Archive for the ‘David Myatt Poetry’ Category

People Can Be So Cruel

David Myatt 1995 CE

David Myatt 1995 CE

People Can Be So Cruel

A recent comment about David Myatt is quite illuminating about mundanes and mundane-ness, and also about how Myatt is perceived by many if not all mundanes, based on their mis-understanding of him and their innate mundane prejudice about those who do not seem to conform to their mundane expectations. The comment appeared on some blog which is quite well-read and quite well-regarded among certain sections of a certain type of mundane community in Britain. Here is the comment –

” David Myatt never gets arrested despite his copious hate speech output, converting to Islam to try to become the British Osama Bin Laden and his numerous websites fishing for recruits. Here’s one: one of his poems is called, “People can be so cruel.”
Check it out if you fancy a chuckle….. “

Two things to notice, here. First, the author of the comment is insinuating that Myatt could be an MI5 operative, and making spurious (unreasonable) connections based on unproven and prejudiced assumptions about Myatt’s intentions. Second, and most importantly in respect of mundanity, the author is making some supercilious comment about what he states is a poem by Myatt.

The supercilious comment is the most interesting, because it is an object lesson in how mundanes think and behave. Firstly, the mundane in trying to show how “clever” he is, just makes an ass of himself; and second, he’s showing the mockery of non-mundanes which is common to most mundanes, “if you want a laugh, go read this…”, a mockery which expresses the plebeian, profane, ethos of mundanes, everywhere: their need to laugh at others not like them and to try and profane what they themselves do not understand and/or do not feel: empathy, the numinous, reason.

The man makes an ass of himself because, AFAIK, there is no poem by Myatt called “People can be so cruel”. Thus, the mundane makes a mundane error. There is, however, a private letter by Myatt which goes by that title and which appears in the first volume of Myatt’s collected letters, published by Julie Wright. This letter was written in 2003 CE, and is given in full below.

Now, what is humorous in the letter? In particular, what is there to mock or chuckle at in the pertinent part of the letter which recounts the story of a suicide of a young woman?

Just why does this particular, and this reasonably well-known, mundane, think that the feelings Myatt records in this letters are something one might find amusing?

Read the letter, and decide for yourself.

Does the comment by the mundane seem to you to suggest that superficiality, the plebeian attitude, that is the specialty of mundanes?

Now, I will not dignify this mundane with his real personal name, but suffice to say that he is typical of mundanes everywhere and typical of the type of mundane that the hubriati love and whom their Media applauds. For the particular mundane has been “noticed” by the Media, not especially for his talent in playing a particular musical instrument, but also because of him expressing his mundane-ness by means of writing the almost obligatory novel (hyped by the Media, of course) and by churning out various musical “compositions”.

Interesting, is it not, how this plebeian mundane ethos – the vulgarity, the superficiality, of mundanes – is now so applauded and so celebrated in the societies of the West?

People Can Be So Cruel…

There is nothing to do this hot, Sunny, humid early evening after work but sit in the shade and sigh. The shade is from the tall Ash tree that grows in the hedge in this corner of the field. In one part of the sky, clouds build, rising, giving a hint of a storm, and, rested a little, I wander over the low, old, wire fence broken here in three place, through the grass and willow-herb down to the damp ground where bull-rushes grow. There is a small part of this rough ground between two trees of Willow – one broken, old – and the scrub bush, which is shaded for most of the day, and the small pool of now clear water is still there, days after rain, frequented by birds, insects, and home to a myriad of minute living things eking out their brief existence in their own cosmos, three hands long, less than one hand wide and now less than the width of my forefinger deep.

So I sit again, and again shaded but this time by Willow, and sigh. For here by this very field on this very day in late June I have slipped out of love with she who these past four long months has governed my life. I would wake, after a few hours sleep, to think of her – to desire her; to want to be with her, remembering the moments, the hours, of passion we had shared – as I would wait, hours, days, for those telephone calls that she never made. I was the cause of her split from her intended – but our shared time, together, was brief, for she, afraid perhaps of my intensity, the depth of my love, my passion – of something – withdrew to leave me wondering, for weeks. She wanted friendship only then, and I with my love obliged, holding onto hope as we who love do. For four months – except for five days – I had put her feelings, her wishes, before mine. But then came that deed to leave me more hurt than I have ever been. We had talked of sharing, of me moving in; but she said she wanted time to think. And then – the storm breaking after days, nights of humid sleepless hours – she told of he, her friend, who was moving in with her that very day we met again to talk…..

So I sit, with no wind to cool me down. But there has been a calmness, these past hours and – for the first time in five days – my dull, persistent, headache has gone. There is no haste, here, and I am glad of this half hour before I walk back to the farmhouse, for tea. So I am alone, again, released; part sad; part happy. I am happy, because this place where I sit has become like a home – a refuge, where I am me; where I do not have to pretend. I can be the innocent boy, inside, pleased by the sights, sounds, smells, life, around. No need for words; no need to explain; no misunderstandings. Only that – trees, bush, birds, grass, plants, sky, insects, soil, Sun – which I am and which are me.

So I sit, this new notebook on my knee, pen in hand, with no measure of passing time except the change of light, shade, as a memory, forgotten for many, many years, rises, unbidden by me, as the Sun, rising each day, is unbidden by Earth.

It is the story – the sad story – of a young woman I knew and whom I briefly nursed in those days, long ago now, when my then still early life served a different and perchance more noble purpose. She was on the Ward where I then worked, recovering from a routine operation and, as I changed her bloodied dressing one warm day, we fell to talking as people do. She had been reading Howards End – then a favourite book of mine – and it was not long before we discovered a mutual love of Mozart. Whenever time, my duties, permitted, we talked – as that evening, some days later, after my shift had ended. We talked for hours, as late afternoon turned to evening

Why she confided in me – almost a stranger – I did not know. But she showed me a letter she had written to her lover, a letter she feared to send. She wrote of her love, her hopes, her feelings, as she spoke to me of her past – the betrayals; the manipulation; the self-doubt; the suicide attempt, only months ago. “People can be so cruel, I remember she had said, as I remember that she seemed to me, then, as now, a delicate, gentle, life – a rather shy, awkward, innocent girl in a young woman’s body, so taken advantage of by others, by men. I remember how her eyes brightened when she spoke of Mozart; of how she happily showed me photographs of a family trip to Austria; and revealed the pressed Edelweiss she kept as a memento. I remember how she almost cried as she spoke of how her lover – how several others – had said she should “grow up”.

I was there when she left, clutching her little unfashionable bag full of the things people need for a stay in hospital. I was there, by the swing-doors which gave entrance to the Ward. I was there hoping that someone would come to meet her; to hold her. But no one did. I was there, sensing that she wanted me to do something, to say something: sensing that she herself was too shy to do, say, what she felt, needed. I was there, wanting to hold her, wanting to ask for her address; for her telephone number – but there was something, something, which held me back. It was my honour; for I had pledged my loyalty to the woman I then loved.

Not long after, I learnt that my favourite patient was dead. She had killed herself. Was this, I thought, the price of my honour? Could I have done more? I should have done more. For weeks afterwards, her death haunted me. I felt such a failure, as a Nurse, as a human being. It was such a waste of a beautiful life. We two human beings had made a connexion – a deep connexion. We two, who perhaps felt too much; who felt what others felt, and who often retreated into ourselves because the words of others, their feelings, even sometimes the way they looked at us, could wound us. I knew we two had shared something human, special, just as I knew that she was a better human being than those who derided her, who demanded she “grow up”. Grow up – and become like them? Insensitive; forgetful of, or never having known, the pure innocent joy of those wondrous, civilized moments such as being captivated by a beautiful, sublime piece of music heard for the first time, bringing tears. Become like them? – laughing at the treasured keepsake? Become like them? – cheating; scheming; lying to impress.

All she needed was a simple, uncomplicated, giving, gentle, love. Such a waste of a beautiful life. Such a regret, for me, in me. And now my own life has returned to the feelings of that time, that place, filled as they were then by that beautiful, brief, life. For years, for many, many years – too many years – I forgot her; forgot the feelings engendered then; the understanding given by her, through her. I tried in those long years to “grow up”; to behave, act, scheme, like others. But there is no need to “grow up”, here, in this my quiet, special, rural place where Nature lives. I can be myself, again, as I was, once, with her. Perhaps she, my favourite patient, is here – or somewhere nearby. I would like to believe so. Perhaps she lives as long as I, someone, remembers her.

How easily I, we, forget. But I shall strive to never forget her, again.

David Myatt


Two Face: Some Poems by DW Myatt


Below is a link to a pdf file (103 Kb) of Two Face: Some Poems by DW Myatt from the years 1974-1979 CE.

Also below is a link to another pdf file (101 Kb) of another small collection of poems by DW Myatt, from the years 1974-2009 CE, entitled For The Cognoscenti.

Two Face: Some Poems by DW Myatt

For The Cognoscenti

As An Example, Barbir

A man’s fate is a man’s fate
And life is but an illusion

How is your husband? –
The face in the street smiled.
He died, last week
While a small hospital
Of no repute was bombed

Every writer has their cause
Where words without the warmth
A Winter sun secures
No experience drips, as frost
From a leaf when warm breath
Casts itself from itself
And the child-man smiles
Atop the bleak sequestered hill
Where snow folds with silence:
Every bomb is a clue
While children cry

A tyrant’s whim was only a whim
Since he at least must die
But an idea’s fate is an idea’s fate:
They seldom die
Lying like pain in wait

The old woman cries
While she lies in her bed awake:
For sixty years her care carried her;
There was always the house,
The children, the neat garden trimmed by a hedge.
Each Sunday would be real
And they would sit, enjoying the warmth
Of their world.
He died, last week
Before the leeches sucked their house

“In a Home” the face like her youth said
“It is warm, and in Winter we will come.”
Oh my daughter what have you done…

Every person has their Cause
When deeds drip like blood
Just as every City is a snare

Can you remember you who skirted
That path and walked like Leonidas
Can you remember the warmth
That drew Cities from Stone?
Is there no forgiving for the dreams
Of our past? No remembering of skulls
Cracked to help those cracking
To remember a question, just one question
About Life?

There is no goal worthy
For which a City might live:
But, I remember the City
We might build to the stars

DW Myatt

Only Time Has Stopped

Here I have stopped
Because only Time goes on within my dream:
Yesterday I was awoken, again,
And she held me down
With her body warmth
Until, satisfied, I went alone
And trying to remember:

A sun in a white clouded sky
Morning dawn yellow
Sways the breath that, hot, I exhale tasting of her lips.
The water has cut, deep, into
The estuary bank
And the mallard swims against the flow –
No movement, only effort.
Nearby – the foreign ship which brought me
Is held by rusty chains
Which, one day and soon
And peeling them like its paint,
Must leave

Here I shall begin again
Because Time, at last, has stopped
Since I have remembered the dark ecstasy
Which brought that war-seeking Dream

DW Myatt

Some Poems of Love and War

Dirty Work

Weary and sleep inclined
I watched the pools of rain
Upon a roof below a corridor
White, quiet and quite empty.

A calmness of concentration came
As I aimed and made the kill, again.
There, a bleeding body
While, somewhere, trees buds were bursting
With the Spring.

I had killed, knitting in space-time
A synchronicity since it was only
One family’s loss
But civilization’s gain.

The choice was never hard
Since Thought can never act
And in Action without Thought
Lies a perfect bliss.

But the Dragon stayed
While only I moved on:
They – the politicians – could still cry
For they forget our memories,
The things that we did in their name.

Yet our eyes betray our loss
For we few who survived are forever
And always

DW Myatt

One Grief

The worst and the best – these feelings of love:
Great, profound, best in their beginning
Yet worst with its ending
When we pace our small room
As outside the warm Sun of Spring appears
From cloud that brought such an early morning

Now, we look out toward where those flowers of Spring
Push upwards from the plush green bank
Beside the lawn that I trimmed
Only one month ago
For the first time
This year.

Beyond, sunlight caught,
Those hills whose treeful slopes
Are greener now that I am sad, sadder, saddened by a grief born
From her losing:
Such life, around – such promise filling this air
With song
As birds proclaim both territory and pride
While I, Bach-hearing, resist resist resist
That temptation to kneel
As dark anguish heavily descends to cover such life as was my life:

For there is no God now to help as when I the monk
Toiled with hands, feelings, desires – until Thought surprised me
With the perfume of a woman
And shook me to take me far from the Monk’s Garden, the cloister, that warm Summer
Of warmful Sun –
Took me, far beyond myself
To where a female deity
Was born.

But, yes, there are tears now, as if the centuries, calling
Held me with the cries of those who long before my birth
Had suffered, cried, mourned, and died –

So many tears, so many, taking me far beyond her loss
To where some future peaceful place, Sun-warmed, and rural as an English Summer,

If only – if only I, we, were there
In that Paradise serene
Where even my desire, my yearning, becomes stilled
As it was not stilled with her
As I restless even beyond myself despite my best most noble hopes
Filled her with sadness, sometimes,
Until the slim thread holding us in love thinned and broke
Breaking her down in a sadness of grief, bent over her bed
Those hours when words failed as words fail
That day of rain and Sun where light from her window beheld her clinging
To the sheets of her bed, her pillow wet with tears.

There was, is, nothing for me to do now
I am sorry, so sorry
But live – or try to live
Remembering: for the centuries, calling
Hold me with the cries of those who long before my birth
Have suffered, cried, mourned, and died,
Thus urging me with such remembering to make some goodful godful use
Of the time remaining, here,
Far from that un-causal Paradise
Which might – should – be ours
One day
When the crying, our hurting,

DW Myatt

Here I Am, Waiting

Here I am, waiting, while the cold night grows ever darker
And the thin crescent moon

Those were the moments of hope – of excuses
As to why she did not call
But the hours, the slow hours, dragged them away
Until he was left, alone, bent, desperate but not desperate
Because unwilling even then to fully believe
His loss.

He loved her so much; he had loved her so much –
She, of the weeks, months, of passionate new love –
And he held, again, her card, reading, reading until the tears came:

To my darling, I love you

What was there left? Where was the future they shared, deeply
In those weeks when three decades of mutual sorrow, loneliness, hope
Came together through embracing arms, kisses
And that intimacy of touch?
Where the joyous desire that left him trembling
When he had stood at her door, waiting,
And she, arriving, threw her arms around him
Holding him so close with her passion, her love,
That he closed his eyes in tears knowing, knowing, his dreams were there
Embodied within her flesh?

Where now the promise promising so much that never was
Never now could be

For she was gone, taken, killed, by an accident of life
As he became taken enfolded by sorrow
Until, broken, the life left him
To leave only the shell, only the physical shell
Longing for death.

What would, could, should he do?
Only exist, ambling, alone, in some wood, on some hill,
Seeking no comfort and finding no comfort, uncaring of himself –
Except when the hills, the clouds, the Sun, the trees
Their life
Came unto him as he the bearded tramp waited
For death,
For then for a moment but only a moment he might be at peace
Amid the life that was their life.

DW Myatt

Decoration by Bombs


Decoration by Bombs is an Art

There is a comfort here, a Winter sea breeze,
A quiet time to mould from present possibilities
Future patterns
While each will creates by being just a will
Each possibility of Thought:

There is no being that is real
No authentic Way
While the act that might have linked
All presents to their past
Becomes enfeebled
Like waves breaking on a beach

Decoration by bombing is an Art
And for each thought
That is a connection between our present
And our past
Ten thousand fruitful dead

Each tree rots, in the ambience of Time:
For each forest a silence
For each tree its allotted span;
What forest furnished your fuel
What soil your wheat?

There is good in all
The Buddhist says:
But, hell, that those bastards burn,
They started it

For decoration by bombing is an Art

All heroes die
That others might forget
And, while blood spurts,
A financier crawls across a perfumed lawn:
Berlin, Paris, Rome – it makes no difference, let others die! –
The same smile
The same golden god

Once, each people knew their gods
But now are too bored for gods
Or too relieved

Dear lady, how elegant
You look: so many jewels.
Give them a spectacle, some sports,
A passion to bleed their brains to death

For each dross, each pitcher of dross
A thousand helping hands
Keen smelling rats the lot
While the words that might have
Unpossessed those possessed
Are lost
Buried by blast and blood:
Decoration by bombing is an Art

There is a comfort here
That only war itself will break
As there is a passion among those possessed
By ideas that are not their ideas
As gutless financiers are possessed by their god.

But who will break the Seal
That delivers us to ourselves?

Little Esther’s plight made millions
And made even more men sick:
Ten thousand years, for this?

There is a comfort here
As Destiny seems doomed by The Lie.

But even seas change
Given time

DW Myatt

In The Valley

In The Valley

In the valley each rock
Is reduced by rain –
It runs, as small stones
Which will be soil
As I and all that I carry
Will be dead.

Was this valley a hill
Before water weathered
And each sheep trail was worn
Between fern and heather
And steep fern?
There are no people, today,
No noise lying like the dead crow

But there are gods,
If one knows where to look
And can tread the steep slopes
Of this hill.

Every road intrudes
Upon slow thinking rock.
Who tastes the silence that lies
As each Summer’s green
Upon the broken rocks of rain?

Here, near Narnell’s Rock
Where Thor’s hammer struck
Many a startled tree
And where dead men lie like seeds
Is neither day nor sun
Rain nor rock –
There is only the essence that exists
Because essence must:

There are no answers
Because no questions can exist –
Just as I am the rock which is me.

Yet there are gods, still,
If one knows where to look
And can climb the steep slopes
Of this hill

DW Myatt
(Written c. 1984)