Much like lust
The poetic thrust
Is sometimes
Guttural, animal
And alive as sense
Beyond a halting thought
Or reflection’s stuttering
And clumsy indecision.
Sometimes the poem
Just wants to fuck,
Consume itself
Within the flowing action
Of a primal deed,
Lose itself within itself
And ride the carnal now
Of cellular knowing.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
No urgent image
Comes to play
And mind rests still.
With a noise
It’s draw away,
Ventures to the ears:
A bee bumping
The concept
Of a window pane,
Shrill birds
Of the near distance
Whistling heartedly,
And the muffled knockings
Of a human town
In the morning of a Saturday.
I have nothing much to say
But keep listening
To the things
Inside of me.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Need I use guiding word
And direction:
The thing – described, imaged,
Processed through the brain of I:
Not here
Where the boiling and molten sky
Directs without narration.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
In the summer dusk
all is sweet temptation
in musk of earthy being:
even the grass
is dew sugar first hay,
tender and sun soaked elixir
to horsly kind,
frolicsome and effervescent
to pink noses everywhere.
And what air: warm as comfort,
barefooted and shirt undone,
base note to the roses flood
of velvet, lusty tantalisation:
a shedding of potions loving
and daintily perfumed.
What dwells in this scented night,
but creatures of the stillness,
hid deep from our slice of daily life,
nocturnal to it
and waking only to the moon
and sweetness magic from
disgorging night-flowers.
A hedgehog snuffles and is alive.
Moths are vibrant,
aerialed to the pheromonal moon
and unseen currents high and trail like.
And beetles alight the moonbeams,
unfurl their hidden wings
and step to the unsteady air,
to taste and be beside
the molecules abundant.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Like creepers
And tangled vines
Urging for the high light,
Bloggers speak out
With leaves of thought,
Search for every photon dealt,
Yearning daily taller
In appreciation’s height
For sunshine on the face
Of their creation.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Darkness shapes:
Defines green feathery fronds,
Allows light in to being.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
The bridge, the cloud, the sand
And the mirror of the tide,
Burnished bronze in light’s equality.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
Last, withdrawing light
Caught in a mirror of sand
Sheened with molecule wetness.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
With his mad mirror
Man goes in to the world
To find and make wonder
As if the wonder did not first exist
And he, not God,
Was creator of it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
Touched by the algal roll
Of clump and de-clump,
Slosh and surge,
And imbalance
Wet wishing for flat rightness,
And then again
And again
In wave formed turbulence
And the swirling instabilities.
The air
Is sea trained and tainted,
Salt kissed
And matter coated,
Ozoned and flecked
With crest alighted bubble
Of brown spume
And froth.
It’s almost greasy to the touch
And heavy on the breath,
And fresh
For it is
Of sky
And horizon’s depth
And leagues made:
Palette painted with tumultuous storm
And the quietness of sublime calm,
And all the colours there between.
I receive it
With face seaward seeing
And the fingers of a tussle
At the ringlets of my fringe,
And a wide, wide thought
Of emptiness,
Where Seagulls
Glow in sunbeams
And dare the fickle cliffs,
And dive for wild fish
If only for the joyful plunge of it.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.
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