Britain

The weather in London has been surprisingly amazing, I'm even sunburnt. Not that it's hard for me to be sunburnt if i spend too much time out beneath Him.

Betrayed
I, in Dover went to see
the white chalk cliff, lapped by the aqua blue sea
that reaches out to France.
But I was let down.
At Dover the sea is pushed back from land by rocks and boats and man's cement.
I suppose if I walked
farther down along the cement road
it would have given way to towering white cliffs holding the sky away
from my head, shielding me from the Sun,
cooling their white feet in the salty waves of channel water.

But I was waylaid by a lost American and my heart took pity on him.
He didn't deserve these shores, these cliffs, this Sun
and I tried to send him on his way.

But he asked to take my hand and firmly pulled
me into a flint church,
a church built from the destruction of the chalk
and the destruction of my pagean gods.
The flint hid me from the Sun, and while he burns me,
he is my protector from men like this.
He bleaches the red from my hair and stains the white of my skin,
to save me from those who want to change me.
He helps me pass as one of them and not be bothered.
But this Lost one, did not heed the Sun,
because he cannot feel his power
and Sun was handing my safety
to the Moon that hour.

The Lost pulled me to the place he once found him self,
in front of that errant god’s pulpit and
declared his love and fate for me.
He prophesied I was the one he saw once in a dream,
walking along the shores on his Grandmere’s birth.
He can’t tease me thus.
I cried out to my protector,
tried to feel His warmth in the stone floor,
tried to feel life in the wood pews.
All was dead and I could scream to stop the whispered words.
My gods can’t find me here, they left even the materials that build this place up.

I can’t be anything more than a misty apparition of the Lost One’s dreams,
I can’t be real to him or lose myself.
The Moon, the more my saving grace,
bid the Lost One on his way, to return to his lost country.

When the Sun, my betrayer was once more in command of the sky,
I journeyed to the top of white cliffs,
to be closer to Him, to some how chide Him for his turn.
But all I found were shadowy hallways of trees frequented by deer,
the Roman’s lighthouse that I sought was covered
over with vines and let in no light
and the Sun refused to show is face,
and hid behind a veil of mist,
also hiding France from me,
yet he still enraged by shoulders and my cheeks,
speckling them with golden brown.

Before I went to Dover it rained in London, a good rain with lightning and thunder and huge drops of water, but not a drop was cold and the air was clean and clear. It was a warm night rain.

Sun Disease
The sun runs red streaks
across my nose and cheeks,
the heat,
a butterfly alighted on my face, red and warning,
blending with the red of my hair, the red of my eyes, the edges of my fingers.
The first drops of rain
fall on my forehead, on the butterfly, on my shoulders,
like the first infusion of western medicine dripping through my veins,
the rains
relieve heat and discolor the butterfly,
who eastern herbs could not allure away.
I could be young again, strip off my shirt,
I don’t need its protection from the sun
now and run,
my feet are not swollen from the heat, they can hold me
and I can run forever, naked, not afraid to show
my body’s new contortions, because they don’t hurt now,
run endlessly through the rain washed streets out away from the city
into the shade of trees and out more into the pouring rain.
Let it pour,
let it pour monthly, daily, hourly
pour from the sea, the clouds, the sky into my veins and quench the inferno burning in my bones, raging against its home.
Maybe then, beneath that endless sky of beautiful rain, maybe then I can rest,
lie myself down beneath the water,
to soak it up from beneath
and rest.
Rest from the endless pain of the heat and parched weakness,
that doesn’t give me strength to drink myself wet again.



Does it bother you i talk about myself in poetry? Can you tell which parts are true and which I've made up and which i'm cleverly consealed? Does it matter?