ontheheath: (Default)
The worst disease a poet can suffer

is failure to draw to the surface

the pure waters that sit at the bottom of the well of his soul;

the crippling sickness that makes him conceive in his mind from the wealth of his experience – which should never be separate from all that is —

but disables him from sharing it.



© Heath Muchena
http://htmm.wordpress.com/
ontheheath: (Default)
Vegetating – away from the anxieties of daylight;
Watching smoke trails disappear into the night.
I was reminded of ‘The Unquiet Grave’ and the saying:
“The reward of art is not fame or success but intoxication….”
I smiled.

Absorbing – the crisp Cape Town air,
The harmonious faint sounds from a nearby road
And the merry laughs from the neighbour next door —
So pleasantly disturbing.
I listened.

The little park behind this semi-detached house was dressed in white mist.
The Diep flowed, but remained as quiet as a pond.
No stars were visible in the sky,
Only a white veil to match the dress down below.
I watched…

Blue fighting to penetrate the sky.
God’s brush had sure done wonders of feathering the galactic rainbow’s edges with the white.
Then I thought ‘surely this very perception will fill consciousness
With dull remnants of remembrance,
And now Desire will be born and I shall begin to long for the colours beyond,
Begin to long for her,
And long for others’.
It was at that point I decided to exit the insane asylum of the eternal imaginarium.


© Heath Muchena
http://htmm.wordpress.com/

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Heath Muchena

October 2017

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