In My Own Words – Page 20 – The Poems of David Garlick

The nave was hung with a curtain of music.

Heavy organ chords and blasts of sounds

that echoed, chasing each other for space,

overlapping and swallowing one another.

Then the crystal trumpet notes soared

to hang like snow flakes weightless in the air.

The sound of frosted ice bells chiming.

Together a great tapestry stirred by wind.

Emotion and skill blended to cloak us

with thoughts, born so long ago,

by those who gave us this music.

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1995

Is beauty experienced through

the ugliness of the next frame?

If there is no contrast,

who may say what is beautiful?

The eye is not the only sense

to dwell in the halls of loveliness.

Neither should anyone dictate

what beauty really is.

Each must set a standard

for them-self

and cherish what the mind

welcomes to its treasure chest.

To some, perhaps a storm –

at sea is dreadful, but who

can deny the grandeur of

the canvas?

Mountains, in their stoic majesty,

beauty or awe?

A rage of mountains

tearing up the sky,

or faultless snowy peaks

that draw us to

their serenity.

Each artist seeks to share,

not the easy,

but rather, what the artist feels.

Then who may say if

beauty was intended,

or the ugliness of a

tortured soul held captive?

Let unfettered minds

try to understand.

Or share your own

deep hidden depths,

if you dare !

Beauty, how we search for you.

An endless quest to satisfy

the longings of our hearts.

Ushered along the road

by scenes and sounds

that mortify us.

Ugly, hateful, anger, fear,

famine, disease, cruelty.

Strident, selfish, stupidity,

all the things that make us human.

The counter point.

David Garlick, Victoria, July, 1995

I shall not always dwell in this place,

with its grimy walls and cold damp streets.

Where weeds push through chinks

and foul air stinks

of soot and the mill by the river.

For I shall lie under cool clean air,

Where the sky arches blue

and white clouds sail.

Where the wind blows free, to stir a branch

and warm earth to hold me close.

Or they’ll scatter my ashes

on a south facing hill.

Where the grass grows green

and the Whip Poor Will calls;

greeting the dusk with it’s piercing trill

and the dew turns to gold in the morn.

So its peace I’ll find, when it’s time to go.

And I’ll not be sorry to leave this place,

with its strife and hate and bone weary work

and the people gray white in the rain.

David Garlick, Victoria, 1989

It’s cold and how the wind blows chill.

Nor all the comfort in a paper bag

can hide my fears or help me through the night.

How have I come to this low place in life where

none will smile at me or hold my hand?

Is there no comfort or no love of man,

found in this city, with its freezing wind?

The beat of feet on side walks, smoky cars,

all the chatter and the sweet perfume,

can never hide or mask the soulless tide

of people walking past my lonely seat.

They do not see me if they do they pass

without a pause or backwards glance,

there I am left to sit alone and lost,

among a crowd of them who want me not.

Take care, you, who seek the cities warmth.

It is not there except in your minds eye.

David Garlick, Victoria, January, 1991