1991 drafts - recently unearthed

These are two newly unearthed* working drafts of a poem from January 1991 - time of the Gulf War I think!
*(thanks to the archaeological endeavours of my friend Graham)


THE CANDLE (Version II)

A patterned globe
of wax emits
a subtle fragrance.

The flames shaft
laps the glowing air
waiting to break

this happy equilibrium.
Is this the flame
that purifies, whilst commentators whine

of surgical strikes.
Open the door, create
a minor turbulence -

the flame now licks
the candles side -
the meltdown of the globe

began precisely
with the strike
of that first match.

Today the bombs
rain down; a patterned globe
emits the stench

of burning flesh.


******** Malcolm Evison



THE CANDLE (VERSION I)

Waiting to break
this happy equilibrium
the flames shaft

laps the glowing air.
Today the bombs
fall on Baghdad –

I watch the candle burn.
A patterned globe
of wax emits

a subtle fragrance –
no flesh is burning
here in my room.

Is this the flame
that purifies –
surgically pure?

An opening of the door –
a minor turbulence,
the flame now licks

the candles side.
The meltdown of the globe
begins so casually.


************ Malcolm Evison

MISSION BETRAYED

MISSION BETRAYED
[Redemore 22 August 1485]

Misjudged by many of my peers,
betrayed by those in whom
I placed my trust. Today

I sift through memory,
acknowledge scheming in my blood -
the unquenched thirst

of generations. Betrayal
led me to accept defeat
out of the very jaws

of victory. I clung
to pride.

***************

A Judas multiplied
was on my side,
in faith, I thought them

little Christs. Their company
made for me
a lonely ride.

*******************

The wetlands bogged me down,
Canuted by the rapid-turning tide.

Today I made myself
a pawn
for Tudors grasping hand -

Today I died a King,
upheld the remnants
of my dignity.

*********************

My crown was no more theft
than fate contrives
to thrust on monarchy itself -

Today I have my pride.


Malcolm Evison

A friend who took over my flat, in 2000AD, has recently moved out and discovered some old working drafts of mine. This is one of them - slightly re-worked. The Subject is Richard III.

ABOUT DEATHS DOOR

     ABOUT DEATH’S DOOR


That day you found
time’s precipice
and never faltered –

to plunge beyond
or else traverse
the tremulous ridge path –

each spelt out welcome
each a warm retreat.

The beckoning remembrance
of worlds created
by the mind and sense –

the wraiths in combat, those
still present
and others already
moved on.

That day you breathed
time’s fall, and fell back
wreathed in living hours.


                            Malcolm Evison


This is an old draft of a poem I’ve just stumbled upon many years after it’s composition. I’m not really sure what I make of it, nor can I remember who I wrote it for but, am nonetheless intrigued by it!
Malcolm

BEING [Fourth Draft]


God spoke –
I dare not listen.

I could not face
the stillness
of simply being there.

God spoke:
there were no words –
I simply saw

the suffering of others.
I could not share

the stillness
of simply being there.

One day I knew
God could not speak -
I used my eyes,

I saw and felt
the suffering of multitudes –
I listened to their cries –

then cautiously I whispered
“I am here”

and from my helplessness
I knew -
that God was there.




Malcolm Evison
28 July 2005

An Attempt At Reverse Fiction Folds

"Unlike my other blogs, this one will be dedicated to an ongoing fiction and (perhaps) occasional poeticisms! +++ The first entry represents THE END of the fictional work (sounds like a reference to TS Eliot); eventually a beginning may disclose itself!"

Thus read the original heading to this 'blog site but, now the site turns toward other purposes. Keep watching .... a sign may soon appear!!

Where It All Started - finally

All that had happened earlier, he safely could ignore. Amnesia was not his own, simply the perogative of those around him. This time he really had let go; he thought a little while about reality but, what the heck, he knew he was no other's keeper!

Slowly he turned to face another day. The calendar unwound itself, he knew he could never return.

Reality?

"Reality, what on earth is that?".

His feet seemed to beat a wild rhythm as he paced up and down, an almost primeval stomp but, this could still not match the pounding in his head.

His eyelids flickered, as if to reveal his uncertainty. Always, the feeling that he was being controlled, swayed by some unseen force, overruled his desire to share; this 'other' held him tight, bound for ever to his own solitary dis-ease. Already, forgetfullness held court ...

All around him, the people seemed to understand, to know where they were headed and, to have at least an inkling of where they had come from. For all he tried, there were no memories, just the one vague recollection of a smile. Although he dwelt alone, he never could ignore that strange other world beyond the front door, but when had this begun, how long had life been so contained?

If this was all ... this can't be all ... there must be more.

His thoughts raced; what was the more to which he felt entitled and, would that more be such as one would normally want to remember? He roamed the carpeted cage, afraid to sit down, even afraid to prepare himself for sleep. "What if ..?", he muttered to himself, "what if this really is a dream".

He watched the moon, tonight it seemed to skip amongst the clouds; now that's reality he thought. This time his thought had an air of assurance. "It will come back", he told himself, "it will return!". At that, he felt he could relax; sit down, stretch out his legs, allow himself repose.

He was at home, he was alone.

Penultimate Beginning

Though solitude had never proved itself a fine companion, a certain stubborness prevented him from yielding to any alternative liaison! A certain stubborness of spirit was his inheritance, an heirloom for which he never had been able to find any takers.

His thoughts roamed the horizon of his apartment, the world outside could only promise turbulence. What did it mean; that smile, the young girls smile, whatever could it mean. He'd never found it difficult before, to refrain from any response, but this time he knew it was different. Perhaps she had seen through his steely gaze, seen to the broken core of his humanity.

Time to decide. To venture out or to remain; forever locked into a past he never knew, he wondered if the future would also remain unknown.

In The Beginning - an episodic fiction

"Always", he said, "it always ends like this". And this time he was right; the night sky lit by distant lights, the rain that washed away his dreams of solitude, no way could this continue.

But could this really be the end, the whimper hanging in exclamatory fashion but lacking the full stop.The world had changed around him, he alone remained oblivious to the flux.

Was it just yesterday the young girl smiled at him? Did she in fact smile?

The old uncertainties returned; "it is finished", he sighed, "the golden dream has gone", but had it ever been much more than an illusion?

He thought again, broke down before the memory bank of smiles, "it always ends like this" he sighed, "it always ends!"

A cloud passed by, he felt its shadow choking against the moon.