Matthew de Lacey Davidson

Poetry

 

 

When Retirement is not an Option

 

A broken ruin of a former self

is all that one perceives –

a dusty volume moulding on the shelf

with acid-eaten leaves.

 

The circus now has come and gone

and ancient acrobats

see the sunset sooner than the dawn.

To the young they tip their hats,

and from their world they are summarily withdrawn.

 

Splintered bodies, much abused –

attempts to stay alive;

pennies given by the passersby – confused,

about their struggle to survive.

 

Walking on his stilts, he trembles; sways.

There still remains some grace

and elegance from former, brutal days;

beleaguered lines upon his face,

where once a smile responded to some praise

 

of audiences lost and now departed.

A plaintive melody

that ends before its even started,

devoid of shape, to some degree…

(his flute exuding dirges, broken-hearted).

 

 

 

Political Science 101

 

From the bus, I see the poster

for our political representative

plastered proudly on the telephone pole.

 

He doesn’t seem much connected

to his constituents whom he professes to represent.

 

Yet, on this chilled October morning,

a passerby takes a photograph of it

as a local graffiti artist

has drawn ruby-red lipstick on the likeness.

 

 

 

Armageddon’s Transference

 

The Cape of Darkness floats around you,

surrounding all with memories of the past;

with open eyes, you seldom see

what is – instead, the shadow of “what was.”

 

Every house is haunted well –

with spirits moving silently through words;

spoken they are not to those in view –

reserved they are for Ghosts no longer here.

 

Reactions never rising from the moment –

but dredged from far below, some countless depths.

Manipulations stemming from the grave:

more powerful than any force on Earth.

 

Angst and dread pour in my heart,

filling up with hemlock of the mind;

when I realise that nuclear weaponry

remains controlled by Ghosts alone.

 

Leaders never seeing one another –

speeches made to those invisible –

Irrelevant are the interchanges;

Oedipus signs treaties with Elektra.

 

The Cloak of Night-time wraps around –

Companion who is constant to the last;

a vacuum whose effect remains profound:

a vanished “now” where just remains the past.

 

 

 

Candlelight Epiphany

 

They only took a moment to select –

but everything required a second glance;

ensuring that the objects were correct:

accoutrements in search of a romance.

 

She placed them in her basket without thought,

gently touching them like someone dear;

relationships created as her mother taught –

never question – never fear.

 

Candles to ensure the lights are low…

music with an amorous effect…

desserts designed to make the soul aglow.

Epiphanies shall always happen when we least expect,

 

for suddenly, she realised a misconception, vast;

though other women thought she was insane,

she went and found a man, at last,

who spoke to her as if she had a brain.

 

He presumed that books she read,

that economics was discussed and known;

that her political awareness stood her in good stead –

and that she held a few opinions of her own.

 

Relationships with men now took a different stance,

their attitudes seemed destined to perplex;

men are rarely trusted with a concept like “romance”,

as usually it just equates with sex.

 

Her candles and her former views at last she would discard,

enticing as it was, to crave temptation;

she felt her self-esteem, respect, and fond regard

were more important than seduction and manipulation.

 

 

 

The Real Thing

 

Seeing someone in the subway car

moving closer – kissed, embraced –

stimulates emotion from afar;

our inertia is replaced

 

by envy.  Though it matters little

if passion burns at home.  The senses

smoulder – the sight of others begins to whittle

down a person’s staunch defences.

 

From inferno starts to creep

a hundred dozen demons crawling

the fires ignite – no longer sleep –

we ignore the morass into which we are falling…

 

I see the same expression

in the blue eyes of my cat;

desire takes hold – becomes obsession –

the “wants” move in – where “needs” once sat.

 

She wants to have attention –

she never can be sated;

and every moment of prolonged abstention

is eternity that’s not abated,

 

nor fulfilled.  But humans aren’t the same,

our feelings we can never trust;

we have to give to all a name:

is it puppy love – or carnal lust?

 

But love’s not that – it’s “what we do”,

an action – not a sentiment.

Sadly, this is understood by few –

a fact that’s to their detriment.

 

My wife, her sickly kitten, feeds

and slowly he grows strong –

she pays attention to his real needs,

at times, it’s black and white – what’s right and wrong.

 

So when she feeds him – ends his woes –

and I see the smile upon her face –

see her kissed upon the nose –

I know compassion shall transcend all time and space.

 

 

 

 

Matthew de Lacey Davidson is a poet, composer, and pianist.  His music has received performances worldwide, and he has released 12 compact discs.  He has written a libretto and music for a chamber opera, The Singing Lesson, based on short stories by Katherine Mansfield.  He currently lives in Montreal, Canada, with his wife and Tonkinese and Siamese cats.