Latent Schisms, Blatant Isms

£5.00

Andrew Stephenson

ISBN: 978-1-84747-834-4
Published: 2009
Pages: 111
Key Themes: poetry, empowerment, positivity, lyrics


ALSO AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK

Description

For as long as I can remember I have been driven by an inner conflict, the desire to conform on the one hand, the desire to rebel on the other.

My struggle with these polar opposites have led me into conflict with organised religion, a recurring theme in my poetry. My influences include Roger McGough, and Allen Ginsberg. Dark humour features in some poems, yet hopefully Iím not cynical, just wise to spurious religionís snares.

Perhaps the only place for me where the rebel/conformist conflict can be resolved is at the foot of Christís cross = my reason for living, loving and leaving the past behind.

About the Author

Andrew Stephenson, 48, has been writing poetry for the last twenty years in Epsom. A breakdown in 1981 curtailed his Fine Arts Degree studies in Cheltenham.

Since 1982 he has been living and working back home. A further breakdown in 1990 has led Andrew to focus on writing poetry and songs, rather than painting and drawing. Despite being on medication, he had a part time driving job for over six years.

He currently writes songs, poetry, plays the guitar and sings, and continues his visual art interests. He illustrated the bookís cover and fills his days as positively as he can.

Book Extract

WHITE BIRD

God of all hope when hope is dying
And under darkened skies fast graying
Restore my hope which has become
Like shrunken cloth with edges fraying
Within the stillness let me hear you
And understand what you are saying
The white bird limps with broken wings
Draw near to me and guide my praying

Proud rocks of hope which stood so firmly
ĎGainst ocean breakers as they pounded
Crumbled to shingle by the tide
Which turned with natureís power unbounded
Sad tears of pride which has been wounded
Fall from the white bird thatís been grounded
Humbled to shed the tears that Iíve cried
Are all my hopes to prove unfounded?

Cry to the Lord of salt water
To send us streams which shall refresh us
Clear sparkling streams to match our dreams
The rockís been struck that God may bless us
Come feast your eyes on hidden diamonds
Secreted gems, concealed and precious
Divine Physician lay your hand
Upon this wound, come heal and dress us

Lord, we will follow where you lead us
Your Holy Spiritís here to guide us
We open up our lives to you
Weíve no defenses left to hide us
Weíll serve no other God but you Lord
We seek no fame, no touch of Midas
The gold we seek, refined and pure
Comes from the furnace where youíve tried us.

WEST PARK REVERIE

Itís almost as if she knew me,
As I am fully known,
Itís almost as if she grew me,
Though I am fully grown.

With clear starlight rays
To brighten my path;
A seerís far sight gaze,
To lighten my wrath.

Claude Debussy refrains, Clair de lune cascades,
Chord held loosely sustains, air of gloom fast fades,
My Spike Milligan of the Goons phrases, so inane,
Shy, like silver man-in-the-moon phases, on the wane,
Like a plate glowing yellow, with etched lunar surface,
Quite a straight, growing fellow, been hexed without purpose.

Cast in a fated, unfortunate role, a late developer,
Vast inundated, lunar portrait, soul mate enveloper,
This runeís hesitance, Iím thinking slower and slower,
The moonís eminence, is sinking lower and lower,
Now softened, replete, over cotton wool cumulus waxing,
How often I repeat this mot, an old humorous maxim.

Itís almost as if she knew me,
As I am fully known,
Itís almost as if she grew me,
Though I am fully grown.

White grace of a lily,
Demure strength of a stone:
Right space to feel silly,
Unsure, angst to the bone.

But into my head with the swarm of gremlins in,
She brings back instead, her warm, soft, feminine gene,
Caught by the event, but Iíve no embarrassing false guile or spleen,
Naught will prevent, full lifeís poem harassing, whatís vile, obscene,
The moonís face scattered with rife craters, like visceral pock-marks,
This goonís made haggard by life-haters, firing ritual shot sparks.

I think I will leave these bewitched, dutiful elements to atrophy,
Not shrink from achieving a rich, beautiful elegance in Godís tapestry,
The counsel Iíve received from within you, in no way is useless,
The groundswell, I believe, will continue, will never prove fruitless,
Thanks to your wise discernment which grows evergreen,
I emerge from West Park complete, comforted, clean,

AND READY TO SHINE!


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This product was added to our catalog on Tuesday 14 April, 2009.