FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1985

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Pam Heaven (4)
Lex Gigeroff (2)
Joe Blades (3)
Andrew Little (2)
Babila Mutia
Lord Byron (3)
Ajay Heble
Margaret Heneghan
Robyn Gladwin (2)
Sean Bedell (2)
Marin Acker
Thorn Wells
Shandi Mitchell
Moritz Gaede
Lesley Wilson
Jane Everitt
C.M.M.
David E. Ayer

Prose

Ajay Heble
Lori MacLean

Commentary

Elizabeth Stephen

[PDF]

Pam Heaven

 

 

[We are the cruel innocents]

We are the cruel innocents
the young romantics
wrapping the lies of the prophets
in our cotton wool cocoons
refusing to cut the cord
We withhold our bodies
with the pathetic power of slaves
but our minds have long walked the streets
sold cheap to a passing fad
the modern age

We are the eye of the whirlwind
the sickly complacent ego centre
holding existence out of sight out of mind
bobbing on the smooth abstraction
as the formless leviathan
glides below forgotten at present
patient in its eternity

O the vulgarity of this
doe-eyed innocence
mummified in the air-tight
compartments of a modern mind
inconsistency maddens
predator, victim
meld in form

I want no part of your national genocide
I don’t want to be
one of those small hard kernels
that pop in the heat of your cities
exploding upwards
to be absorbed by the atmosphere

the cold cruelty
the bloodless life
gathers thick and salty
in my saliva
until each finger
is an invading army
raping my village
burning my buildings

So American man
play your song
the hysterical staccato
plucked on straining strings
play on
as the pounding essence
beats below
“love bade me welcome
but I drew back”
chaos descended
and we turned and ran

silly little girl
put away your cardboard sword
no one writes social poetry anymore
Don Quixote is dead and gone
innocence is cruelty


                                        1985

 

a life called Jerusalem

too much art
my touch, my sound, my scent
unite in art
but limit communication
the blowing spark-filled ribbons of pure thought
flow through me
but not beyond
to be inside you
possess your form
feel my essence stretch to the tips of your fingers
glow in the ends of each hair
heart beating in twos
I can know your art
but I cannot be you
is there truth in this
  potential life
or must each of us
shoulder our wooden burden
through the winding streets
of a life called Jerusalem
the spirit will come reveal
itself in chaos
until the convulsing wrists
of anarchy are bound
over and over
by the leather thongs of limited minds
chaos to order
imposed tyranny of rational thought destroys the spirit
it seeks to understand
until the imposing structure
stands
dryed and brittle interior
the essence lost
under artificial order
so repeats the tragedy
played on the streets
of a life called Jerusalem


                                        October 1984

 

[in february]

in february
when the falling sheets of mist
had melted away the last of winter’s children
i called to you
my voice stabbing into
the billowing smears of grey paper
and falling back
muffled and deflated
not even making the city limits
i picked up my smothered defeat
as the grey city laughed back at me
and turning away
i could see february smile


                                        February 1980

 

[what am I]

what am I
sometimes i wish
i could separate the
reflection that pours through my mind
from the naked image that blushes in the sun.

                                        1983

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul