Red Leb
Staring at the red candle,
remembering the smell of patchouli oil,
mixed with cannabis from all those years ago.
On Saturday 4th July, 1846 the London Daily News
extolled the virtues of this peculiar
Indian oil in preventing the ravages of the moth.
Nothing to do with hippies, no new age communities
Except India, and olfactory-based imagined communities
that take a grip that will not pass.
Ad agencies now use the association between hippies
and environmentalism to sell boringly green cars to the Saga
Generation. Forgetting their decades spent mocking
tree-hugging, new age travellers, Swampy’s anti-road protests.
Greenham common women who risked everything for peace..
Then there is the half a breath we take
When we recognise a fellow traveller;
When we hesitate to step towards love
There is a dark stone settled in the heart
remembering the smell of patchouli oil,
mixed with cannabis from all those years ago.
On Saturday 4th July, 1846 the London Daily News
extolled the virtues of this peculiar
Indian oil in preventing the ravages of the moth.
Nothing to do with hippies, no new age communities
Except India, and olfactory-based imagined communities
that take a grip that will not pass.
Ad agencies now use the association between hippies
and environmentalism to sell boringly green cars to the Saga
Generation. Forgetting their decades spent mocking
tree-hugging, new age travellers, Swampy’s anti-road protests.
Greenham common women who risked everything for peace..
Then there is the half a breath we take
When we recognise a fellow traveller;
When we hesitate to step towards love
There is a dark stone settled in the heart
We hold ourselves in check
And allow the queen to fall, fragment.
Yet, even as you fall your pupils weave a wonder
In my soul, a gift that will never grow old.
In the depth of night a whisper of light
Enchants me back to dream. All is quiet
And the night is long:
I listen to songs in the key of blue
And imagine you breathing, you.
Sometimes I forget that I can breathe too,
And I forget that everything
Becomes stuck in my throat
Yet, even as you fall your pupils weave a wonder
In my soul, a gift that will never grow old.
In the depth of night a whisper of light
Enchants me back to dream. All is quiet
And the night is long:
I listen to songs in the key of blue
And imagine you breathing, you.
Sometimes I forget that I can breathe too,
And I forget that everything
Becomes stuck in my throat
Even as I sing and write
I am subdued in my thinking of you.
I am subdued in my thinking of you.
Identities are stolen all the time. We are bound together
By what we forget: and what we forget is our commonality,
A minor key craving for an imagined past that can not last.
Some long for dear-bought security above all things.
For them exploration, sharing, risk taking, are anathema,
They think dying can be halted, chance dispensed with,
That only those who fit the mould can be saved.
Thank God. Nothing lasts.
By what we forget: and what we forget is our commonality,
A minor key craving for an imagined past that can not last.
Some long for dear-bought security above all things.
For them exploration, sharing, risk taking, are anathema,
They think dying can be halted, chance dispensed with,
That only those who fit the mould can be saved.
Thank God. Nothing lasts.
John Marks
Fri 11th Mar 2022 21:26
Thanks Ray. Every thing you write is worth reading. Yes, as I've become older smells have become more evocative to me: a woman's perfume smell, a baby's milky smell, a man's beery smell. Also fusty smells of maiden aunts and clearing out the houses of the newly dead.