Right Through Hell

Painting by Camille Pissarro 1879


Right through Hell


There is a path, as Blake well knew,
and though I may not take it,
sometimes lately in a dream
I have been able to see it.

Between mescals, I seem to see this path,
and strange vistas beyond it,
like visions of a brand new life
together we might somewhere lead.

Some northern country, mountains,
hills, and lakes of blue, blue water.
On an inlet our house is built
one evening we are standing, a light
blue moonless summer evening, late
with Venus burning hard at twilight.

This is not a poem of mine, nor is it a poem,
just a bunch of prose I split up into lines
for the sake of play. Dia de los muertos mescal
still evapoating from my brain, having
bored myself blotto with Malcolm Lowry's Under
the Volcano, to quick or sick a read for me
on the Day of the Dead drunk. Thunderless gold
lighting in the blue twilight, unearthly...


David Gilmour November 2009