Thursday, 9 May 2013

Poems from The Bubble of Now

I am posting and storing these poems all gathered together here meantime, some having appeared earlier in the blog and often accompanied by images. They are presented in the order in which they were written, and will probably be added to as more are produced. As they sink beneath the sediment of future posts they will remain accessible via the link now in the sidebar. They are, of course, all copyright of Don QuiScottie, aka Andrew Scott (under which my old science books and journalism are published) and Andrew MacLaren-Scott (being used for my new ventures in more "creative" writing). Please do not reproduce any without full acknowledgement, and if anyone does they will have all three of us - Don QuiScottie, Andrew Scott and Andrew MacLaren-Scott - riding in mouth-foaming anger to do bad things to them, and nobody would want that. Perhaps nobody would want to reproduce them, but it has to be said.

___________________

 
Move over, move on

Don't be defined by what you used to be
and the disappointment of what you are not
nor constrained by where you wanted to go
but move on now from what you have got.
The choices you made could be wrong
the path that was travelled not right
but move over, move elsewhere, move on
if a path looks inviting, tonight
The old you can still be abandoned
or some bits be retained, some forgot
The person your history suggests that you are
could well be the person you're not
Today and tomorrow, tomorrow
is all that need bother you now
Take the reins of the way you are thinking
and divert it from bad thoughts, somehow



The Bubble of Now

Trying to live life
in the bubble of now
cut off from the past
and the future somehow
living what is
not what has been
nor fearing things coming
that cannot be seen
Outside of the bubble
find worry, regret
Safe in the bubble
is the best we can get



Delightfully Dismal

It's pouring rain
I've got a cold
With every moment
I'm growing old
The Earth is held
by grim gravity
which deems Spring can't come
until the first Spring day
Things could be better
Things could be worse
Look out and smile?
Look in and curse?
My brain says "dammit"
My mind says "be happy"
This is our planet
and most other ones are crappy



Necessary logic

A hand raised in greeting
then slowly retracted
A shared contemplation...
then gladly distracted
No gain without pain
No life without death
No space for renewal
without constant removal
That necessary logic
is a tough thing to see
when I look in his eyes
and his eyes look at me
But his eyes are a mirror
and seeing them shine
I examine his future
and also see mine



A metaphorical moment

You may declare
that I was only watching football
and having a drink
but it was, I swear
a metaphorical moment
I think
This game
This life
This struggle
This strife
This happy
This sad
This good
This bad



Sunshine on old stone

Something about the warm glow
of sunshine on old stone
Just something about it
like there is about so many simple things
and in this cold north winter land
almost always what the sunshine brings



Digital reality

Something and nothing
is all that you need
one and zero
down a USB lead



Absence

Sometimes most important
is the thing that's not there
in the significant pause
or the space on the chair
the gap in the atoms
the sentence not said
the chemical patterns
of a mind that's now dead



Sometimes

Sometimes a man
just has to sit and wait
as time congeals
into a semi-solid state
and shoes are picked
then replaced again
and the faint tick of a clock
strikes his head with pain
The shoes go on
the shoes come off
voices become murmurs
that seem so far off
In a desperate moment
of sad introspection
he looks at a mirror
and captures his reflection
Then eventually her voice
makes him prick up his ears
but, “I'll just try next door”
brings the man close to tears



Gas mask

In my grandmother's attic
aged about five
I found a gas mask
and lifting it to my face
I knew what it was
as I inhaled the smell of rubber
and of fear
and I wondered what it would be like
to hear
the sirens sounding
or the whistle warning
and alone in that attic
I first grasped the reality
that I would die
and as I cast the mask aside
and wandered out and back
to a sunny summer
and a searching mother
I was changed
and deranged
from the innocence of the child
as a warm quiet day
became internally cold and wild



Chemical assistance

Diphenhydramine hydrochloride
has become a new friend
to keep by my bedside
When the mind's full of madness
or thoughts bordering on badness
I can reach for the pill
that makes neurons fall still
It beats being boozy
brings on peaceful snoozy
but take it too much
and my thoughts become woozy
And I have some suspicions
when pondering amorous missions
some are dropped in my water
before I cause too much bother



Tunnelled

One tunnel just leads to another
it seems to me these days,
and are they harbouring danger
or shelter in gloomy ways?
And that light I see at the end,
is it trouble or is it my friend?
From tunnel, to tunnel, to tunnel,
until the tunnel at the final bend



Keyboard

Pressing these keys
in just the right order
can make meaningful thoughts
from potential disorder,
can make people laugh,
or make people cry,
and want to live longer
or just want to die,
can make money aplenty
and the firmest of friends,
or spark bitter battles
when a sequence offends,
so where next I wonder
with my flickering digits,
words that will help me
or meaningless fidgets?



Wondering

Forward or back?
I wonder?
Have I really any choice?
I wonder?
Any choice to wander
or not to wander,
I wonder?



Today's I

My age today
is the only age I will ever be
for today is the only day
that the I of today will ever see
Each day is a life
and each evening I die
it's hard to remember
but I really must try



The morning battle

The voice in my head
said
get out of bed
The syrupy mind
in a bind
the will couldn't find
Get up
Can't be bothered
Get up
What for?
To live
Why?
You'd rather die?
Sigh...
The mental cogs clashed
and crashed
and ground
until at last
I rose
and found
improvement
until tomorrow
comes round
and
The voice in my head
said
get out of bed
The syrupy mind
in a bind
the will couldn't find
Get up
Can't be bothered
Get up
What for?
To live
Why?
You'd rather die?
Sigh...



Fighting age

Fighting bad memories
and thoughts of the future
trying to bind sanity
with thin mental sutures
It's the battle of aging
the struggle for the old
worrying about rust
but still hoping for gold



The Badness

Waking up,
feeling bad
full of every problem
I've ever had
Looking forward
feeling dread
of the journey on
until I'm dead
Looking for positives
finding none...
but then a glimmer
of an internal sun
Sit up.
Feel better,
drain away
Cope and handle
just this day
Do I need a doctor?
Do I need a pill?
Or can I get better
with my own will?
I hate this badness
I hate this mad
This waking up
and feeling sad



It passes

When depression comes
remember it goes
it's here and gone
in ebbs and flows
You feel so awful
it's hard to remember
that a miserable August
could bring a happy September
Or a desperate morning
can be gone by the night
A struggle to get up
then soon feeling alright



Change the Day

I am prone to bouts of gloom
indeed deep depression
that falls over me
like a thick sticky blanket of hopelessness
and yet inside of me there is a little voice
that tries to persuade that if I could only try
I could change the day
and bit by bit cut the bastard blanket away
which is what I think I did, eventually, today
with slimy ribbons still sticking to my head
as I run away
And as for tomorrow ?
Who can say ?



Antidepression

Antidepression is about controlling your thinking
Turning off negatives
that can fast have you sinking
Focusing on positives
about only the day
Living the now
is the simple safe way
Good memories are welcome
the bad ones can rot
Live for the moment
with tight rein on each thought



What if?

What if this is all there is
What if this is "it"?
No hidden mysteries
or extra dimensions
Just us, alone... Oh shit!
No parallel universes
or Gods or aliens
rocks are just rocks
with no mysterious matters
and life short and meaningless
and just for a bit?
Dead, alive, dead again,
nothing then something
with comings and goings
that mean nothing at all?
It's something to think of
a point for our focus
that wet wednesdays and boredom
are about the sum of it all.



A life is an imaginary concept

When reviewing a life becomes daunting
remember it's never about your whole life
It's about living the next few minutes
to find fun and avoid pain or strife
Yesterdays and all your tomorrows...
Don't dream of reviewing that way
Why be swamped by imagined totality,
when 'your life' doesn't exist,
I'd say



Living the day

My life began this morning
for I refuse to accept ''getting old''
Each day is a new beginning
A life with one day to unfold.
Then I die yet again in my sleep
as consciousness dissipates and ends,
to be reborn to a new life tomorrow
for whatever that new life then sends



Insomaniacal

Awake until 5 am
Lying with mind turning
wondering when
the neurons will rest
and a fevered brain
will sleep again
But awake, awake
until 5 am...
Then gone quite sudden
to return at 8
Not enough sleep
so back off again until late
Then trying to get up
as the head fills with madness
Trying to get up
to drain off the sadness
Awake, awake
trying to say
'get up, get up'
and live the day



Same thought, different day

Thinking about the future?
Remember that man said 'that's mad'
Anything beyond this here minute
is the place where the thoughts make you sad
This tea
this moment
this night
Stay in it and you may be alright



Me on Meaning

What does it all mean?
I was asked early today
My answer is nothing
I heard myself say
Things proceeded without you
before you were here
and will march on relentless
after all you hold dear
I am dying this evening
in the moment called sleep
and dying for good
is just sleep but more deep
If it happens tonight
do you think it will matter?
The wind will still blow
and the rain will still patter
A meaningless cycle
without any deep reason
spinning and spinning
through season and season
While some talk of God
I just find that odd
Big beings there may be
but they won't care about me
Maybe I'm stupid
Maybe I'm wrong
But I won't have to ponder
these issues much longer
A tide is approaching
that will wash us away
try to enjoy its encroaching
and live for the day



The human condition

Oh… Just there…
these past few moments…
my mind was calm
and focussed on now
The past was gone
the future was absent
as both are always
but that's hard to remember somehow
That girl is young
That man is old
That book is open
Its lie is sold
I have a suspicion
as I ponder submission
that frail mental chemistry
is the human condition



Mind Me

I am a Mind
So search within me
What will you find?
What will your science see?
Chemistry, moving, making thinking?
or mystery leaving science just sinking?
Atoms, molecules, ions, all matter
swirling around in nerves that chatter?
A place for freedom?
Some scope for chance?
Or a fine but predetermined dance?
A soul?
A hole…
with nothing in it?
A persisting essence?
Or something made just minute by minute?



Every day

Every day,
in recent time,
I wake,
and feel just fine
Then as I lie
I remember, and I worry...
I have to try
not to recall,
at all,
or just not to lie.
Sigh...



Infernal Internal

It doesn't last
remember that
it doesn't last
Well good
but that's the problem
What?
It doesn't last
Ah yes, I see
but the problem will pass
trust me
I do
but then another one will come
or perhaps another few
I know
So?
Just hang on, hang on
this one and that one will just go too
everything is so soon in the past
don't you know?
I do
So?
That's the problem, see?
What? Things lasting but things passing?
Yes, I know, there's just no pleasing me
Ah, I see
And you are?
Eh… You… Well… Me



Armistice... Fight on...

The 12th day of November 1918
was not what some might allude
as humans fighting humans
actually just continued
and carried on, and on
with some war waging every dawn
Wars are always with us
never gone
And at the going down of the sun
and in the morning
we still fight on



Head Ahead

I am living in the dead times
I sometimes think
the empty in the head times
in black mood sink
with proper living done and gone
standing after end of song
A song that even when sung fully
was never really singing, truly
So looking back to wasted land
then gazing on at paths in sand
lifting feet, lifting head
another song
or quietly dead?
Turn…
sidestep…
a different way?
A place to sing
another day?
So now, my man
what is the plan?
The plan is yes…
is yes, you can



Writing Rubbish

Writing rubbish
keeps me sane
I've ever been thus
and will never chan…
ge
Poetry, prose
or mixed mush in the middle
If a rhyme is needed
it can always be fiddle…
d
Maybe I'm crazy
maybe I'm mad
maybe just dreadful
maybe just bad
But cheerful
not tearful
is a good way to be
and writing this rubbish
keeps cheerful in me
However…
I may think better of this
and delete in the morning
that's not a promise
it's just a clear warning
One thing about writing
is don't trust the night
never submit until looked at in light
But rubbish
gets published
That's easy to see
So if others write rubbish
then why not me?



The verdict of a visitor who has seen enough

Spaceship Earth?
A ship of fools
Fools of opinion
from nonsensical schools
What rubbish they speak
What mad belief
What blindness to ignorance
What delusions they seek
No point discussing
or writing or reading
as they anti-evolve
with intelligence receding
I'm done, I'm gone, I've had some fun
I'll find somewhere better
around some other sun



The Torturer

I torture myself with my mind,' he said to me,
as we sat together, waiting.
'Oh, but you are your mind, aren't you?' I asked.
'Oh! You feel that too? Well yes, it's true I torture myself by thinking then.'
'Which is what minds do.'
'And who are you? I don't know you.'
'Neither do I, really,' I smiled.
And he said, 'Sly… That's you,' and he smiled too.
And the clock ticked on above his head,
while he continued with, 'My pills don't work, I think.'
'Ah, pills to stop you thinking, might be the best.'
'My mind just needs a rest,' he told me.
Then his name was called,
and I wished him all the best,
and pondered what had brought me there
and thought, 'just cuts and bruises,
damaged swollen flesh,
is much better than a damaged mind that's desperate for rest.'



Unity

I may be you
and you may be me
if our consciousness rises
from the same consciousness sea
and every half aware creature
from dog and cat to platypus
has a mind arising from the same deep thing
as you and me and all of us
your individuality an illusion
like a photon from electric waves
a temporary protrusion
that enlightens
but never stays
So be good to me
and I'll be good to you
because we are the same deep person
held in the same sticky conscious glue



Humility

The galaxies are moving outward
it seems
but anything more is guessing
almost dreams
of origins and endings
or in and out eternal wendings
Life has lived a very long time
the fossil record tells us
but tales of origins
and tales of ends
are thinkings too adventurous
We are burning fuels
like wanton fools
and pumping out dioxide
but nobody knows
if our activities pose
a genuine threat of suicide
There may be gods
there may be none
and nothing new beyond our sun
We try to reason
and draw conclusions
but false certainties
are our mad delusions



The Dark Tide

Purpose or purposelessness?
Point or no point at all?
Thoughts that allow appreciation
of why religions were invented
even with chance of truth so small
Blinking in the glare of reality
which really, surely does not care
Having the courage to face inevitability
accepting…
there's probably nothing for us there
Whether true or false
the fight continues with this thinking
that interrupts
the daily routine
and leaves the spirits sinking
A cup of coffee
time out for a rest
recalibration
forgetting future and past
just for a while, is best
Then a stubborn smile
a small rekindling of satisfaction
with an invented reason to move on
chasing some illusion
trying to ignore it's just distraction
A frail Venice of some contentedness
now glinting in sudden surprising sun
while still creaking on its sodden shaky stilts
as the dark tide recedes again
and you return to things you still want done



My father in me

When I reached an age that I could remember my father at
everything changed
and from then on I had to measure my life
against that of him…
Am I really the same age as when my father did this?
Am I really the same age as when my father did that?
Am I really the same age as when my father began to look old?
And so, soon to come, when senility took hold?
And each day in the mirror
there he is looking at me
and am I ever so slightly stooping now
as did he?



Stress

'He's off with stress, for two months now.'
'Off with stress?' the man returns,
'I'll tell you what stress is…
Stress is standing in a sodden trench, aged 19
and waiting for a whistle's blow
to send you running towards raging guns.'
'Hmm… well yes,' the other one responds,
'but stress is in the head,
and in the head,
in the mind, sometimes
just moving on, though doing nothing,
can be as bad as running into being dead.'
'Nonsense.'
'Not.'
'It's nonsense.'
'It's not.'
'We disagree'
'We do,
and I only hope that one day
stress in the mind does not visit you.'
'Aw stress… Boo hoo…
He needs to pull himself together man,
and you do too.'
'Maybe yes. Maybe no.
Unless you are inside his head,
how can you know?'



Tempus non fugit

Time flies?
Where do the years go?
Is it running faster?
Ach no…
Time is always stuck stopped
at the moment of Now
while things move into Now
and out of Now
somehow
If they didn't
forever come and go
Now would be very boring
you know



Moving on

Appreciate the pleasure
we can find amid decay
since we pass our prime
in physical life rather early
Our mind spends a long time
in a beaten-up old machine
but if that still moves and still steers
we can still travel and still dream



Walking

Walking alone through the lonely old streets
just me, then a cat that my solitude meets
A pat and a snuggle
a start, a retreat
an owl in the darkness
and a breeze through light sleet
A dark quiet village at the base of a hill
where I wandered while young
and I wander now, still



The Struggle

Why do we agonise over things that no longer exist?
Days that are done and people who are gone?
Why do we worry about things that may never come?
Seeking the dark rather than enjoying brief sun?
There just is today, and today and today...
No tomorrow will arrive, no return to yesterday.
Today and today and today and today...
Why do we struggle to live life that way?



Being an adult

Being an adult
is largely about pretending
that you have grown up
disguising the inner child
with words and bluster
and serious demeanour
while inside still wandering
the roads of fantasy and nonsense
that you used to travel openly
but now making sure that nobody notices
until back home alone
in the darkness
the child returns
to laugh
and cry
inside



I do remember

I do remember
some first coming into consciousness
with a glimmer of
"Oh… what's this here?"
but in pure thought
rather than unlearned words
while lying on a bed
looking out of a very young head
that became this much older one
now wondering about being dead
and still pondering
but now with some fear
"Oh… what's this here?"



That Cloud Again

Yes. It has been here before
The one inside my head
"It can just be personality," a doctor said
While elaborating on my thoughts, I tended to agree
"Your thoughts are true, but best not dwelt upon," said she
"Turn away from reality? Is that what you suggest?"
"Sometimes," she said, "That's for the best."
adding, "Look at me, and what I see?"
Which prompted me to offer that she was much like me
"Perhaps," she said, "But I prefer not to say."
And we smiled
and wished each other "Good Day."



Gone

A pattern of thoughts
in a head much like mine
was extinguished last night
at too early a time
A fine person has gone
I think not anywhere
just dissipated and vanished
as into thin air
Others may tell me
to hope for his soul
but my sad contemplation
sees a dark empty hole
For what had a beginning
must too have an end
Not that I know, though
but goodbye my friend



Buildings and Birds

Big buildings built from heavy stones
raised high towards the sky
prove life as much as any bird
that flapping flutters by
All improbable constructions
doomed to crumble or to die



Bloomin' Birthday Boy... Bah...

Fifty-eight circles
around the sun are done
so here we bloomin' go now
on another bloomin' one
I did not ask to take this ride
in life I had no say
just "here you are" and "on you go"
and "do it", day by day
So round and round and round and round
and round and round I spun
sometimes feeling all was lost
and sometimes that I'd won
on fifty-eight bloomin' circles
round a hot and shining sun

But... 

I didn't ask my children
if they'd like this journey too
I just eyed up my lady and thought
Oh I fancy you
And thus does bloomin' nature
keep the carousel so busy
with unasked puzzled riders
spinning round and round 'til dizzy



A place to write rubbish
a tree to see
and all is fine
for a while with me

8 comments:

  1. I have just written quite a long comment which Google has swallowed up. Aaagh! I'll try again but I fear the moment has passed.

    There is no flippant response from me today: your work is too touching and skilful to be commented upon other than seriously.

    Thank you, Andrew. In so many of your poems I could hear myself talking. More than 20 years ago I "wrote" masses of poems. No! "Brain-dumped" is more appropriate. Some of you have had the misfortune of reading them.

    There is no misfortune today only pleasure but tinged with sadness at your revealing of the human condition; not just your condition but ours.

    Many, many thanks.

    Please keep writing.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks Calum. Much appreciated.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Oh my.

    I think you should have also mentioned Aileen's awful vengeance on those who steal your words.

    I liked some of these - a lot. 'The torturer' and the final verse on the page in particular hit home. Thank you. I will be back to browse again.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I like "Oh my" as a comment Soosie, I really do.

    You are welcome back for more torture any time :)

    Aileen is kept in reserve in case the first Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse are not fully effective. Aileen on Horse 4 (aka her Antigravity pod) can take people out of The Game altogether, with no fear of any human reprisal.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Very happy and relieved that your fine, eloquent, moving poems are accessible again. Thank you!

    ReplyDelete
  6. You are welcome Claude, and your appreciation is appreciated. There are 50 here. Maybe when I get to 100 I will also make them available in a little book form, but I write them for myself really, just being happy if anyone else can find anything in them too.

    ReplyDelete
  7. So good to be able to come and reread a few poems, while waiting for them to be in a book form. Sometimes, we need a push to keep going. Thank you!

    Hope you bring it to 100 poems soon. Keep well, and writing, friend!

    ReplyDelete
  8. I am pleased you can find something worthwhile in them Claude.

    ReplyDelete