Monday, October 20, 2008

20th October.

This is the first poem I performed in St. Mary's Place:

Now what we need to understand is this:
All we see is mostly lies.
This world conceals, confuses and confounds
And what we see is not the thing that it appears.
Hear me, if you have eyes.
See me, if you have ears.

This is a secret place
You’ll find it on no maps.
It has a talent to conceal itself
As we do our selves.
The first time I was brought here
I was guided by an angel in disguise.
Appearing like an ordinary punkish kind of being
With spiky hair, her piercings, and her jeans.
But I knew her to be an angelic force
With fiery hair and glowing eyes
And the most gorgeous celestial robes
Striding through the city streets
With boots and flaming sword
Proclaiming the the majestic power of the word.

And yet this angelic power, guiding me to this spot,
Got lost.
This little square had thrown up a mist
To test our faith and courage.
I see you begin the understand
The uncanny powers of this sacred place.
Enter it
With reverence and caution.

And here where we stand
Within the inmost grove of sacred trees
Don’t tell me you can’t see the trees
Or hear the singing of the nightingales!
I don’t want yet again
To hear how the stairway toheaven
Looks like a fire escape
Or how the temple kitchens, where the acolytes
Cooked and served such fragrant banquets, such celestial feasts
Appear to belong to a noodle franchise.
Don’t tell me
No-one goes through the doorway to the other world
And the inner sanctuary, the place of sacred power,
Is just a sub sub station for electricity.

What’s happened to us
What’s so degraded our sight
So debased our minds
That all we can use this precinct for
Is to park our cars in it?
Don’t lets be fooled
Or be deceived by the mundane.
It’s from the queen of earth and heaven
This square takes its name.

One day, like us maybe, she’ll find herself again
She’ll throw off all disguise
These concrete squares which mark the trees
Will crack and splinter as the forest grows again
As the whole city is reclaimed by mother earth
And this drab nightmare returns to dream.

Jo Clifford 12 September 2008
I don't know if it's quite your thing, but as I read your poem I found myself back in the Playhouse in 2003, watching Yes playing. I could quite easily hear Jon Anderson and Chris Squire singing your words.

I really like this poem, Jo!
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