Working hard against the wind.
I head into the brining.
I grieve Lands End, yet hold the place,
more sinned against, than sinning.
My path repaired, the route stone-paved,
no more the ruts of old.
Return, once more, the place I’ve craved,
some kindred, our fold.
Ahead the gorse in blossom still,
the thrift remains with flower.
Upon the granite stone and shrill,
a gull complains the weather.
Below the Mulheim lies abreached,
While the lady gazes ever.
I take Maen Castle, to be released,
from old constraint and terror.
So here I sit, oblivious,
of time, change, or fate.
Safe, content and cumbrous,
ascend to fugue, dilate.
The watch ahead, a permanence.
While here at last luxate,
I drop away, in absence,
my soul at last pennate.
Follow
I love your poem, I think the structure brings an extra level into play – you are, in effect, showing how your inner reflections are in fact integrally connected to the scene you describe even though in the ordinary scheme of things a person’s inner state of mind cannot be linked to his surroundings.. your experience with your “fugues” sounds to me exactly like the condition Wordsworth describes that it is necessary to find in the famous preface to “Lyrical Ballads” where he effectively sets the agenda for modern poetry. It sounds to me as if you sometimes reach a state where you can feel that there is a rhythm or connection behind events that just for a moment you can perceive and almost grasp – a bit like this part from “The Prelude” (Wordsworth again) for example, when he describes himself skating with his mates on a lake in The Lake District..
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me–even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round! 460
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
Clarkie