Thursday, February 08, 2007

In My Craft Or Sullen Art by Dylan Thomas

I can die a pauper if I can write like that. Today isn't one of the brightest moments of my life. I miss writing like nothing else. Here, they have bought my services and my time... perhaps soon, my life?

Something Dylan wrote.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

My friend is a writer. A good one. So I stole one of the poems he wrote to add lustre to my blog.

The Storm

You lay beside me
In the violence of the storm-drenched night
Your prisoner
I had surrendered when on you I first laid sight

In the dark
I could feel the shimmer of your smooth skin
As it slipped
Open and without any hesitation took me in

And the light
That I could see in the deep black of your eyes
Shone steady
And slowly peeled off my every little disguise

The moisture
On your mouth I remember tasted both salty-sweet
I wanted more
My thirst was so uncontrollably unquenchably deep

My searching lips
Slid across your skin crafting their own little tale
From your secrets
You let me lift every carefully woven veil

You were so soft
As I lifted you whole in the cradle of my arms
You gasped
Before letting me drink of your succulent charms

The storm rose
As outside the war thundered and came to a head
Your hair
Clung to my skin and to our silver-drenched bed

We rode desperate
Buffeted by the raging of the wild, grey flood
You bit into me
And it wasn't long before we both drew blood

Drained of red
You were too exhausted to even try to look pleased
Drained of white
I was turned inside out and brought down to my knees

Years have passed
But your taste still remains on my tongue
On lonely nights
I lie and remember how once we'd become one

And an ache
Rises from within that never truly subsides
For another night
when you were the storm that lived in my eyes

The ache
It's back with a vengeance and crawls on my skin
My door
Is wide open and waiting for you to come right in

------------------Ananda Ray

in anonymous hands

I wish I was someone else
Just for a day when no one's looking
Pretend to be your wife, neighbour or lover
As long as no one knows my name

Not take calls, not visit anyone
One unique moment spent alone
In the darkness of another room
That can never be mine

Buy flowers for another vase
Water their plants if they have
Walk their dog and then
Disappear without a forwarding address

Arrange it for me will you
But don't tell me your name
For a long and wandering day
I'd like to be in anonymous hands


Burnt cigarette ends
Smeared lipstick
Stained bed sheets
Desperate bodies.

The phone rings
A soft voice
Pleading and begging
Ruffle of clothes.

The door slammed
Bizarre dreams
The taste of hash
A broken heart.

Dozens of men
Some pregnancy tests
Two abortions
A loveless dream.

The Empty soul
The twisted mind
The beggar in me
Is out for more.