Mike Smith

Mike has published his work in a variety of anthologies. He likes to tackle deep subjects such as war, love and mysticism. He says: 'My poetry gives a voice to those who have none. I write about real people trying to make the best out of difficult situations. My work has many dimensions - spiritual, sociological, emotional, intellectual - as well as lexical and metrical components. A good poem should sing out on many levels, its rhythm should mirror both thematic and narrative. The best poems are easily apprehended by the intellect and instantly felt by the heart. Real life is the palette of the artist - his suffering is the pain of humanity. In this way the artist tunes into humanity and by doing so he sees his own soul as a reflection of God. The poet taps into the divine; he is both a mystic and a philosopher. By exploring humanity he comes to know himself. The poet's path is usually the path of heresy!'  

See: http://www.michaeldante.co.uk/

POEMS 

PROTEUS

My love is beautiful but blind
she does not see like you nor I
my lady has no eyes only her mind

nor does she condemn like the rest of mankind
let loose my black bride and ask not why
I found love in the asylum for the blind

my head is bloated and my spine unaligned
but looks do deceive though I tell no lie
for she sees me even though she is blind

lift your black veil so your mouth touches mine
take me into your arms and ask not why
I found love in the asylum for the blind

hold me my sweet mistress for you will find
love has no form, no lips, no tongue to say goodbye
nor eyes to see and touches me though she is blind

let motherhood sing to me death’s lullaby
squeeze me daughter of darkness and be kind
crush my windpipe; kiss me for all of womankind
and let the weight of my dreams break my neck

[Dedicated to Joseph Merrick A.K.A.: The Elephant Man]



ODYSSEUS
For the lost men of Gleision

Odysseus scrambles out of the scarred
mountain, with the white-hot Cyclops eye still
shining bright as an orb of light, coal-smeared
his blackened face, flecked with fear: fetid skull

and lungs packed with blood and slurry, his cries
now echo and haunt the flooded tunnels.
Sliding down the scree past pink and red rockrose,
his silver-flamed Cyclops eye encircles

the morning sky, floating like a drowned moon
lapping below the surface of the water
and the resurrected face of Neptune,
sings his eulogy over the slaughter.

Into the drift-mine the rescue workers are led
to find Polyphemus with one eye plucked from his head.