Anthology Volume V At the Merest Whisper of Your Gentle Voice, I Find Myself With Child...

By Christopher Bellamy

The Broken-hearted

How much love can one take with a broken heart?
How much love can one give with a broken heart?
How much love can one give to those we love with a broken heart?
How much love can be given by those that love us with a broken heart?
How much love can be taken and not returned with a broken heart?
How much love can be given and not returned with a broken heart?
What price a broken heart?
Where will the pain and the loneliness of the broken-hearted end?
But, all hope is not lost, for love a broken heart can mend,
For love is to the broken heart, the first, foremost and finest friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Dec 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398456914

Christopher Bellamy

Christopher Bellamy is an Englishman, 43, born in the U.K., although considers himself a citizen of the world and has lived and worked far and wide, most recently Hong Kong. Christopher began writing poetry in 2008 and has since completed six volumes of original poetry, In The Beginning Was The Word, Poetry in Motion (S*x On The Beach Part I), Inappropriate Words for Every Occasion, the present work, At The Merest Whisper of Your Gentle Voice, I Find Myself With Child, Tales From CCCLXV Labian Nights, an espionage novel, BLINDSPOT Alpha and a second novel, Once Upon A Nightmare. Christopher is currently writing his seventh volume of poetry: Who Was The Man With The Iron Arse? He is also working on a number of other writing projects and commissions.

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About the Author

Christopher Bellamy is a 41-year-old Englishman. He was born in the UK, although he considers himself a citizen of the world and has lived and worked far and wide. He began writing poetry in 2008 and has since completed six volumes of original poetry, In The Beginning Was The Word, S*x On The Beach Part I, Inappropriate Words for Every Occasion, Jon Bun Onion, A Poetaster’s Progress, the present work and Tales From CCCLXV Labian Nights, an espionage novel, Blindspot Alpha and a second novel, Once Upon a Nightmare. Christopher currently works as a corporate lawyer in Hong Kong.

Copyright Information ©

Christopher Bellamy 2022

The right of Christopher Bellamy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398456907 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398456914 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Part I

Poetry of Pain

03 January, 2018

In my own humble opinion,

I’m the Greatest Living Poet.

I should be Her Majesty’s Poet Laureate, if Her Majesty did but know it.

I’m telling you man,

I’m the Greatest Living Poet and nobody fucking knows it!

03 January, 2018

Upon a pony I rode light as a feather

Across hill and dale hell for leather

My pony trotted, nay cantered a swelter

Upon a pony I rode light as a feather

03 January, 2018

In the light that begins every day I dream of all and more of far away,

I look up and out into the light and wonder at what may

I search the light in wonder at the beginning of every day, for what may

I ponder the existential question: have I ever been me?

Is there ought beyond this shadow of reality?

And what role do I play in it mindlessly?

I’d like to know what’s my role, what should I say?

How much longer must I search for the light at the beginning and end of the day?

The winds they blow, the sun it ups and downs,

Time the destroyer of worlds goes round and round,

But still I know not come what may?

Why is time so (not) slow?

Why must I long and long (not) for the end of the day?

And so I do only what I can: kneel down and pray.

Bernadette Oliphant

03 January, 2018

I joined her and her several friends, they were walking four abreast around the bends

Of comely ladies there were five all told, they about her orbited like moons aglow

Of gents, nay knaves there were several, I could not count for she was central

Bespectacled was she, of grace and demeanor haughty possessed –

And hmmm what assets her chest possessed!

Her legs of swanlike grace were they, molded of the most perfect clay

And bestockinged in blackish-grey

We walked, not through sylvan glades, but along a street-arcade, passed a school and children at play

Her hair shone like silken pearls in the sun, with flashes of gold as from cores of galaxies since gone

About her orbited her moons and her male companions comets to go and come

And I behind her, like some interloper binary sun, looked in awe at her blinded and struck dumb

But never saw I her face, nor not once did she with her silken words from rose-petaled lips me grace

Infinity

04 January, 2018

I look but I do not see, for I have not sight,

The page I turn but the book fades away for it is made of clay;

In a cage am I denuded of sight, but knowing truly death’s bright light.

In my wisdom I have lived blindly in my own sight,

And I have walked at the edge of the precipice forever from my first day;

I have been blessed in the ignorance of my own blight.

Solitary I have lived, at first happily out of choice, but how I would cry myself to sleep at night

My needs lanced by a diamond cutlass sharpened in my first days,

By my protectors who raped my mind for decades.

I yearned for naught but the light, but seldom did I wake from darkest night.

The mantle too heavy on my shoulders lay, my world’s hue turned gray;

My chest became a cannon and my heart ignite.I have chosen, near death, to see with blinding sight

How I have been my own greatest blight, how the Earth, the Moon and the stars were mine

Only for them to be taken from me and taken by myself by spite.At last I see, on this my darkest night

How I in my miserable, self-pitying delight have cursed my blessings and made of my joy

Tears of sad despair

How I wish I could have been an angel imbibing Heaven’s rarefied air

Instead I’ll regret for ever how I’ll never live with thee there.

07 January, 2018

It often seems that despite reality there is a hand unseen that acts atop and between

And when that hand moves, the waves it creates – like ripples on a frozen lake make fun

Of the fates

For where was it writ that on the List, one dark December day should Dion meet Mitt?

For the world Mitt has travelled and the countless people he has encountered

He has not met one as truly kind and selfless

One who derives pleasure out of the gratification she gives to others

One who puts others before herself, father, mother and lover

One who despite all the pain and rejection she has suffered still finds only the salt

In the scum that forms the hearts of those buggers!

One who compares herself favourably to others, when there is no comparison to make

And one who judges only that people do as they do, for their own reason’s sake

Could such a meeting be at the hand of fate or is her unique fullness of heart a gift on a plate

07 January, 2018

As our lips touch and we slowly undress

As I slowly caress your subtle breasts

As I look into your eyes and we lay down beside

As I feel the warmth of your skin against mine and the softness of your lips like a ripple in time

As we gently embrace, but then more it becomes a race to see how fast and deep inside

I can find my place. Warm and soft and deep I nakedly place myself deep inside your sheath

As you take me, at first shortly, but then the length of my piece

I move slowly and tenderly, but with deliberate force,

Sometimes a thrust like a stallion-horse

Sometimes rapidly as though I can’t wait to finish the course

And then I see it in your eyes, I hear it in your cries and I feel it in your every movement -

That you’re coming to climax. But wait. So am I.

How often does this happen? That a woman can cum with me, when I am inside?

Seldom. Nay never. But with you, every time.

The pleasure I feel as you’re coming with me coincides is enough to make me scream and cry.

And I can see too the pleasure in your eye.

I can’t wait till the next time I am inside, whether I swim or you ride.

08 January, 2018

My heart beats wildly as I try to savour the elixir of your soul, word by word,

While my mind wants to swallow the elixir and transform them into luscious images –

Like the first I ever saw at the dawn of my first day.

You remind me of a character from Dickensian England or the Gothic:

A gracious poet whose poems bring joy in their reading and peace of mind in their speaking –

A peace of mind that I have not experienced in all my life since birth

Your voice transports me away from the obscurity of life, for you are an extraordinaire

Your tenderness and caresses transport me to a state of supreme stillness

When the time is right and the humidity low you have warmed my body with your own

You have made me feel as though I am made of water: clear, transparent and flowing

As I have shown you my innermost truth in the still waters hidden in the waters deep

And my tears of pleasure flow in rhythm with you inside

You have given me the courage to take the lead and conduct the orchestra of that plays the Symphony of Pleasure dedicated to you and me.

Words cannot truly describe what it is like to climax in unison with you –

I am overwhelmed and surreptitiously wipe tears of pleasure from my eyes.

11 January, 2018

Who mourns for the living when all mourn for the dead?

At the dawn cries the lark, after the shrill noiselessness of the night

When night-terrors, nay horrors that have haunted the ages take-up centre stages

And the world lies in dread, tears and grief stalking every (mal)content

Yes, I am haunted by the shrill noislessness of the night

It is attrition for my head, for my heart, soul – cold and full of lead

Yes, the night-horrors have haunted the ages and once again take-up centre stages

This time my heart is pierced and my mind wanders to Ambrose Bierce

And then I hear the cry of the lark in the morning of the dark

And I wonder to myself, has it always been the same throughout all the ages for all the sages?

And I wonder to myself, has it always been the same throughout all the ages for all writ pages?

Do the dead live as I do in dread? Who mourns for the living when all mourn for the dead?

James Somerset Smothers

11 January, 2018

He woke at 7:44 a.m., today was a day like any other, but not so, why?

He couldn’t be bothered? Truth be told, he could never be bothered.

He was an old soul, despite being only 24 and named James (Jimmy) Somerset Smothers.

He worked, as did many, in an office of many colours

But his life was grey and uneventful and he’d rather be another.

His office of many colours was on the 24th floor in the 24th building in Earl’s Court

A smash and grab raid of the ghastliest curs!

He worked as an I.T. programmer, part-time gambler

And freelance peripatetic snowboard handler – his favourite destination for which was the Swiss Alps

And a turnip marinated in coriander.

He worked in these surroundings with his best friend, Simone Halp,

A bald girl with a burnt scalp, who liked cookery shows and Cantonese hemp.

At 8:55 a.m. Jimmy Smothers and Simone Halp both sauntered into 24 Earl’s Court

After a furious bicycle ride and a breakfast of turbot and trout,

For they were both partial to fish and sprouts.

And as you might imagine, remained flatulent throughout.

In the lobby of 24 Earl’s Court they met their 8 co-workers, boys and girls all,

I.T. programmers and gamblers, what’s more.

Idiotic and condescending hipsters, who for reasons unknown had all had humourectomies

In their university free-for-all halls.

All 10 of these fucking idiots and friends, had to sign-in before 10.

This morning was strange, because Bill, surnamed Smith, the guard who manned reception till Jill (surname unknown, like many nowadays surnames were as anonymous as telephones)

Began her day shift was not in his usual place, but then out of nowhere showed his face.

He looked at them all, no with a scant care, looked down on them all, just as they did him

And wondered why these condescending cunts ever gave a fuck about anything?

And decided he, it’s time for my tea, as he transformed himself into a 20-foot-tall man-eating

Monster with tentacles that resembled an octopus mated with a tree, but in reality he was from

Celtris III where creatures of this ilk were as commonplace as you and me

And proceeded to devour these idiotic and narcissistic freaks,

Before leaving the building to buy some boiled sweets.

18 January, 2018

I want to hold your heart close to my bosom, your soul I want entombed with me in lead,

Your spirit enthroned all in glory, like English kings and queens since Alfred,

I want to explore every inch of you, I want to be entwined with you until dead.

For you, my one, my only, who appreciates me so exquisitely, so explicitly,

I am touched to the core by your every word, every look of your eyes, your every touch,

Your every caress, your every fuck.

What a beautiful heart you possess! What a beautiful soul you possess!

For these possessions, I am truly blessed!

You will never know exactly how you look to me, through my eyes,

But I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, for you would almost certainly cry,

As I do when you are inside.

I want to hold your heart close to my bosom, your soul I want entombed with me in lead,

Your spirit enthroned all in glory, like English kings and queens since Alfred,

I want to explore every inch of you, I want to be entwined with you until dead.

The Momentary Musings of Albert Ross

19 January, 2018

Of youthful indiscretions had he none only crimes and sins which stink all the way to heaven

But when he was young or thereabouts he knew a woman much older than he was

She was perhaps 45 a year or 3. A dalliance with her daughter had he, who did take his heart

And did to it slaughter. Divorced was she, her wayward lost her way a kindred soul tossed;

And as she was lost he felt in his philosophic bent that he would offer her a helping hand and words Sincerely felt. Stories he heard stories that he took not to heart about how she fancied

Fine young girls but he persisted in his friendship with this woman old enough to be his mum,

As he felt her a kindred soul and of himself he did not think a man and for her daughter too

He would not have broken that taboo. But it’s true (although he did not know it at the time)

That he fell for her head over shoe and she for he that’s true.

He did not act on the feelings he had and nor did she, but as he looks back he knows

He could have over those many meetings had openly and discreetly and even over glasses of wine late In the evening.

He did fantasize of such delights as would have taken place in her boudoir but what. Would have become of such a dalliance

As that doomed from afar? He could have learnt from her many things, his eyes could have been opened, instead of being now Dozing to sleep for she had a charm and physique that turned him a treat, And it is true to say that not acting on how he felt is Yet another one of his youthful regrets, as he learns to live another day.

Hans Blix Up to His Old Tricks

20 January, 2018

The plastic experience transfixed

Two figures walk betwixt

A groomsman disfigured, a pornographer to the bone, was Hans on his zimmer

Tycho Brahe was a pianist of great range, who played with great humour, gusto deranged

A lauded microbiologist with bespoke spectacles made of purest onyx sat atop Pollux

Here endeth the lesson.

23 January, 2018

Still waters run deep

Still waters for to keep

Still waters that forever reap

Still waters my soul to keep

Still waters that need no leap

Still waters are the flattest heap, but can yet be the highest peak to leap

Still waters need not a jeep to traverse, they are a self-contained universe

Still waters are not for the faint-hearted, one shouldn’t peep, for a peep may irrevocably steep

Still waters that are so deep will without doubt make one cry yeep and… weep

23 January, 2018

For oneself, for one’s heart, for one’s soul, for one’s mind, for one’s spirit, for one’s love

For one’s hatred, for all that one knows, for all that one does not know

For one’s child(ren), for one’s youth, for one’s old, for one’s truth, for one’s truth that cannot be told

For the mysteries that have yet to unfold, for the truth that one has been told

For all the moments one has been bold, for all the moments one has not been bold

For one’s loneliness that burns one cold, for all the times one has sold one’s soul

For one’s life, for one’s death, for one’s whole, for oneself a life lived, for oneself, a life untold

For oneself

The Museum of Non-Existent Histories

19-21 January, 2018

The Brahmin in the room was a turgid reminder of the failures in which his life seemed

To be lived apart from him in some way. How time has passed away and come to decay.

How he ceases to wish for come what may. What is there left to live for, at the end of the day?

How little he wants now to pick the darling buds of May and waits only for November to blow

Them all away. For what must he pay? For what he cannot say? His only wish: for her to stay!

Time has passed and come to decay. The multi-decadal dance of the harlots so gay. Stay!

He often wishes that he could now make hay, but time is too short, he cannot stay.

Their last embrace was in the fragrant bay, that enrapturing Spring day one May,

Where they had their first lay. Their love was fleeting, like the popinjay, but passionate with

The heat of the sun’s most lethal rays, but their time was short, from May to December

At which time their love he did dismember. The last time he saw here standing there,

Was when he waved goodbye to their corpse of love on a burning quay on the River Tay.

Surely, that was not meant to be the way? Surely, it must be his right to have one last hurray?

Alas, nay. For he knows that his life is to be lived apart from him in some way, beside himself,

He could say. How his time has passed away and come to decay.

How his time had passed and come to decay and yet his effervescent mind still pondered the

Myriad possibilities of existence. Was he at his own tiller?

What was he meant to decipher from its equivocal symbolism?

Was he a paranoid fanatic who had, in his fervid haste, sealed his own fate?

He had unassailable certainty that his soul was now his fate, which he held between his fingertips,

His imagined fate now his only way.

As plain as the voice would say, as plain as the ugly nose on his apelike face, an ugly face.

Apelike faces are not prone to trust, for who could trust intelligence? It leads only to boom and bust.

He knew this inherently, but even more so, trusting the voice inside his head more intently.

But the voice, he knew, could be nothing more than conjuring tricks, designed to do no more

Than take the piss. Was his story at an end? Had his time passed and come to decay?

Was this his denouement, like the marshals at Napoleon’s beck and stay?

After all, he was only as precise as the imperfect clay from which he had been molded,

His will infinitely malleable