[Dedicated to the Graingers - Percy and Rose]
1
the bells of love
chime
across the deep valleys of New York
over the tall buildings
that cathedral like
echo the fraught footsteps
of a mother’s agonising wait
pacing her life’s fear
(never to touch him again)
the accusatory stake crazing her heart.
she is no equal
to the whispering incest
that snaps at her heels –
that a mother’s love
the protection and nurture
should be so impaled
against the rotten core
of the canker
that spreads through the dark velvet
of the man
who gave her both a golden child
and unshakeable disease.
2
o pale blue rose
thou art sick
the dark underbelly of love
now holds you in its grip
the horror of decay, of sordid thought
and time’s passing
can no longer be staunched
by the longing
for girlhood’s simpler days.
this one and only musical child
nursed her ailing will
and kept her close to silver streams
but growing old
could never stem the hateful gossip:
“there she goes
the old princess
with her boy lover
flushed with crimson joy”.
3
in these giddy heights
above the Aeolian Hall
the poisonous letter neatly folded in her pocket
the sound of his music rises
through the metal grid of the tower
like an organ for the gods.
what chasm does she reach
what atonement imagined
for all those unsinkable sins.
what bridge beyond tomorrow
draws the window open?
did the ache of madness become unbearable?
sprouting wings
like the angel of love
she flings herself
and her imagined boy
upon the streets below
held briefly by a nest of radio waves
then sharply deformed
along the lines of 42nd street
and its jungle book ways.
Kipling’s world, the enchanted morality
collapsed under the impact of this violent love death
as the wildly loved bonnie boy
plunged himself
into a massive, crazed and frozen shape
as though
her life had kept him ‘Mignon’ light
ageless in her devoted embrace.
4
later, when the silence could be breached
he offered up this billet doux
the rearranged notes
fractured on the pavement
and threaded back to life
as warm memory
awakening
both fragility and essence
and a boy’s heartfelt thanks.
piecing together
the mosaic of delight
where beauty is transfixed
at last, in its passing
he played his pianola
and honoured her soft tread.
betwixt life and death
lies a suspended chord
and the utter strangeness of time.
Now
And forever
He sings of love
And its dead sweet rose.
Gar Jones - April 30th 2012
1
the bells of love
chime
across the deep valleys of New York
over the tall buildings
that cathedral like
echo the fraught footsteps
of a mother’s agonising wait
pacing her life’s fear
(never to touch him again)
the accusatory stake crazing her heart.
she is no equal
to the whispering incest
that snaps at her heels –
that a mother’s love
the protection and nurture
should be so impaled
against the rotten core
of the canker
that spreads through the dark velvet
of the man
who gave her both a golden child
and unshakeable disease.
2
o pale blue rose
thou art sick
the dark underbelly of love
now holds you in its grip
the horror of decay, of sordid thought
and time’s passing
can no longer be staunched
by the longing
for girlhood’s simpler days.
this one and only musical child
nursed her ailing will
and kept her close to silver streams
but growing old
could never stem the hateful gossip:
“there she goes
the old princess
with her boy lover
flushed with crimson joy”.
3
in these giddy heights
above the Aeolian Hall
the poisonous letter neatly folded in her pocket
the sound of his music rises
through the metal grid of the tower
like an organ for the gods.
what chasm does she reach
what atonement imagined
for all those unsinkable sins.
what bridge beyond tomorrow
draws the window open?
did the ache of madness become unbearable?
sprouting wings
like the angel of love
she flings herself
and her imagined boy
upon the streets below
held briefly by a nest of radio waves
then sharply deformed
along the lines of 42nd street
and its jungle book ways.
Kipling’s world, the enchanted morality
collapsed under the impact of this violent love death
as the wildly loved bonnie boy
plunged himself
into a massive, crazed and frozen shape
as though
her life had kept him ‘Mignon’ light
ageless in her devoted embrace.
4
later, when the silence could be breached
he offered up this billet doux
the rearranged notes
fractured on the pavement
and threaded back to life
as warm memory
awakening
both fragility and essence
and a boy’s heartfelt thanks.
piecing together
the mosaic of delight
where beauty is transfixed
at last, in its passing
he played his pianola
and honoured her soft tread.
betwixt life and death
lies a suspended chord
and the utter strangeness of time.
Now
And forever
He sings of love
And its dead sweet rose.
Gar Jones - April 30th 2012
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