I want to be a skipper of gold horizons
Instead, my ship ran aground in the pages of a book
Apricot clouds like ornamental fish
             float across my evening panorama
My outstretched grasp flails and retracts
I have nothing to show for it
Assailed by violet winds
My sails cannot catch.

With dusk, a cumulus chorus crescendos 
             ever deeper centre stage
By this time, there is no more gold,
The sun evades me every time,
Leaving only periwinkle embers
And a green light at the end of the docks.

What a change.
Only weeks ago, I was trotting the tracks with you,
Bantering away with,
              laughing with you,
Invading your rooms, spending
                               all day with,
                               all night with you,
                               doing what I do.

I’m still me, doing what I do.
And you’re still you, doing what I can’t remember that it is that you do,
And I can still see you through the looking-glass,
But you are six thousand miles away,

For the moment.

That peppery, hazy cloud to
            Which you open your eyes
Is hoped not to be - the end of transmission of
            This comfortable state
The holes in your hearing, left
            Behind there, somewhere
Cannot explain the noises you
            Hear

No.

It is already morning.
            And the sun is full in your face.

This little poem was written late one night while I was on exchange study in Denmark during my final year. In addition to contemplating whether and why I should study further after that, I had lots of deadlines and very little time. That's generally when creativity strikes. 

Academics, like fine liquor
Stay corked in their bureaux
To mellow and mull over and mature
And be alone.

Hauled out on prestigious occasions,
With dust on their shoulders,
To yawn and idle through convention small talk 
And to darkness and silence,
Finally cough and splutter profound theories of the world
Hoping for the sounds of dignified clapping...

But the notes hardly vary in a single vintage
And there is only so much in one bottle.

This is a belated post about an examination piece I did in my final year of school. It was in response to a poem by Robert Graves.

In Broken Images

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images. 

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images. 

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance. 

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact. 

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses. 

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images. 

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion. 

Robert Graves

I arrived at the final piece, through my interpretation of the poem. I looked at Graves' work and saw two minds: a focused 'I' (blue), and a fragmented 'other' (red).

He is broken, fragmented into little frames, 
little boxes that constrict his mind, restrict his thinking. 
That restricted mine.

I am now a whole, a singular mind and 
I am liberated by his experiences.

He climbs into his box.
I now stand tall thinking out of my box.

He shrinks, infinitely foolish, confused and angered and afraid.
While I simply stand tall, thinking, contemplating, self-enlightening.

Stacey Rumble