Posts Tagged men



I saw you once
watching me askance
in a reflection in a passing
window pane.

You startled me
and I tried to smile
but somewhere turning
in the passing angle
the message was lost.

Then you distorted
and curled around your passing space
and I moved through the view
at twice the normal rate.

I turned to see the real you
but you’d gone by then.
Dissolved into the real world.
Passed away to all intents and purposes.


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Woman turns


She was a cold, mirror smooth lake

in the cloud tossing tempest that raged around her,

and I stood wet and weather beaten on her rocky shore.

How could she be so disconnected?



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I believe


There were four,

but then it fractured

into four.


And I curled and died

with shame and pain.


But they’ve risen from

our ashes

and fly proud.


What part did I play though

as was my understood purpose?


That purpose that faded away

so I could only watch

from sidelines


And cast faintly heard praise.

I believe

they’ll live better lives.



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Crying women

I know I’m not supposed to admit this.
It’s neither dignified nor manly.
Because men only think about one thing.
And they’re not allowed to cry.

Pillars of society,
We joyfully join the scrum.
Pretending indifference to the quiet voice.

We have to scorn the quiet voice.
That’s what it is to be a man.

Quiet voice that in quiet moments
Allows us to wonder at the unfurling clouds
And the emerging beauty of spring.

That oh so gentle curve from neck to shoulder
That might simply be beautiful rather than just sexual.

Even that small voice of a child.
Any intuitive interaction
That might be seen to be too gentle
To be masculine.

Women’s preconceptions preclude these sensitivities.
I know. I’ve seen how the bastards always win.

Taunted by thigh and tit and scorned for responding
Unless we’re fancied or are able to be ruthless enough
To ignore another’s value. Like bastards.

However good you are in bed,
Or how large your heart may actually be,
The bastards always win.
And seem welcomed for this.

Even as they pretend to wail,
I scorn those crying women.

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Once I was part of something flat
That lapped upon a shore that resisted.

Then I found myself lifted up
And up and soaring
Over a golden beach and curving trees,
And monkeys.

And then I fell forward too fast
And the beach disintegrated across my face.

And now I simply go with the flow,
Up and down this unredeemable beach.

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A man showed his heart
Women laughed their derision
So he became man.

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Warm water and ice

Tonight I’m listening to the music of Rachel Lauren. Not only is the music beautiful, she is too. Her dark eyes, her smooth skin and soft hair and her figure. And her voice is warm honey. Even when I can’t understand it.

She leads  me to wonder about how well suited the two sexes are to considering the gentler, more subtle aspects of life. Perhaps Rachel Lauren is better equipped to see and to explain these things than a man would be. Given that she seems to be part of them already. How much does this define her femininity? How far is Rachel’s warm, passionate, liquid soothe from the cool, crystalline and perfectly patterned logic that is supposed to represent masculinity? And how can such things be equally well represented by two such different expressive forms?

What defines masculinity? When is a similarly gentle and tactile comprehension as Rachel’s masculine? Where is the divide that renders such sensitivity feminine or masculine? Is it possible for both to see the same perspective, and yet still melt into each other as snow into warm water, by virtue of their difference? And can each still retain their identity?

Are our views on gender too limited? Can a man be as responsive to, and expressive of, sweet beauty, of thing or of feeling, as a woman? And is the difference between them simply that one appears as warm, fluid blue ocean, and the other as well defined and rigid snow and ice, even as each are made of water? And the melding of their respective comprehension creates a pleasantly temperate context that is capable of nurturing both.

Or are only women sufficiently equipped to respond to subtle beauty given that they create so much of it? And men should only look on and do their best to understand? Or is it that men, being outside, are best placed to see and to recognise gentle beauty for what it is? Is cold snow, fixed and watching, better placed to recognise the complex fluid motion of the warm blue water that’s lapping at it’s edge?

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The incessant clatter
Of the need to seed
Lives with every moment
And I see the world around me
Fat and frantic with process.

If some tarty doll in split skirt
With promise of juice and smooth skin
Can raise desire and feelings
That strikes the pose of the lonely,

What is it when I wake before dawn
And want my arms to wrap
Like the branches of a tree
Around some sweet safe thing to keep it mine?

How do we play with ourselves?
Confusing sex with love and loneliness.
Where is the space and what is it
Between the two?

We’re driven by nature
To procreate and that cruel woman
Does state the rules
Shall be ambiguous.

Well there’s a surprise!
So where do we stand
Us poor men whose finer reason
Is pawned by pictures?

How do we chose
Between the she devil that flicks
All the switches
And the other leg?

We’re pawns in a game
Where the rules are all written
By those who would then
Make us weak

Whilst demanding we rise
When it suits them such
That they languid lie
And whine their way

To dominance.
But oh so nicely.
They’ll do precisely
What’s required

To make sure we stay
The way they want
By spreading those thighs
And sighing.


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The man

The man saw with awe
The mountain high above him.
His lamp glowed brightly.

He set out running
With certain understanding
Of his direction.

Warm sun gave him strength
And his heart knew to conquer.
And the sun faded.

Head bowed to the task
Through hinting mist wet went he
And yet could not see.

The ground grew steeper
As knowing, he laboured on
In blind certainty.

More lamps glowed round him.
He sought not friends but to strive
In competition.

He was brave and strong.
His lamp was growing fainter
But he did not see.

Mist grew thick and dark
And he started to stumble.
Sure of his foothold.

And then he looked up
And saw sun where he was not
But where others were.

With lamps not needed
As his grew dim and fog
Said nothing of use.

He cried out in shame.
And the mountain stood tall still
Above him in awe

Of  his bloodied feet.
And he knew that the mountain
Was still high and strong.

And he cried the pain
Of those others holding lamps
For he saw their fate.

But he knew also
That to learn is to climb high
But the view is poor.

He faded away
And died knowing that the light
Of others grew bright.

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Single man

I switched the engine off and sat and watched
Across the raindrop pearled roofs of cars at the door
Of the supermarket as that fat woman with four kids
Emerged laden with bags.

Frowning face and sour grimace determined
With a copy of the Sun folded under her arm.
Knowing it all and knowing nothing at all.
But determinedly so.

Switching my car to quiet I opened the door and walked
Towards her and sought some kind of small smiling connection
But she looked through me to some trial beyond
And I stayed my way towards the groceries.

Baked beans, bread, pasta, some cake or other.
Then the checkout with the others in line.
Some boy who’d left school too soon
Looking bored.

Watching the rain dribble down the pane
As the goods went through. And the woman behind
Scanned my buys and drew a picture of me.
And looked away quietly.

Then the walk back through the puddles,
And the relief of closing the car door on it all
And driving away hopeful of something better,
But drawing nearer to my empty home.


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