mainline to the heart and other poems by Clive Matson

Title: mainline to the heart and other poems
Author: Clive Matson
ISBN: 9781587901393
Publisher: Regent Press/2009
Pages: 85



I had not heard of Clive Matson before this. As most of you know, I like to explore varied genres of poetry. Jacqueline Lasahn, Publicist at cosmicdance was kind enough to send mainline to the heart and other poems to me, when I requested for it.

Clive Matson wrote this book of poetry in 1966, that period in which sex, drugs and religion were burning issues. His poetry too pertains to that with an exploding intensity. With raw honesty, he has the knack to touch our inner core.

On the surface, his poetry might depict celebrating sex and drugs but those also show that true joy has nothing to do with the baser instincts. The poems dwell on the wounded, bruised state of mind, hitting hard at times but do not crush our spirits. The poetry may border on pornography but are handled with such sensitivity which is very rare to find.

....She's is not good enough for me, oh no!
Besides her breasts are too small.
I give woman a disease.
A woman in love with me:
......................................Trouble.
.............................Man's conceit

~~~Page 19, Talk about love

.......................................Even the peyote/LSD
taste of ecstasy and peace with the world
soured to nausea by a growling stomach
and my aching groin

~~~Page 25, The Jungle

................Opium today.
..................................My Brain is loaded.
.....................Put down
the spike, wipe a red dribble
oozing out the hole in my arm.
The whole arm lit bright by the sun.
......................................................Blink-Blink


~~~Page 27, Psalm


I tried to turning on love when its blush had faded
Pressed her hard for salvation and she burst
in my hand exploding bile that
brought me down to Earth.

~~~Page 73, Love Soured


The poems stay within the mind for a long time after reading those. The emotions ooze from each page. A book worth reading but not for those who like everything nicely tied up.

coloured walls

laying on the lumpy bed
my eyes pinpoint
markings on that wall
maroonish & poignantly purple
made by what?

I look askance at the roof
peeled, chipped paint
fall on my head
maybe my staring
needed to loosen the plaster

this room- I have lived
here for what seems
like aeons with no past-
future seems to be
a naught too

still who wants to leave it?
stinkiness is part of me
the same left by you
to torture me
torment my memories

I light a match;
throwing it under my bed
I lay down again watching
the walls melting to the smoke,
which engulfs me in no time

alongwith with me
everything turns to ashes
at last I managed to burn your
blood soaked clothes-
leaving behind no evidence.

coiffured

she looked into the mirror,
dabbed a bit of perfume
touched up her lips,
checked on her studs

perfectly coiffured
with not a single hair
out of place, yet again
she smoothened her dress.

satisfied with herself
she was ready to face
the world, as of now.
she was so afraid of aging

a dead giveaway-
her knotted fingers!

over the ridges and hard planes

my palm flattens on your chest
fingers fleetingly flutter
synchronizing with your heartbeat
oblivious to me, you sleep on-
supposedly dreaming of me?

your shirt on that chair
half-torn, gently sways
to the fan above, dancing
to the shadows on the wall
from the starlit summer night

my palm moves yet again
over the ridges and hard planes
feeling the warmth of you
sighing, I fall heavily beside you
contented yet unsatisfied

if I could wake the sun up now, I would
on second thoughts, why should I

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks Aila for the italized line.

A Climb Through Altered Landscapes by Ian Parks

I read the following yesterday. I wish to share this with my blogger friends. I am cross-posting this from my Reading Room blog.

Title: A Climb Through Altered Landscapes
Author: Ian Parks
ISBN: 09552855739
Publisher: Blackwater Press/1998
Pages: 50

I got this book from Ms Alex of Daemonwolf Books. As I write poetry, I am always happy to receive poetry books.

Ian Parks' poetry touches many realms. The concrete as well the abstract. In the same poem you can find many layers. On a first read, most of his poems can be taken as love poems but not so. Those also make us glimpse nature, the seasonal changes. His love poems are in no way mushy but for me those are steeped in spirituality. I also see endless possibilities. He is one earnest poet. His writing reactivates the mind in multi-directions.

Quoting from his poems:

.......I'd left the wardrobe open:
in a queue behind the door
the stiffened shapes of our former lives
were waiting for the thaw......

~~~A Dream of Snow, page 11

Leaving wasn't easy
nor is this: the climb through altered landscapes,
different trees to find
each other as we really are.

~~~The Ridge, page 19

Afloat on a sea
of my own dreams, I was content
to let the pages fall while Sonny Boy was blowing
sweet and low. I woke
to a sunburst splintering
the trees: a rush of light.

~~~Hammock, page 17

Along with sense of loss, there is hope, beauty in that, regret and yet no regret. At places I found acceptance of that loss, after love was gone. Yet when it was there, nothing compared with that emotion.

For poetry lovers, readers as well as writers, Ian Parks' poetry is worth checking out. I am very glad I requested this particular book from all that she was offering to give away.

If interested, do check this interview with Ian Parks.

impermanence

if there was no change
what would we aspire for
if there was joy, only joy
would we know it, hold it?

in the impermanence
consciousness thrives and grows
into it we all come, equally
out of it we have to escape

in the motion of life
permanent can't come into being
if it did, you and I would be
merely & meaninglessly existing

~~~~~~~~~~~

It is more of a note to myself. On my birthday today, I needed to remind myself that the changes I am trying to making in my life, are for the better. I don't want to exist in same old rut. Not anymore. Gifting myself a poem, is a good way to start it. I know it is not one of my best. But so what? Even Keats produced trash at times!

holding on

his gnarled hands clutched the crutches
yet he fell on that crumbling stone wall
crumpling on to the brown earth
it felt so natural, laying there
almost soothing his frayed nerves
for so long those have been spookily ubiquitous
looking up at the dark soulless night
no more did he feel like a burden to his family