Song Of Frivolity

(Just about) sashaying past the ruined casino,

you’re a cheerless sight indeed;

a ruinous hunger for attention,

has left you all at sea.

Waves pound the rocks below,

a breeze ruffles the palms;

in flight from the fear of being ordinary,

you find yourself becalmed.

On the bench unforgiving,

cold wrought iron curlicues;

such an uncomfortable berthing,

after such a sparkling cruise.

Distraction is the enemy of promise,

energies turn toward pleasure;

originality drains, syphoned away

in pursuit of shiny treasures.

You’ve ended here on the promenade,

With Ovid you stare to the horizon;

there’s no one left to come to your aid,

this all of your own devising.

As waves pound the rocks below,

and a breeze ruffles the palms;

your flight from the horror of being ordinary,

has found you quite becalmed.

I remember:

Near the shore, where rivulets snake to the firth,

a concealed buttressed entrance, never breached, unearthed.

Our burrow, hollowed within sandy bank,

a cavernous warren, for which I gave thanks:

Home to all that seemed of worth.

When understanding we were quickly marked and moved,

These labyrinths -fashioned after much toil- proved

a retreat from craving, appetites, emptying of self.

Through tears, despair, preservation compelled

stillness, from the world removed.

By air vent came the cry of seagulls,

echoing through sand-cave, our secret cathedral, with

shrines to Aphrodite Urania and Ananke

that set energies flowing: a tumbling fanfare

and Dance to the Shells, in aspect unequalled.

There were paths not walked, faltering intent,

seasons of purgation, misgiving, bewilderment;

but a more rare, refined creature emerges,

neither languid nor frail from reflection or purges,

bright on Samphire, Purslane, Buckthorn, wonders dreamt.

It brought relief from the existence mechanical,

the Tyranny of Order, the Order of the Tyrannical.

Our burrow, hollowed within sandy bank,

a cavernous warren, for which daily I gave thanks:

Home to all that was magical.

But, desiring more, you left:

After trying here and there,

in wide Constanta you landed,

Finery slowly rusting,

by the world disenchanted.

The avenues of dissolution,

summoned what remained intact,

of wit, style, picaresque fiction,

a tiring flaneur, in a brief entracte.

To the wines of Dobrogea succumbing,

a carelessness, dishevelled dress;

holding court in midday cafes,

with weakened grasp, indifferent verse.

I responded to befuddled plea,

curiosity, true, but also concern;

what I found no longer could move me,

but required a lecture quite stern.

Distraction is the enemy of promise,

energies turn toward pleasure;

originality drains, syphoned away

in pursuit of shiny treasures.

You’ve ended here on the promenade,

With Ovid you stare to the horizon;

there’s no one left to come to your aid,

this all of your own devising.

On the bench unforgiving,

cold wrought iron curlicues;

such an uncomfortable berthing,

after such a sparkling cruise.

As waves pound the rocks below,

and a breeze ruffles the palms;

your flight from the horror of being ordinary,

has found you quite becalmed.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

November 2024

Song of Oizys

As Poet for the Order of Sadness and Loss,

Recorder of Sufferings,

Chronicler of Despair.

I spread before you this

Estate of Melancholy,

of dread, foreboding, leaden skies, forlorn weeping,

restless fantoms and downcast angels,

where the colour of the finest hearts is drained.

Are you resolved

to come here?

-this Realm of Misery,

terrible aspect, bleakness, ghastly apparition,

of lamentation and extinguished spirit,

where pretence and hubris perish, fall away.

I offer no respite or remedy;

no perfect system, no ‘closure’ for pain and grief.

Come walk within my walled garden,

Come walk within my walled garden,

of wretchedness, indifference, blank gaze, surrender,

stupefaction and numbness,

where the whining and scuttling of lost souls is loudest.

Should you wish to enter

-be prepared to forego all illusions, witness abundant miseries, unprettied aspect.

Here, you’ll experience the

wonderful, terrible, purity of uncertainty.

-Where bravery and hope shine even though truths wither.

-Where virtues quietly triumph even though despondency reigns.

In time you may feel at home

in this place of Non-Being,

in this place of Non-Being,

amongst the dripping trees, anguish, quiet resignation,

-lamentation, deep sighs,

where all our silly noise is smothered, silenced.

So, find a place.

Tears, Tears will flow

Tears, Tears, will flow

Our river carries all stirrings, wounds, triumphs and calamities,

to forgetfulness

in this Estate of Melancholy.

As Poet for the Order of Sadness and Loss,

Recorder of Sufferings, Chronicler of Despair.

I bid you

rest, 

rest, in the embrace of nothingness,

where, gradually, your light is dimmed,

guttering, e x t i n g u i s h e d.

But, bravery and hope shine even though truths wither;

virtues quietly triumph even though despondency abounds.

Come, sit by me.

Come, sit by me.

Faced with the horrors of impermanence,

what wonders we construct, to ward off hopelessness,

transmute appetites, romanticise desire,

embroider motivations, fill emptiness.

-what stories are imagined, invented, images and scenes repeated and conserved.

And…how we bitterly resist their collapse

in that awful morning of tearful loneliness when reality intrudes.

We bridle, retrench, are unwilling to admit awkward facts, the necessity for examination

…of our precious enchantments, captivations,

after all our heroic efforts to preserve things as we needed them…

those glowing, beloved, magical times.

Such fragile forms of memory… invented, elaborated, clung-to,

until, under harsher light, cohesion trembles,

our story separates from us,

the loss…. is recognised…

has already happened,

it has happened, is happening; and it’s sometimes just too much to bear.

And so, our self-mythology,

precious scripts, scenes of mysterious union,

passion, immutable love,

wonder and desire and treasured times,

slowly suffer dreadful alteration.

Amidst the wreckage,

we may bravely look at ourselves,

before rejoining the re-written scene, ourselves changed,

or, unreconciled, we suffer a final disappointment, defeat, darkness.

Take heart, illuminate what you may.

Come walk within my walled garden,

Come walk within my walled garden,

Here echo the very last cries of comforting delusions,

unheard pleas for justice, unrequited loves.

Our river carries all stirrings, wounds, triumphs and calamities, to forgetfulness

In time you may feel at home

in this place of Non-Being,

in this place of Non-Being,

In that awful morning of tearful loneliness,

when unwanted truths find us wretched,

In that awful morning of tearful loneliness,

Take courage, illuminate what you may.

Take courage, illuminate what you may.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

November 2024