Looking out from this fog
Of doubt I lie, swallowed and small,
defeated but still seeking
for no less than a way
to dematerialise this great inanity!
If the secrets of the ancients
would fall from the sky!
If ceaseless praying from a dry mouth
was fool-proof and delivered right away
I could be as steadfast as a rock.
Not knowing any better, I too, like Prometheus
struggle with what cannot be broken
and watch myself drift into endless wars
I cannot escape.
My head a stoic block, upon which -
I will pestle myself to illumination.
Or be bludgeoned
- and carried away.
Or be somehow delivered without pain.
In the end it is really all the same.
I have already survived
the infantile barracoons
that sawed through my flesh
Broken glass and a tear-stained eye
follow me with no intention of resting in peace
Having un-nailed myself from my cross
I walk, forlornly resurrected for the rest
In truth, uncertain of anything
but braced and strapped in hope
in the heavy armour I wear.
I am attended by shadows
Masking all that I’m incapable of seeing right now
which the guiding hand of Life
draws its tyranny and strength from
with the urgent necessity of flying arrows
fueling the Herculean struggles,
the requisite dooms
through blood, sweat and tears
to finally deliver me
a small drop of incandescence!
as precious as all the world
tying together a sea of blissful ‘ahas’
dissolving and absolving
towards the elusive song of
through the falling veils
beckoning and calling
- the most softly spoken -
through the din of all others
Briony Nicholls's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Getting There by Briony Nicholls )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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