Sweet dreams, melancholy dreams, normal dreams, all have wills of their own, they go on and on. Painful. Impossible. An everlasting will to carry on…
So be a bird, not a fish. Only things with voice can hope to die with dignity.
The Absence of Letters – by Gerry Cambridge
I must choose life, and it is here with you
When with a hair-tossed flourish, and all bare,
You take on its stand the candle and walk through
Dark rooms to the unlit bathroom, where we
Like figures from some medieval mystery
Take a hot bath together, whispering, aware
As here we are wreathed in perfumed steam,
Of the whipping night outside and the long scream
Of the gale. There’s nothing else to be satisfied
After our hours together, except we be
Cleansed and calmed and, fragrant, dried,
Then wrapped in dreamless sleep. And suddenly
Poor Yeats, you say, besotted with Maud Gonne!
All those letters! Between us, hardly one.
Ambition – by Gerry Cambridge
On a wide northern shore
I found a house of stone
Cold in island silence;
And lived alone
Below the sun
With seabird cries,
And other things
Likely that is why,
I try persuading blindness
Back, to see again.
Little drama – by Gerry Cambridge
A bonny night. I step outside and gaze,
Head back in autumn dark, up into space,
Where stars between the clouds burn with quiet praise,
And think for whatever reason of your face.
Fine thoughts below those glittering Pleiades.
Regrets. Goodbyes. The largeness of the night
Summons easy nostalgia for futilities,
Free from the searching glare of window light.
But what’s this, suddenly, about my feet,
Rubbing my ankles? It’s the old, fat black tom
Unusually affectionate, startling from
Revery, ragged-eared, with his small thunder.
Is it mere food, or love he wants, I wonder?
His presence somehow makes the night complete.
Lodger – by Gerry Cambridge
To the mewing at my kitchen door
I open up and let come in
From a night of showers and wind-roar
The old familiar one
At a late-early hour.
Whiskers, wild dark eyes, and purr!
O she is mad with affection
As the caught stars of Atlantic droplets glint
In the night earth-heaven of black fur;
And now is a good weight in my arms,
A damp paw on my neck’s hot skin:
Vision of random otherness comes,
And it complements this glare within;
So something in me gently yields
As I am touched by this untouched,
And printed by wide night-fields.