Friday, 3 October 2014

Lethe's Dancer

Loneliness my abstract friend
never touches absent eyes
Where Cressida fuels ever fires
A flame I have come to tend
Flutters in  prison's ashen skies
An emerald dancer never tires

Haunting ballrooms of fancies dark
to unfurl here with a serpents grace
flashing corset of silken lace 
and evade wilt her halcyon hark 
a dancer spins to oppose the night
existence to her evermore a fight

As she spins she spins a smoke
helix spirals the deepest green
Within tired eyes a beginning 
they say madness is in the stoke 
leaking thoughts from the fire 
exulting whim and desire

And Lethe's reflections traced on glass
I look in to less maiden more force
escape the mind, the very source
so close but yet must be farce?
for clarity hides in snatches of thought 
 Green smoke resists being caught

Sunday, 31 August 2014

Run like the Wind/Tabula Rasa

To tell the breeze of life your chosen truth
The lies recalled forestall eternal laws
Forget the tales you told to shroud your youth
Restrain the pain, beseech a god your flaws
The great and good care still, those crimes you hide
will rise and take all that you hold, so flee
run fast now fool escape the men that chide
or hang, submit to silent screams set free
Regret, the snake that coils around ones neck
much like the noose of justice, self-imposed
So take your ball and chain, your crimes to heck
obscure the die your fate left late exposed
Tabula rasa long since lost so mourn
and hope the girl you tainted finds her thorn.

Friday, 29 August 2014

Sailing to Byzantium

I have worried a lot lately about the slow ebb of time and decay, that this life is washing away and I'm leaving less than a trace in that wake. Yeats however, just understood time, and the organic decay evident in nature, he exulted in the inorganic- the unchanging, the beautiful. The frame of mind he found himself in when he wrote Sailing to Byzantium was wroth against the frailties of our mortal ties, it was spiritual and in that spirit desired artifice for living on and outside of time.

Maybe Yeats was correct in his thinking but as a young man I still cling to the natural, my flesh and blood. I still live in this country of young men, I still ache for glories and passions yet to live. Some part of me hopes I don't lose these urges - I fight for the dying animal, not for the perfection of cold design.

Anyway here is his masterpiece make up your own minds :)

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

Thanks for reading,


Tuesday, 26 August 2014

The Jester

Welcome to my masquerade
My more pseudo less façade
Trace my turncoat switch
Costumes of a clansman, kitsch
Hate the way I twist our gable
(Storybook, whimsy, fable)
Ill open up the latest veil
But never lift the tale 
Out of mesmer realm and wary
For fear of all not in faery
So hope away untrusted fools
My latest vice truth or tool?

Tuesday, 19 August 2014


Sometimes I wake to broken skies
and in those darkening patterns live
the brokering of thought unhinged:

Chafing ciphers of cruel design
of bird, beast or wicked tree
all manner of brute-creation confine
in caged virtuality of mind's blight.

Chained those errant thoughts must be
to some false relation within bloat lies
dull murmur on tapestries' fringe
bright cognition a corona to plight

Sunday, 17 August 2014


Like spears the smoke gouging at my eye
And in that moment I knew that I would die 
Trapped under the clutter of my life
the crap I'd clear out, when I had the time
and now it kills me, my wanton fetishry
smoke just hangs; cajoling at the death
in the doorway, on the stair- Pain is there
tearing at my fading lungs and nothings left
Not really trying but winning nonetheless
I'd cry out if I cared to hope, but I don't
I'd fight my last, Id claw out my shattered leg
I'd scream in death's face and spit, but I won't
I'm done, gone, finished- The only one left

Caleb Chatfield 2014 ©

Friday, 15 August 2014

The Larder Dance

Let larders dance in the Summer
Let them spoil under Sun
As flesh fights weight's sweet encumber
In largesse: Those takings won
Be wary not, of Autumns beginning
brazen with your monuments on sand
as thinking not was in the winning
creeping changes are at hand,

For never has a tyrant slept
Safely without one eye prying
Safely while the widows wept
Safely while the babes were dying

Sightless - To the fêted Gold
As bite returns to willing rain
Larders empty, the last is sold
Dead the chaff, in the feign
Dine you will on mockingbirds trim
Scorch out morality as your own
But at Winters turn; the hungry win
and succour moves with Summer's throne


Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Raspberry Jam

Sat by the river - hidden there 
beneath her sheltered boughs 
to share in secrets whispered where 
faint beams dapple - dare arouse. 
Find peace once forgotten - here 
lady willow's refuge in repose 
lay feckless, on sticky sylvan feet.
Cloudy, as cast conflation grows.

Thursday, 7 August 2014

Laughing man

Semi-sheltered, the laughing man rests
Serene in spite of warning sky
Willing the rain, deflecting jests
Waiting, droplets splash on his legs

Bumblebees evade the downpour
Fumbling across the evening scape
Joining the laughing man setting store
In observing the turbulent state

The liquid-sky dances for him
Pouring to the rhythmic patters
Earthy scents gust through on whim
Past dark clouds and sanguine lashes

Never cynical, laughing man
Much warmer than mid-summers height
Forever riding on rains cusp
A certain lightness to the night.

Monday, 4 August 2014

Sidhe’s Love

Amour through fae lit dark, a sweet pretence
Where tender notes flutter amidst the breeze
Her spoor’s enchant to coax frail innocence
Invite Sidhe wiles to lure and willing seize
So pursue wild freedom and sate desire 
Relish the dance, caper with candour’s flame 
Cede prescience and bask in nymphs shy pyre 
Extol the chase, the certainty of shame 
You beg sortie, crave shriek, still pray then hope 
To grab, desire, rouse fear or effect pain 
For though base lust stirs men, no shades elope 
Their passions felt, subside like passing rain. 
Heed well the cost capricious sprites deem just 
Sidhe’s love molests the heart’s of men till dust

Sidhe [Shee]: A Celtic Irish antecedent to Christian lore, the fae, fairy.

Spoor: A creatures track or trail.

© Caleb Chatfield and SeekingSinecure

Saturday, 2 August 2014


(The rain still falls without your laugh)      
Where bass thunder wracks the night; is sown  
where heart is amiss and failing fast       
and lightning warmth unseen; shape bolts cast  
off to light a distant hearth                
where careless fucks, alight, still moan       

(Left forgotten, the bones of you)             
Stolen laughter, those memories bound          
in loves' peculiar hidden spaces             
and alight in washes' groaning graces          
to fade, before instance too few             
fragmenting echoes of laughter's sound.        

To think, 
the certainty I had you’d live in poesy.
The rain still falls without you.

Dedicated to Caleb Chatfield always and forever missed.

Started a couple of years ago after the death of my father and left raw and unfinished. I'm finally happy with this draft. It will always be a draft though.

© Caleb Chatfield and SeekingSinecure, 2011-

Wednesday, 30 July 2014

One week in

Poetry is fleeting but rewarding on an emotional level. Personally writing about people and feelings helps me better understand them.

Life without this is akin to life spent spurning good music and food or new experiences and wild places.

Thanks for reading and feel free to comment.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014


Swollen Vega nearing end
fallen vacant to the din
kicked careless and calling on
Chantilly's feted skin

A pantomime carousing all
Vultur cadens in ties
Hope in fools gripping her
blacken to the dogged lies


Saturday, 26 July 2014

Wild Forces

At plights' zenith you scorch the sky
And paint it sated in your calm
The clouds afflicted by your sigh
The gentle rolling of your psalm
For that I love your midday smile
And cower not in furies' shade
But bask touched by passions wile
To live before warm ardours fade.

Friday, 25 July 2014


Footfalls of broken men, 
Once built a lauded state
Upon the callous brown
Start stones on lovers' tryst
Growing from the murky feet
A grandeur swallows all
So piercing is it's gaze
Commanding, it stands tall
It throws it's mighty fist
Over the quarries' scar
And keeps the fetters down
Those shackles reaching far

The Blue Depth of the sky

My blog is named in honour of W.B. Yeat's poem The Magi:


Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, 
And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

Yeats and Shelley both, in their intense and beautiful poetry, convinced me that for me that poetry works well as a creative outlet. It helps me form opinions and think on topics, rather than be swayed by common wisdoms and countenance. The images created in these short pieces, mysticism and occult entwined are so removed from life now, and so rebellious at the time they were written. 

Thursday, 24 July 2014

Mourning Songs

Lately the sound' of the mourning
amidst wreckage groans "ever-war"
not an errant thought to stop
this 'blood-let' read(chopping-shop)
certain to sight its mordant maw
re-lance the seething boil of Man.
Never learn, never make time;
to sing it right and fair and free
the music here- lamenting thee.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Glasgow 2014

Watching Scotland play host to the friendly games.

Always reminded of the colossal scale of the commonwealth, this isn't a small irrelevant competition it is more akin to continental in scale and greater still in myriad culture.

Scotland are pulling off the most ridiculous dress, I believe someone said "It clashes with itself" - But they look strangely good.


Looks way worse beforehand

Dark Star

The allure of a spotless sky,
in the middle of the night,
countless guttered out candles,
tender absence of the light.
Sheltered by my dark-ling high
and sweet submission yet to find,
my fingers crave gross handfuls
of darkness and leaves me blind
for amour of my, spotless sky.

(Written on 11/11/2012)

© Caleb Chatfield and SeekingSinecure, 2011-

Hello World!

The monumental first step! Welcome to my sounding-board, a humble soapbox of my ideas and thoughts low and high. Poetry, daily musings and simply an excuse to write and be happy.

Thanks for reading and sorry.