Chantal's works have been used to accompany and have also inspired a series of poems on the themes of time, politics and human suffering.
Alone. Is there a more painful word?
Merchant ships set sail.
Plying bodies as their trade.
Bristol. Liverpool. Ports of no call.
Oceans filled with unmarked graves.
Alone. Is there a more savage word?
A cartography for the masses.
Enlightened lines on empty maps.
Abducting children, the promissory labour
Gordian bonds. A scientific Cross.
Alone. Is there a more violent word?
Soldiers marching forward.
Forever England. Where the paupers lay.
Trenches dug for eternal resting.
Pity the working class slaves.
Alone. Is there a more devastating word?
Monumental battles, still they continue.
Never again. Motoring time.
A solitary death amongst millions.
Myth of Nations. Progress divine.
Alone. Is there a more fearful word?
Our Enemies now amongst us.
A terrifying refrain.
Planes. Trains. Hope. All weaponised.
Imagination brutally slain.
Alone. Is there a more tragic world?
Cities of millions. Connected by fate.
Walking past. Invisible armies without coffins. Only the streets.
The boulevards. Continue with names.
Alone. Is there a more desperate word?
Solitary confinement. Domestic.
Awaiting the next visit.
Punches. Fill the sanctuary air.
Alone. Is there a more sorrowful word?
Kind acts of betrayal.
Broken memories. Wounding now.
Grieving for a future.
Never to pass. Life in torn.
Alone. Is there a more shameful word?
Sanctifying claims of humanity.
The worldless denied.
What promise? What possibility?
Another casualty. Needlessly reminds.
Brad Evans (2017)
Time is nothing. Time is everything.
Time is the horizon of hope, the wound that cuts, the flight that returns, the passing of the storm.
Time is destiny unfolding, the historical placement, the world revealing, its sadness foretold.
Time takes no prisoners, the destroyer of all myths, it asks nothing of reason, penetrates the soul.
Time is the forgetting of language, the forgiving of actions, the world of feelings, feeling alone.
Time is the luxury of possessors, the richest of riches, yet forever their torment, incarcerated minds.
Time is the more than being, the event of becoming, poetic imagination, irreducible to words.
Time is the envy of tyrants, the throne that is empty, the earth that is liberated, the solitude of thought.
Time is the deadliest silence, the triumphant chorus, the shadow of remembrance, but a fleeting embrace.
Time is the fateful healer, the bringer of sorrows, the deep river of mercy, the ineffable void.
Time demands nothing for nothing, Dante’s reflection, Heidegger’s mourning, Nietzsche’s return.
Time is the fall into freedom, the wondrous exception, the impossible promise, keeper of dreams.
Time is the peaceful violence, the threshold of existence, the graceful performance, passing of worlds.
Time is thinking in motion, the force of expression, the affirmation of difference, the love for it all.
Time is the beautiful spirit, refusing the fateful, the endlessly possible, the colors of the earth.
Time is nothing. Time is everything.
(Brad Evans, 2016)
Every mirror has been shattered
Within a kaleidoscope of liberated hate
This world of ours is dying
Of a broken heart and lost friends
Landscapes of intellectual devastation
Covered by shards of sorrowful dreams
Wounded by promises of hope
For a time, the future, never that was
We're dying a pitiful death
Tragedy becomes us all
Casualties of organized forgetting
Mere captives, waiting to fall
New Tyrants with old messages
Occupy palaces in the skies
The seduction of the masses
No longer deceived, born of the lies
Sold into a solitary condition
Together, we seem alone
Cruel optimism, they called it
Chained to a suffocating embrace
Prophets of greatness now guide us
Leading into the polluted abyss
To witness the slaughter of Virgil
Weaponised ignorance sealing his fate
With hindsight it all seemed inevitable
Scripted by producers of despair
Another road to serfdom
Laughed at in a humorless tone
Collectivized by trauma
Fear consumes us all
Another whitewashing of history
Burning books takes many forms
Still yet we find reasons to dance
Despite the cold darkness of the caves
Shadows, now tender with fury
Cast alight with a poetic flame
(Brad Evans, November 2016)