Sunday, 28 June 2015

Measured Tension

"Yes, Ms. Francon."

"She heard, in the measured tension of his words, that it was harder for him to speak them than for her to listen. So she listened. 'You must learn not to be afraid of the world. Not to be held by it as you are now. Never to be hurt by it as you were in that courtroom. I must let you learn it. I can't help you. You must find your own way. When you have, you'll come back to me. They won't destroy me, Dominique. And they won't destroy you. You'll win, because you've chosen the hardest way of fighting for your freedom from the world. I'll wait for you. I love you. I'm saying this now for all of the years we will have to wait. I love you, Dominique.' Then he kissed her and let her go." (The Fountainhead, pp. 376-377).

Ayn Rand. The Fountainhead. Signet. 1952

Sunday, 7 June 2015

I Know A Woman

by Rory A.A. Hinton

I know a woman
Who I see
Naked, but not
With my naked eye.
I've seen embodied ghosts
Dressed to kill me,
With their dull stilettoed knives
Sticking out from under
Shallow branded pockets.
Eye spy in my house of love,
Lusting for the nakedly real
This woman makes me feel,
So much more than lazy
Landed lovers drowning
Underneath the frozen pools
Of my unattainable eyes.

I know a woman
Who can swim,
Late at night under
The exotic theater lights
Of a cool pooled moon.
How I howl at her
Moonstruck full
Fathom five, six, seven, eight ...
Sinking down for the count
Below her moist surface
Tension staring me blind.
I remain the bottom feeder
Eating my Nymphaeaceae,
Born under the water
Bearing sign, baring
The deep emotional voice
Of this unsinkable scorpion.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

Alteri Sæculo

by Rory A.A. Hinton

The Sound Of Fallen Snow
Fell three years ago, now,
About a bridge mixture
With a fragile visitor
Biting off less than she could choose.
A pendulum soul caught swinging
Between Blake's communal crime
Seen, and heard, too much to trust
In Basho's chilly climate.

But that was then, and this is then.
Remembering this moment
Butchered out of my time,
About another patch worked collage,
And another snow jaded evening.
You held my glove, then,
Wrapped in that white blanket.
I talked of Masonic prophecy,
And you listened attentively,
As our two solitudes started
Our troubled Canadian legacy.

That was before, then,
Before the organic birth
Of your betraying afterbirth
Twenty years too late.
The shadow of that famed obstetrician
Within the court yard of Alteri Sæculo
Is harbinger enough for me, now.
Better the devil you knew,
Than the one you never do?
Snowed man melted ...

Monday, 1 June 2015

Variations On A Dream

By Rory A.A. Hinton

I am interpreted.
I am shrunk.
I am locked in the trunk
Of the myths I am living.
Condemned historically
To her animastic story.
Tao's Tzu has nothing left to do.
I am the sanest man alive.

This is how she wants it done:
I tell her the demonic details
Of all my nocturnal secrets
While she sits across the end of me.
My honesty is stained by her light.
She feels that I am braver at night.
"I see enough of you to see the truth of you."

I am not written in braille.
She doesn't need to touch me
To know my archetypal trickery.
Tricksters make and break their world.
Mischief and art have a part to play
Time and time again
As I lie with this alien.

Lying in muthur's arms,
The nymphed foot and root
Of this woman's charm
Bracelet dangling loosely
As she carefully writes down
All of the irrational fullness
Of my analytical anguish
That's as old as old can be.

She is my monastic secretary,
Habitually cloaked in Coco Chanel.
A woman like her is not ashamed
To die the death of one thousand
Transfers of her pantomimed lust
In order to gain my trappist trust.

She waits for me,
Beckoning voyeur
Like an ancient altar,
Watching my words
Shifting her torso,
Crossing over just so
Right in her chair
Woman over bored.
Nodding on and on
As if it's all news to her.
Because it almost is:
Variations on a dream.