Shape without form

Shape without form, shade without colour;
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other kingdom
Remember us – if at all – not as lost
violent souls but only
As the hollow men
the stuffed men.

T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men, 1925

The shade of trees left
on the ground
in the damp grass.

Speak in the thunder
of the mind.
I listen to the beating of your heart.

Rise to shape what is here
the mould of spring into earth-red mounds.

Alive to bound
the sky is mine
alive my mind
I cry to sigh.

I save the day
your purple rose
in Cairo we shall
roam the streets
of the Kasbah.

A stranger in a strange land
running to stand still.

Forming mind into words
puffs of smoke into thoughts
gin and tonics into kisses
marijuana into erotica.
The fur of the dog
in small moments
of glistening perfection.

The rug woven by silent
acquiescing hands.
Din in the thicket.
A flapping of wings.

Cry as I may
I dare to wonder
Does the thunder think as I do?

Is the taste of berries and skin
as good as it is to me?

Blundering sails along a ragged blue sky.
My words lost in the abyss of purity of feeling.

The sun beats on the old wall.
Apples fall from time to time.

Again the cycle forms
a never-ending ring
that rotates on my finger.


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