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-