Selected Poems (2006 - 2012)

by John Christopher

Yes, Torture my heart please,

  I am still strong enough for it.

  Give me someone to hold near to me,

  To share beautiful talks with,

  To share my thoughts and aspirations with-

  Let her be perfect in every way-

  Let her be beautiful and kind and loving,

  And then take her away from me.

  Let her bring another boy around me,

  Let her hold onto him and share kisses with him-

  Though she would never kiss me.

  This is what is good for me,

  It makes for better poetry,

  It makes for a perfect soul.

  It builds character, inspires art.

  Yes, torture my heart please,

  I am still strong enough for it.

  Betrayal

  I have betrayed what is sacred to me,

  Our love and friendship, which to me-

  Has been the only thing pure and good in my life.

  It has lifted me up, toward the light

  Though darkness has found me yet again-

  And the devil makes fools of us all.

  I feel like a sad and desperate man,

  I am a sad and desperate man!

  I have walked the lonely night away-

  Stricken- aching- longing-

  And it is only you I have longed for, and ached for.

  I have always been a damned lonely fool,

  And I have harmed you, my angel,

  And been secretive and false-

  I did it as an outcry from my heart,

  My passion got hold of me-

  And turned me into a bug, or a creep.

  All I ever wanted was to be more near to you-

  To see you in the nude, to be part of your secret art.

  It hurts me forever that I cannot be more to you.

  I feel like everything I am has been false,

  Like everything good between us has been tainted-

  By lust and by damned impure desires.

  I deserve to punish myself for this indiscretion.

  There is no one in this world, who I love,

  More than you- and I have made a mess of it.

  I am a mess- I have always been a mess.

  I try my best to always be good, and healthy,

  My purity is only on the surface,

  Beneath the surface it is all pain and disgrace-

  The pain runs more deeply than love even-

  I am repressed and assuredly unhealthy-

  It is this repression which makes me sick-

  It is the fact that I fixate and obsess-

  I have never known a woman’s embrace-

  Never known touch, never been loved-

  Have never experienced love’s sensations-

  I have been afraid, desperately afraid, and insecure.

  I hate myself for what I’ve done,

  And it only gives me one reason more-

  To doubt my own judgments.

  To doubt whether I am worthy of our love.

  I want to confess myself to you-

  And I should have done so before-

  I should have told you that I longed for you,

  And not gone about it in a secret and perverse way.

  It is because I have no courage, and no strength-

  All these things have been beaten out of me.

  I have yet to recover from all the damage that’s been done.

  But, if you still yet love me, as I still yet love you,

  I can overcome these shortcomings.

  If only you lived near, and were with me,

  I should be strong and not afraid,

  Because when I am with you, I feel whole, complete, not alone.

  The truth is, I wanted to be caught, I wanted you to know-

  Secretly, I wanted you to call me out-

  Because I don’t ever feel like I am worthy,

  Of knowing such a beautiful young woman.

  With the help of an angel I was uplifted,

  But like an angel that’s fell, I have fallen too from grace.

  Other Love Poems

  These are an assortment of other poems dealing with love and its consequences. They were written at various times, though I don’t know exact dates. I have put them here because they were not written for anyone in particular. They come at various times when I am lonely walking in the night.

  Sometimes I wish

  There are many who despair- to find a true love.

  Their hearts yearn but are never satisfied,

  their fire burns and smolders, ever and ever-

  in the deep dark night, with eyes wide awake.

  Their nerves shaken, and their minds wired.

  They feel, but have no one to feel for.

  No one to share simple conversation with,

  or charming smiles across dinner tables,

  only the sound of a wanting penetrative silence.

  I feel for them, I pity for them, I cry for them,

  those who know not the joys of companionship.

  The simple pleasure of having someone to hold,

  someone to have a past, or a future with,

  someone to share the sorrows and the pleasures with.

  The unwanted, the orphaned, the repulsive, the unsought-

  the lonely, the bitter, the old, and the reclusive.

  I have seen them in lonely hallways, standing idle.

  I have seen them in bars with yellowed skin, drinking heavily.

  I have known them to die one thousand deaths,

  uncounted and unknown, beneath the meaningless stars.

  Sometimes I wish I were not one of them.

  Love Elemental

  Love should be like fire.

  It should be passionate, and never contained.

  Love should be like the rain.

  It should calm the senses, and enfold you completely.

  Love should be like the wind.

  It should be powerful and stirring.

  Love should be like the earth.

  It should be steady and incorruptible.

  Love should be elemental, transcending all forms.

  The Perfect Girl

  I don’t need an exceptionally pretty girl,

  A woman with perfect figure, or sprightliness,

  I don’t need her to have perky breasts, or long legs,

  Without blemishes, without scars, or still yet virginal.

  I don’t care for the color of the eyes,

  or the movement of her thighs,

  or if she blush and cover herself when I walk by,

  I don’t need her to have stately hips,

  Nor stylish wardrobe, nor plush red lips.

  Nor to be a woman of independent means,

  nor to be educated, or classy, or refined.

  Nor to be celebrated or well fancied by others.

  I just need her to be perfect in soul,

  Perfect in kindness, spirit and art,

  Passionate in her love for me, as I my love for her,

  Perfect as a muse, so I can play my part.

  It is obvious to me, that this perfect girl,

  is exceptionally hard to find.

  They’re All The Images I Know The Meaning’s Of

  Why should I write, when all the writing is swallowed up,

  By life itself, when it sounds its bugle call,

  to my champions desire on the lonely street,

  and the faces ask me to laugh with them-

  and dance like the jester for their amusements,

  Where there is much food and drink.

  What can I do? What can I see?

  When romance or a pretty a day,

  Spends an hour with me, and speaks in a melody,

  Or a friend needs some kind words to explore himself by.

  Or the empty and necessary angels play backyard boogie,

  Behind the house party at the college-

  Where there is much to drink and much
to eat.

  Where does the time go? How can I spend it best?

  With the ancient literary men, and the aged poets?

  Who have already danced here before, and said many,

  Well said things, and bits of advice, for my fool-

  To my young man, who is so much like your old man.

  Or the philosopher kings, like Saint Augustine,

  Have been cloistered with nuns and barmaids.

  When I sit and put my pen to paper, to seek inspiration,

  And all that comes to me is my few years,

  Spent in solitude- or with some young girl-

  raking leaves into the dry shed-

  You see, of every image I write,

  They are the only images I know the meaning’s of.

  Return to me, my heart

  Return to me, my heart,

  If I should give thee in earnest-

  To a less elevated despair,

  That hides around the mouth.

  That soft drool of mine,

  That trickled down her blouse.

  Return to me, all my poems,

  If I should write thee in my true voice,

  If I should send thee away,

  I ask them to take care to distort you and corrupt you first,

  For they will never understand you.

  Return to me, my hatreds,

  When I pass you on,

  -I hope they show me how much they hate me, in return

  not to take too long, to strike me hard,

  For hanging around too long,

  And turn me into a barking cow.

  Return to me, my heart,

  If you are not worthy enough for them,

  come back to me again.

  Return to me.

  Return to me, my heart.

  Accept Love

  Accept me against your milky white skin,

  Accept me with your lips, and with my lips to caress-

  My eternity between your long legs-

  And wrap me in your warm profusion of new beginnings.

  Let my heart rush against you still,

  And accept me here, kissing your breast,

  And accept me here, and here again.

  The hot fulfillment of our joys by touch,

  To sooth away the mediocre drainings of the day,

  In your tender affectionate kisses-

  Beauty, accept me, and show me,

  A new joy in love.

  My Heart, When it Opens

  My heart when it opens-

  It says, ‘lets try once again’.

  My heart rebuffed, closes itself tightly,

  And rebukes me- mocks at me-

  Saying ‘never again’.

  Over and over,

  Again and again.

  I need you to love me.

  I need you to love me,

  When the air is cold and icy,

  When the sky is darkened and grey,

  Or at sunset when it glows red and pink with fire.

  I need you to comfort me,

  When the shadows are drug all around me,

  When the leopard’s sharp claws dig into me,

  When I am anxious and full of black water.

  I need you to care for me,

  Like the streams and the meadows,

  Where the red dear is racing,

  And the wolf with yellow eyes is chasing.

  The trees that were once so full,

  with the winter are made barren and empty.

  I need you to want me, and to need me,

  When I am in need of you,

  To be wanted and desired is every aim-

  Every sweep and motion,

  At every pointless stop.

  Variation on a Nursery Rhyme

  The stars are bright tonight-

  Small and delicate- shining brightly- through the black.

  The night is cold, but I am warm in the blankets,

  And I wear my clothes- the forest dust floor,

  leaves dirt on my pack-

  Like grit on your shoe, or the rock poking through-

  That makes this uncomfortable.

  I look up into the heavens,

  And I remember everything yet again.

  Those thoughts that sparkle in sad lonely eyes-

  My heart, its own pulse to despise.

  I promise not to envy those that walk together.

  I hide a smile nearby, and a mumble of the mind-

  With a cold beer fetched on the sly-

  With me, there is no together.

  She lays here by my side, nearby, looking out.

  Tonight on those same stars- with the black all around them.

  I can dream of you, and your small fingers, light and delicate-

  Beauty wrapped in the blankets beside me-

  Sweet nothings whispered under the starry sky.

  Star light, star bright, I wish I may, I wish I might,

  Have this wish I wish tonight.

  Her Fair Soles

  I would rest my chair at your dainty feet,

  And if you would allow me- to paint a toe.

  Pretty and perfect,

  They are full of misery.

  I hold your arches and heels,

  And caress them bitterly.

  The pink delicacy beneath,

  I would rub them with my very hands-

  So small and tender and lovely.

  My eyes would turn against me then,

  If I should look into your eyes-

  If I should break this confidence with a kiss,

  Upon your fair toes-

  I would have broken the silence with shame.

  A Moment

  I held her thin frame gasping beneath me,

  Her eyes without vision, and gazing upward without prophecy.

  Her soft moans and whimpers a secret solace to hear,

  And her pleasure in submission to my impulses.

  Invigorate Her

  Love invigorate her womanly esteem,

  With tender joy and affable grace.

  My artistry to the more please,

  my hope which surrounds this lonely place-

  The warmth of that wondrous girl.

  I pause before her to watch the people,

  Coalescing, enfolding, of inattentive mind-

  Successful or pretty, but not of an equal.

  Her bust blessed, hips curved, and her enduring design.

  A compliment to woman kind!

  By far, in motherhood, maidenhood- whatever her art,

  Her form more refined- divergent from the common heart,

  Her soul more feeling- for condemnation or praise,

  The women concealing their envious gaze,

  And the men wishing they could create for her-

  A finer and more perfect art.

  The Real of Love

  I have within me the real of love,

  The sentiments of which but only I and true lover’s know.

  Not ‘lovers’ like you would have them classified,

  I saying ‘you’, to the ever endlessly satisfied.

  The sane, who think only of ‘this’, or ‘this’, as the real-

  Like you are required something for saying ‘I love you.’

  The saying of it makes it true- only when it is well timed-

  Which to some would seem sound advice,

  But many people use ‘I love you’.

  Earthy and not lofty, common and low,

  A soul mate is not really one in rings or cuffs.

  My soul is free of comparison,

  There are few like it.

  The Divine

  Sometimes I do speculate on the nature of God, and whether or not he exists and in what way he exists. I have written a few poems with reference to God and I will put them here. They were written at unknown times throughout the years marked by this book.

  Gods We Are!

  The roar of the plunging surf,

  The rage of discharging bo
dies,

  The deep of the ocean bottom-

  Where bubbles rise from cracks-

  And unknown luminous creatures float-

  Among heat and volcanic springs- that bubble.

  Everything is full of a tortured exhilaration.

  A deep inhalation and exhalation-

  Of various winds and waves.

  We speculate on the nature of God-

  Or the existence of a hidden kingdom.

  We soak our minds in worship to Temples,

  Mosques, Churches, Salvations, States-

  We are drunk in a purgatory of various excesses.

  Perhaps God was an artist,

  A creator of things who grew lonely-

  Alone as a faceless spirit in the light of himself.

  Maybe he wished to share this majesty of creation-

  Maybe he created man as a witness-

  That the universe may recognize itself-

  And grow to joy in itself- to see itself-

  To bear up itself, to churn and boil, heat to heat.

  Perhaps God was a poet,

  To suffer with us, to weep with us,

  To know pain and beauty together with us.

  Love! In an eternal communion of being to being.

  And perhaps we, if we grew to be poets too,

  Could come closer to a truer communication.

  Perhaps we could even be as gods,

  Creators We Are! Gods We Are!

  The Death of God

  Man was birthed from a void to the soil,

  A free form of shades and eternities.

  His imperfect duality- a perfection stripped off from him.

  He was cast out and abandoned-

  - of a nature, cruel, indifferent and violent.

  A heaving paradise of jungle mud- and screaming finches.

  He witnessed his fellow men, as jackals or sheep.

  Wool torn and ripped, flying before him as object,

  Sunk into the muddled stinking bog, like quick sand,

  Tears lost to the swamp soaked mists-

  upward raised his hands.

  Bathed by the luminosity of the mysterious moon-

  As the lambs were eaten, and blood spat the pyre.

  Survival by the rule of force, by the blazing fire.

  He hunted and murdered as the beasts.

  A seeping savagery of Godless brutality-

  Skulls on the ramparts, crosses on the parapets-

  beneath a flat black cosmos.

  He was taken advantage of, uncared for, unloved,

  Made war, or was made war upon, for the craven lust.