I couldn't sleep so I decided to make a wee video. If you've ever been abroad for charity work or aid work, you know the feeling when you come back and people ask you 'how was it?', as if you can sum up the most intense experience of your life in just a few words.
I was too tired at the time to get the irony of the title.
Posted by David Forrest – Writer on Tuesday, May 10, 2016
I can’t write a poem about love. Love isn’t poetry.
You don’t find love washed up on the Seine or hung like branches from the Eiffel tower.
The love the poets know won’t float through the air, touch your forehead like a leaf…it hides in refugee camps and food banks.
Love puts on a jacket, walks past the night clubs of Sauchiehall street, finds you, kneels down beside you and says “you’re worth more than this, you’re worth more than this”.
And if he can’t see it he has nothing.
And if he speaks in tongues of men and angels but has not love-
Be quiet, Aphrodite whispers. Don’t tell the prophets.
Love is an offering, emptied of everything, heaven made humble. God wept, the deity bled, our rejection held in like nails He wouldn’t let go. When we were never so far, He was never so close. When love was summed up in three words the second was forgive.
Don’t give her your love, give her that love.
Don’t give him what he deserves, he’s worth more than he deserves.
Take this vow and make it real. Fill this ring with promises, hard and true.
Like I promise I won’t fail you…and pick me up when I fail you.
Like I mean it when I say I love you and I mean it when you say it too.
I can’t write a poem about love. Because poems end. Because words and knowledge pass away.
But love stands.
I want to find love, she tells me, looking straight into me but not really seeing, I think. I want to be loved, she says, and I told her that she was loved, like I was passing on a message.
I see history in her eyes but she never speaks of it. The same girl in another country. Her hands are clean but stained. There are few tents and little rain. The money has run dry but she reaches inside for kindness and treasure. She gives and gives. And never speaks of it.
I want a family, she says and I want that too, I said, shivering. I wasn’t in love, I was pretending to be cold.
There is a quality to her voice when she speaks. I can hear emotion, a long e, when she speaks it sounds like she is listening. I remember how I felt when I first met her. Now I feel that even more. I say nothing and hope she isn’t listening.
She cries and I cry and the perfect time to hold her comes and stays. I let it pass. I tell nothing, speak a little. We argue, flatter, offer each other words of comfort and pray to the God I hold most precious.
What could be so important
that I would leave that room silent
with no regrets?
You closed your eyes and didn’t tell me what you saw.
Every feather on every bird. You saw every dream. You saw every sunset as it was meant to be seen, through every eye and mouthed the words ‘I love you’ as though you were repeating someone.
When you closed your eyes your family were all around you, whispering in your ear, good words and bad. I saw a sleepy looking girl in a brightly lit café. I tried to get you to hear me, I saw an absence that wasn’t there.
You heard every conversation, saw the words that were missing, you were exhausted with love. You saw the beauty and the wonder of the man we passed on our way here, sitting on the street. You unsaw his dirty clothes, I unsaw his face covered in sacred purpose.
You closed your eyes and you saw
a hundred poets reaching out to the great invisible
touch it, pull back suddenly
suddenly love is a face, a place, a feeling.
“What’re you thinking?” I asked.
Nothing, she said. Nothing important.
So I stopped. I stayed quiet. And I listened.
He was in a court room, cold wood every side, jury in the foreground, I hate Mondays, twenty thousand words behind him, of evidence and argument, of black on white.
Last night he was in a bar, she was there and he was there. It was painful.
He had lived in this case for weeks now, knew every word and number. He ushered the jury by the facts. It was pre-meditated. The e-mails left unread. The blocked calls. Early signs. It wasn’t a difficult case but it was a well prepared argument. He was eager to prove he was right.
He was eager to disprove he was drunk. Because he had moved on. Emails. Calls. He had moved on, and he was probably with someone else. He definitely, definitely didn’t look drunk. He looked like he had moved on and she had missed her chance and he didn’t even think about her. He knew exactly how that looked.
The CCTV footage, placing the defendant at the scene. An involuntary glance to the side followed by another. Defendant. Wishing. He was anywhere but. The knife near the body. Cuts here, here, and here. Couldn’t be self-defence.
Couldn’t be. He glanced at her. Twice. Three times was hard to explain. He wished he hadn’t seen her, wished she hadn’t seen him. Wished he was anywhere but now. Felt every lapse in judgement. Felt his conviction slip away.
To hold her. The jury gone, feel the rush of the wait. Arms back, feel her weight. Innocent or guilty. Innocent or guilty.
In the beginning there were no words. Formless, empty, the earth had no sigh. The world spun, the trees swayed, the waters waited for their first kiss. I slept on, I wasn’t born yet, I missed it. There was dark, there was light, on the first morning.
Man begat man begat man and there was love, I assume. What did the first man think of the first woman, was it love at first sight? What did man and woman tell their children love was? What did they say to each other when they met and was it good?
I walk through Glasgow city centre, late on a Saturday night, thinking about the first morning. The first sunrise, gasping for air. The first rush of fingers through grass, first touch of footsteps on sand. I imagine the sea hushed before the moon, the bright, bright green of the first flower, a blank page horizon. Glasgow wails like a newborn whose cord has been cut but in the beginning it was silent. In the beginning there were no words. I wonder what the first words were.
Now the pavements are crowded with new creations, a shadow leans across the street. I squeeze past, whispering to myself, a man shouting in my ear about something, I’m not sure what, just keep walking I guess. More shouting, more voices all at once:
Glasgow changed its clothes, its friends and the colour of its skin, tried to fit in, be accepted, be a type. A teenager ravaged by heroin sits folded into his t-shirt, soaked through and begging for change. Unaccepted, but feet still moving to the beat of the music blasting out a message from every wall and window. Girls stagger through the cold in high heels and high skirts, men shout through them as they pass. Lads and lassies, man created them, in its own image it created them.
There was dark and then there was light, on the last morning. In the end there were no words. Litter scarred the streets, heartbreak and headache bit through every flat and tenement. Man had begotten man who had begotten man and there was love, I assume. What had mankind told their children love was? What did the last man say to the last woman when they first met and was it good?
Sometimes, trying to find love is like
trying to find a toilet in Paris
you know they’re out there somewhere but
the gaps are painful
there are no guarantees
every one is broken
queuing just seem wrong.
I now have a facebook page. Here it is: https://www.facebook.com/davidforrestwriter?fref=ts
I plan to use it to post stories, videos and info about spoken word events I will be gatecrashing, invited or not.
Why not give it a like? Apparently it’s very therapeutic.
Hair as wild as candle smoke
Voice as light as air
God stuff wrapped around her
And an echo, louder than my thoughts
Be a good man
Be a good man
Be a good man
And an echo, louder than my voice.