"You never truly appreciate a moment until it is a memory."
Anyone remember that saying? I would add to that and say you never truly know what talents someone has until they die, not that you necessarily come to know then either but in some cases, you do.
In my case, I was aware of my late friend's artistic talent but after his death and much emotional avoidance, I got round to reading his poetry again this week. It's as illuminating as painful to reflect upon though I am blessed to have four books of his words to remember him by, one being hand written which is a lovely thing.
The bare bones always hang heavier than denial.
A line I wrote this afternoon. A line that prompted me to re-read my friend's poetry and face the truth that death is final and means gone, in the physical sense anyway. Reading the poems I realise how deeply life affected (or infected for a better word) him. I have decided to publish his poetry at some point in the future but for now, I am going to share three short poems of his that moved me.
He wished his poetry to be known under his pseudonym Vaughan Watson.
His poetry deserves to be seen and I hope at least a handful will indeed see it, it may even offer light to those who feel alien to this world themselves as he apparently did...may his art be known.
Voices
Voices
Voices
Voices stinging
Glowing in mud
Voices singing
Singed blue-black
To poison the self
To dampen the purpose
Seems the only possible antidote
Overthrow the source of intrusion
Trade electricity and intoxication
For a brief period of silence
Horse Blinkers
A comedy of great errors
Re-enacting behind closed doors
A tin drum replays atrocities
Spinning with intricate
cut throat
locked doors
camouflaged the crime
black rubber
shrink wraps
bundled abuse
Hulda
Winter
Like a slow handed
Breeding death
Dawns then freezes
Frozen minds alike
Such a timeless still quality
Seeming endless quantity
These fingers
Frozen and brittle
In-still the weak with terror
Akin to the wandering toll
Of an infinite note
Solitary
Complete
Invasive
The frozen sentence
Rings on and on
Whilst ice-crusted Gaia
Sleeps and laughs
With frost in her bosom
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