I first read the poem a week ago, having made a conscious decision to not vote in this Election.
Politics in the UK is in the gutter. Politicians isolated from the people they are elected to govern, more focused on generating soundbites than listening to the electorate. The debates have been dirty, managed by Spin Doctors and Public Relation Gurus. Facts, and the actual state of the country, no longer take centre stage.
Stephen’s poem fired something inside as the words and thoughts from his poetry followed me. He talks of “missing something you need to see”; “tasting a moment for what it needs to show,” and “we face a choice.”
His poetry made me search my conscience and challenge my apathy. Looking into the darkness, I have become angered again with the social injustices taking place in the UK; angry, at how a select few have taken control of a system now focused on profit not fairness; angry, whilst citizens and visitors to the UK are slaughtered and a Government continues to lie; angry, I allowed myself to drift into a notion of doing nothing.
“Dreams nudge the conscious mind awake” and today I vote.
Here is Stephen’s poem (reproduced with kind permission).
Dreams nudge the conscious mind awake.
You are missing something you need to see
Says the image fleeting, too quick, too slight.
Grab hold of the ether and swallow it.
Taste for a moment what it needs to show.
Two doors have opened: one to lightness
The other, darkness. Not the quiet chirp
Of crickets mating darkness. Not the stillness
Under faintest of lights sprinkling down
Like confectionary sugar to sweeten life
darkness. No, this second door has opened to
Darkness demanding: Make a choice! Decide now!
Now! The crickets and stars await in these hours
Stillness sparking poetic riddles. We face a choice
Between Light and Darkness. Like the winter
Wind that returns to watch its beloved flower
Through a Frosted glass pane falling into a love
The slightest crack would both expose to death.
Wind neutralizing summer dancing between
Pedals of the rose like dewdrops gathering
To welcome morning’s bright penetration of stillness
That ignores the simple mating calls and confectionary
Sugar dusted from the stars. The flower unaware
The sting that winter brings, listens to its mournful
Howl, intoxicated like the sirens’ Sailors.
This love is not pure. If we crack this window
What we invite inside our room
Will watch our precious flower tremble
At the loss of warmth and light
As it withers and dies. We face a choice.
What thoughts does this poem inspire in you? I would love to hear them.
Why not bring them over to the Café, the coffees are on me.