Wednesday, 29 March 2017

L'Esprit dans le Ciel

J'ai vu, certainement, un fantôme aujourd'hui,
et vous êtes positive que je n'ai pas,
mais c'est à j'ai dit.
Il a apparu dans le ciel, et dispara
lorsque le noir de la nuit échange à lumière.
Quand il a chanté: aussi, mon couer a chanté.
Mais vous ne croyez, et même-si il est derrière
vous, vous ne croyez; nos âme a teinté.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

And When Godot Comes...

This being an extension to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.

    It was late in the evening, dark and cool, when she stumbled upon them. The air felt thick and wet upon her skin as she stared down at them, and screamed. She screamed for a while, and was about to call the police when it suddenly occurred to her that she was technically a detective and so this would be rather nonsensical of her. Instead she called her friend and partner, Detective Murphy Ottern, Canada’s second best paranormal investigator.
    He arrived shortly thereafter, unconcerned and, unusually, whistling merrily. He was not typically given to such displays of emotion, she recalled, but then again they weren’t usually on vacation so she supposed she could make an exception. He flipped his walking stick about and opened it to reveal an umbrella, which surprised her still further. It didn’t look like it could fit such a thing.
    Detective Ottern bent down to examine the corpse, as he usually did, sighing as he went, as he usually didn’t. “Zut alors! Why is it whenever I come to France someone ends up murdered in a mysterious and preternatural way? Always. I remember the last time I came, before I met you, there was that madcap gnome and his murderous french toast. And french toast isn’t even French! I mean, this didn’t happen when we went to Singapore. Oh, wait…”
    His eyes gained the gentle touch that was the mists of remembrance, and Delores coughed to bring him back to reality. He blinked, embarrassed for the first time that she could remember, and resumed his examination of the two mouldering skeletons. They were vibrating faintly, as if communicating with each other, and in opposite directions to that of the winds and blowing trees.
    There was a forest about them, a young one, the bark on the trees anthropomorphically less wrinkled than one might expect from an ancient wood. It was Spring, so the branches were in full bloom, although there was still a thin layer of loam along the ground which coated Murphy’s knees as he examined the rotting and clearly arthritic bones. He nodded, satisfied, as was usual for him, and stood up as he quite often did.
    “So? Do we have a case?” Delores asked, excited with a nervous dread about another case with Detective Murphy Ottern. But he merely shook his head. She was shocked.
    “What? No case?”
“No; I know these men, and of them. I met them years ago, when they were still youth, while on another vacation in France. We were supposed to be picking grapes to press wine, but I got drawn up… in another matter. Suffice it to say, there is a reason I am called L’Apparition here, but it does not include them. No, these two gentlemen are here for another reason.”
Delores’ interest was piqued, although Murphy seemed hesitant to continue. She eventually got him, by means of some cajoling that I shan't bother transcribing, to finish, although he did so reluctantly and with little aplomb or explanation.
“Suffice it to say, to wait for Godot is to wait endlessly, and these two gentlemen are waiting still. But I’ll say no more on the matter; there is a fine French cheese waiting back in the suit that I have literally carved my name into.”

Friday, 17 March 2017

Requiem for the Undead

An aeon passed,
a silent thing with sleep in grasp.
Work, drudgery and joyous, overtook.
And in the lengthy shadows of the night,
light returned, steeped in twilight.

It staggered, weak, like a thing reborn,
as the author returned once more to the stone.
Grinding, grinding, and sharpening his blade.
The pen and the sword the same made.

I was gone for a while,
lost in my mists,
as work dragged me down
into thunderous abyss.

But I am returned,
like a Requiem for the Undead
to a place hallow, the quill a feathered friend.

Tuesday, 7 March 2017

T.S. Eliot; A Romantic Comedy

The streetlamp danced about the pickly pear, the prickly pear,
streaks of silver in his hair.
I, him, am hollow inside, a stuffed man,
having rebuffed a voluptuous' wooing plan.
And so I, the streetlamp, weary of travel
did set out on a journey of travails.
By the breath of pine and fog of moonsong,
Hoo haw! Hoo haw! The veil insubstantial afore long.
And as the guilt of sorrow's sweet light,
the streetlamp's gaze, lifts off into the night,
Oh! If this is the way the world ends,
then by mermaids' melancholy
        and remembrance's lust I must seek dividend.

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Ode to the Ides

Of all the eves of March bewares the ides.
Flee if you can; if you cannot, hide.

Stop not to leave prints in muddy snow;
      it is half dad, a relict from water derived.
Nor should one smell the flowers,
     their sickly sweet scent and death's are without divide.
Go down to the hovels, the holes,
     to black cellars crawl, cover with eaves of ives.
Mask oneself; in covered coats,
     do hide, avoid the spirits deride.
But you shan't listen, I know, for the
     Decline of Empiricism is corrupted pride.