black
My Poem “The Dark Horse”
In the breeze of the early morning air,
I walked to a place where I knew
something majestic would be
waiting for me there –
and as I got closer to them
I could almost feel the power of their stare,
and before I knew it I was looking
into the dark eyes of a horse
the colour of midnight Black,
who seemed to recognise me,
as I recognised them
as if they were a ghost from my past.
As I stood and stared at the physical
embodiment of “Black Beauty”,
from Anna Sewell’s novel,
a feeling of peace overcame me
and I felt an instant sense of calm –
as if I were a child, as if the horse
before me looked at me
as if I were a young foal.
To some people horses are approached
cautiously because their behaviour
can sometimes be temperamental;
however, to me a horse is one of
the most beautiful and intelligent
animals on Earth who has a heart
and a soul that is as complex
as they are magical.
From Stallions to Thoroughbreds,
from Arabians to Shires –
horses have a way about them
that is uniquely individual to them,
and in many ways horses are like people
because they feel, they think, they dream,
and they love to show and to be shown
affection;
and horses, like most complicated
creatures who people share a connection with,
also have a phenomenonal memory
and they may not actually require
being whipped while racing on a racecourse –
and that is one of the reasons why
I never feel any trepidation,
and why I did not feel nervous at all,
when I caught my first glimpse
of the statuesque presence of
the dark horse.
My Poem ‘The Shroud of Destiny’
The shroud of destiny…
the mysterious cloak of fate…
the lasting spirit that will walk
the Earth one day with the last of humanity…
the drape of infinity as dark
as the matter that veils
the wonders of outer-space…
the personification of all life
that can be seen waiting and contemplating
before a single wick of candlelight…
the one who knows the ultimate fate of the living
and where people go when they die…
they who have no face,
but who still have a form…
they who beckon from the end of days,
and who silently warn…
I have seen them…
I have stood and looked at them,
and I have been mesmerized by them…
I have wondered what they were thinking,
and what they would say to me if they could…
they who do not move when they are in contemplation –
and yet being in their presence
and seeing the darkness that covers them is enough
to bring out so many emotions and questions…
Destiny knows me… Destiny knows us all…
Destiny knows the days gone by, and the days yet to be…
Destiny knows so much, and Destiny says so much –
without even having to say a word…
you would think that staring into Destiny
would be a frightening thing for anyone to do,
but I personally believe that Destiny
is a silent teacher with so much to teach…
Destiny too has a destiny,
and until the day comes when they see themselves
in the mirror of time
I do not think they will ever speak…
as soon as I saw Destiny for the first time
I was inspired to write about them
in the voice of my gift: poetry –
and there they will stay
and walk the spaces between my words,
and so they will shadow my footsteps,
until the day when I turn around
and I accept and I wear
the shroud of my destiny.
“Destiny is always in the dark.”
My Poem ‘Corvus’
As black as the night-sky,
as intelligent as a mathematician,
as symbolic of life and death
as any bird that you will seeing flying in the sky,
the Crow is a bird that has always
gripped me with intrigue, awe, and fascination.
Crows have always been close by
when something life-changing and important
was just about to rise on the horizon;
there have been legends written and told
that tell of crows being messengers of life and the afterlife;
crows have featured in many supernatural stories
that walk a line of magic,
and tell tales of emissaries of hell and heaven;
if there we ever a bird that I would imagine
to be the perfect embodiment of night existing during the day,
it would have to be the crow, in every way –
even their black, pearl-like, eyes
are enough to elicit a shiver and a fright.
I often hear the caw of a crow;
I see a murder of crows almost every day;
I live very near to a forest of trees
in which crows roost and have a nest
on almost every branch of every tree,
and they have been there for longer than I know;
I have come face to face with a crow more than once,
and on more than one occasion it seemed to me
as if there was more to their fascination with me than I could ever say.
Crows are carriers of information;
crows are renowned in mythology as omens of gods and goddesses,
as tricksters, as reincarnated spirits,
who have unparalleled direction.
I believe there is more truth in a crows symbolism and significance
than legend or mythology could ever tell us.
In my bedroom, I have the most life-like
figure of a crow you will ever see,
and for some reason the sight of them
always gives me pause and focus;
and the name that I have given the crow perched on my bookshelf,
next to my Stephen King books,
is the same name as its genus –
the one and only ‘Corvus’.
My Poem ‘Turned Around’
While in the woods,
I got lost, I got turned around, and I lost my way;
while in the woods,
my path disappeared like pavement drawings
after a shower of rain;
while in the woods,
the wind blew through the trees;
while in the woods, time froze;
while in the woods,
there wasn’t a definitive direction for me to see;
while in the woods,
I found myself somewhere I did not know.
While in the woods, I heard distant noises;
while in the woods, my own potent survival instincts
focused every and all of my choices;
while in the woods, I walked past a tree
that looked as if it had been burned from the inside out,
as if it has been struck by lightning;
while in the woods, as I walked further,
I knew that the day was getting later,
because of the darkening of the day-lighting.
While in the woods, with every step that I took,
the colour of the leaves on the ground got darker and darker,
and after a time it looked as if I were walking on, and in, space,
because everything was black;
while in the woods, there were no signposts,
or anything that I or anyone could use as a marker,
and as my perception of time disappeared,
it did cross my mind for an instant
that I may never make it back.
While in the woods, the moon was the only source of illumination,
and even though it was an aid to me,
it still could not tell me where I should go;
while in the woods, you hear things rustling all around you,
but because there is hardly any light to see by,
knowing what might only be inches away from you
is something that you turn over in your imagination;
while in the woods, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck
stand on-end, and you wonder if, at some point,
you may not notice an obstacle right in front of you,
that might trip you up and send you head over toe;
while in the woods, you feel like you could walk for hours,
because your body and your mind
know that they should not be here after dark,
and all feelings of hunger or exhaustion
become distant memories and do not cross your mind for a second,
and as soon as you lose any semblance of sight,
all of your other senses unbelievably and radically become heightened.
While in the woods, you feel more deeply,
and your thoughts become louder;
while in the woods, and alone, your inner-voice becomes audible,
as you start talking to yourself,
and even the breaking of the tinniest of twigs
sounds like the roar of a crashing boulder.
While in the woods, you forget why you are in the woods,
and you ask yourself questions
that you might never have thought to ask at any other time before,
and may never ask those same questions again afterwards in the future,
but at the time you are asking them they are incredibly profound.
While in the woods,
you eventually find yourself in the very spot where you entered,
which may seem like a life-time ago,
however in reality you may discover that the time
is not what you think it is,
and the person that is you is not the one of the same mind,
and no longer focused on the same things,
as the you who walked into the woods,
and who somehow got turned around.
Mark The Poet 