Is That You?

Here you can post YOUR OWN poems, prose, music, or art inspired by the 'Muses nine'.

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Is That You?

Postby Richard » Thu Nov 02, 2006 11:21 am

‘Is that you? John? You’re out early today’
‘Obviously you decided not to bother with washing.’
Ahh; yes.
‘You have been out all night haven’t you, got any spare Laudanum?’ I asked, probing for signs of life.
‘No I did it all last night, I couldn’t sleep, this fucking bird is keeping me awake’.
I smiled. ‘Still can’t get in Fanny’s drawers?
‘No no, I don’t want that, it scares me. Were I to part those lips, on that same second I would die from ecstasy, all I want to live and yearn for a little longer’.
For the first time our gazes met, his blurred eyes began to sparkle and burn, as mine widened with exasperation. ‘John I thought you were one of those sensualists, you were banging on about it in the pub the other day, all that stuff about experience and sublime sensation, black cats against blue skies, do you remember?
He went on with gathering momentum.’ What I mean is were I to actually kiss her, that act of communication would render my pen, limp, it would be clumsy in my hand. She is like a rounded lute, in my arms; my fingers stroke and tease exquisite melodies from her’. I laughed ‘In your dreams John’. His slight Cockney frame twisted. ’Crikey that’s an idea for another poem,… but those unheard are sweeter. Too much’. He was forced to stop.
‘That’s a nasty cough you got there,’ I added with genuine concern
‘Yes I forgot my coat the other day’ He coughed apologetically. Before continuing. ‘No it’s not Fanny. She understands me. It’s looking for tiny words that keeps me up. I’m writing another po.’
I interjected. ‘Oh not another poem. That crowd at Wentworth Place, why don’t you go back and knuckle down with your medical books’. He raised empty palms.
‘Oh everywhere I look words, words. I can’t read them anymore, only write them.
Listen. As he began speaking he was dancing around gesticulating at the assorted flora on the brightening heath……..
‘I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild; white hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; and mid May’s eldest child,
The coming musk rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.’
By now I was rather embarrassed. ’John mate, that just doesn’t make sense, its bollocks, anyone can make up stuff look I can…. Don’t give up the day job.’
I never saw him or heard from him again, right little wanker.
Last edited by Richard on Tue Jan 09, 2007 6:55 pm, edited 2 times in total.

Postby Saturn » Thu Nov 02, 2006 11:48 am


Brilliant Richard - I love that :D
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Postby Richard » Thu Nov 02, 2006 12:32 pm

Thanks Sat,
it brought a widening smile of suprise as is came out :lol:

Postby Saturn » Thu Nov 02, 2006 12:55 pm

And as I read it.

It may offend some of our less discerning Keatsians with its industrial language :lol:
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Postby Richard » Thu Nov 02, 2006 1:32 pm

Sorry for the industrial language, :oops: , I'm too busy counting syllables to notice, a bit of a depature for me, I couldn't find any rhymes.

Postby dks » Thu Nov 02, 2006 6:24 pm

I love it, Richard. It's immensely discerning and showcases your thorough understanding of him and his various plights, albeit through a different, more modified lens...

Brilliant is the word I'd use, as well... :wink:
"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the Truth of Imagination."
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