whatever crush caught my fancy through the phases of youth,
waxing and waning emotions all spelled out in song,
but wary of the cliff, until one night the cause
of my past hiding reared its ugly head when I’d had enough
of my father’s bitter wrath upon my henpecking mother.
I lost myself in a fury. Where previously I’d retreat
into myself, my fists flew out and I felt
a taste of patricide, thankfully averted
by the wet pearls of my mother’s eyes.
The guilt consumed me the next couple days. The sight
of your father hesitating to cross your room
when your door is ajar is not such a thing
you can ignore, though I tried to. The sight
of your mother hesitating to talk to you
for fear you’d fly off in fury is not such a thing
you can swallow. The guilt consumed me and I spent
many days, eyes closed, forcing myself within,
back at the moor, steadying myself and running
straight off the cliff just to see what would happen.
But that was all in my head, my heart, nothing
would come of it. No one has ever committed
suicide in imagination. But I learned,
I could crumple these feelings that I’m ashamed of,
crumple them tight to a dense ball, and
throw them off the cliff. The fog made sure
I’d never see where they’d land, and even if I did
I didn’t care much to go get them back.
This is how I learned that beyond escape there lies
another method to get rid of all the tar
that sticks to the soul in the business of living.
I’m sure over the years the base of the cliff grew riddled
with crumpled up balls of regret and shame, and I
grew lighter and lighter because of it. So much so
that I feel so light I could float away if untethered.
Only life ties my feet to the ground. How often
have I considered snipping that loose thread.
Dream land (2011)
Prologue
inside my heart another world does surely lay
a place that would hold no meaning in this world of gray
but my heart is another being independent of me
close your eyes, open your hearts and then you will see
inside my lonesome heart of clay
1
my heart is like an open moor on a stormy day
looking at the pouring rain, watching as they play
wetting all the leaves and grass with their lofty joy
this moor it seems has become their one and only toy
this moor, my lonesome heart of clay
2
but this pouring rain does make me happy in a strange way
my heart, this open moor where this lofty rain does lay
I feel like everything I wanted in this place might be
everything, everything that I could or could not see
peer into my lonesome heart of clay
3
this rain that pours in my heart ne'er does go away
it just pours on and on, like an ocean as it may
slowly drowning all my troubles as much as it can
with a melancholy wind that blows like a drifting fan
in my lonesome heart of clay
4
but still I have to wake from my heart and start my earthly day
read and learn such silly things, listen to everyone's boorish say
but my heart this open moor is where I still belong
oh how I long to go back there and continue this drab song
of my lonesome heart of clay
5
but still that can't stop me from comparing this world where I play
to the open moor in my heart, that lonesome heart of clay
from that open moor should I run or should I return
this unanswered question makes my mind ache and burn
alas my lonesome heart of clay
6
even though it is inviting that moor in every way
is it where I truly belong this I cannot say
for even though this world may be oh so dreary
and maybe it is drab and even a little weary
is it worse than that moor in my lonesome heart of clay
7
I once again visit the moor where the rain does lay
ah that playful rain I watch as it does play
then it cuts me like a knife but now the magic's gone
and now I feel, no I am, so, so very much alone
in this my lonesome heart of clay
8
now I know that doubt holds no meaning, holds no say
in this moor, in my heart where the rain used to play
since now all the magic's gone because of this doubt
that I felt and still do, oh I am such a lout
its gone, the moor in my lonesome heart of clay
9
I had finally found a place where I belonged in every way
a place where life was jolly, so happy and so gay
but it was not meant for a mortal like me
I am filled with so much strife I cannot let it be
I cannot live without my moor in my lonesome heart of clay
END
Poetry by Sameen
Read 280 times
Written on 2021-09-06 at 14:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Dreamland
Dreamland (2021)When I consider the landscape of my heart
it takes the shape of a foggy moor, overlooking
a steep cliff. Recollecting this I’m thrust back
to a portion of my childhood I spent hidden
in the attic of my aunt’s bungalow, where was
a sole window that looked out into the hills.
A dusty road away, there was a moor, wild,
but I was a timid child and I never ventured
towards it, content to simply gaze, content
to imagine and will mad adventures upon it.
That was my world. The attic was my cocoon,
but strangely, when I look back upon this time,
the setting may be the attic but the chorus of memory
sings of the moor and the pseudo-psychiatrist in me
can draw a straight line from here to the shape
the landscape of my heart became.
Even after the cause of my hiding was solved,
or duct-taped to be less a problem I was involved in,
whenever troubles plagued me, be they dissonance
from a world, a culture, a country I felt jaded of,
or a sense of alienation stemmed from immaturity
mixed with overconfidence, the witches brew
that froths out an egotistical child,
with the core of the crybaby I always was, I’d find
myself retreating to that moor in memory.
Eyes closed, I would frolic and dance upon it,
like Kate Bush in Wuthering Heights, I’d sing
of whatever crush caught my fancy through the phases of youth,
waxing and waning emotions all spelled out in song,
but wary of the cliff, until one night the cause
of my past hiding reared its ugly head when I’d had enough
of my father’s bitter wrath upon my henpecking mother.
I lost myself in a fury. Where previously I’d retreat
into myself, my fists flew out and I felt
a taste of patricide, thankfully averted
by the wet pearls of my mother’s eyes.
The guilt consumed me the next couple days. The sight
of your father hesitating to cross your room
when your door is ajar is not such a thing
you can ignore, though I tried to. The sight
of your mother hesitating to talk to you
for fear you’d fly off in fury is not such a thing
you can swallow. The guilt consumed me and I spent
many days, eyes closed, forcing myself within,
back at the moor, steadying myself and running
straight off the cliff just to see what would happen.
But that was all in my head, my heart, nothing
would come of it. No one has ever committed
suicide in imagination. But I learned,
I could crumple these feelings that I’m ashamed of,
crumple them tight to a dense ball, and
throw them off the cliff. The fog made sure
I’d never see where they’d land, and even if I did
I didn’t care much to go get them back.
This is how I learned that beyond escape there lies
another method to get rid of all the tar
that sticks to the soul in the business of living.
I’m sure over the years the base of the cliff grew riddled
with crumpled up balls of regret and shame, and I
grew lighter and lighter because of it. So much so
that I feel so light I could float away if untethered.
Only life ties my feet to the ground. How often
have I considered snipping that loose thread.
Dream land (2011)
Prologue
inside my heart another world does surely lay
a place that would hold no meaning in this world of gray
but my heart is another being independent of me
close your eyes, open your hearts and then you will see
inside my lonesome heart of clay
1
my heart is like an open moor on a stormy day
looking at the pouring rain, watching as they play
wetting all the leaves and grass with their lofty joy
this moor it seems has become their one and only toy
this moor, my lonesome heart of clay
2
but this pouring rain does make me happy in a strange way
my heart, this open moor where this lofty rain does lay
I feel like everything I wanted in this place might be
everything, everything that I could or could not see
peer into my lonesome heart of clay
3
this rain that pours in my heart ne'er does go away
it just pours on and on, like an ocean as it may
slowly drowning all my troubles as much as it can
with a melancholy wind that blows like a drifting fan
in my lonesome heart of clay
4
but still I have to wake from my heart and start my earthly day
read and learn such silly things, listen to everyone's boorish say
but my heart this open moor is where I still belong
oh how I long to go back there and continue this drab song
of my lonesome heart of clay
5
but still that can't stop me from comparing this world where I play
to the open moor in my heart, that lonesome heart of clay
from that open moor should I run or should I return
this unanswered question makes my mind ache and burn
alas my lonesome heart of clay
6
even though it is inviting that moor in every way
is it where I truly belong this I cannot say
for even though this world may be oh so dreary
and maybe it is drab and even a little weary
is it worse than that moor in my lonesome heart of clay
7
I once again visit the moor where the rain does lay
ah that playful rain I watch as it does play
then it cuts me like a knife but now the magic's gone
and now I feel, no I am, so, so very much alone
in this my lonesome heart of clay
8
now I know that doubt holds no meaning, holds no say
in this moor, in my heart where the rain used to play
since now all the magic's gone because of this doubt
that I felt and still do, oh I am such a lout
its gone, the moor in my lonesome heart of clay
9
I had finally found a place where I belonged in every way
a place where life was jolly, so happy and so gay
but it was not meant for a mortal like me
I am filled with so much strife I cannot let it be
I cannot live without my moor in my lonesome heart of clay
END
Poetry by Sameen
Read 280 times
Written on 2021-09-06 at 14:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
MetaPoetics |
|
one trick pony |
|
Lawrence Beck |
|
|
one trick pony |
