Somewhere in the mind,
just for a second's fleeting glance,
a part, a sixtieth or less,
a shutter opened, and an image
such as we have not seen since, flashed in.
That was our childhood
and it's gone.
"Ah, but," you say, "the light was different then!
We cannot do that now. It does not look the same."
You are correct, the light was different then,
for we were children and we quarried it.
The light, you might say, was bespoke;
the images were as we wanted them.
We pulled them out like polaroids,
but knew the difference between
the instant and the instantaneous.
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Saturday, 19 February 2011
Friday, 18 February 2011
The last time that I saw him - for The Poetry Bus
Like the government, I got this one wrong. I thought it was from the menu of great prompts which 120 Socks put out for this week's Poetry Bus ride. It wasn't, but perhaps I can argue that it's very like them. At any rate, I'm grateful, because by means of it I have been enabled to write the poem I thought I would never write.
You'd never see him but
his cap was on his head.
At meal times it was there -
even at Ascot and
in bed, it was in place.
Ask how he was: "Hard up
and happy, mate!" he'd say.
Not so, when we last met!
Somehow, the phrase had died.
All that was left of him,
it seemed, was that old cap.
It still sat on his head,
and in addition he
had on a too-big shirt,
blue striped, with a long tail.
That was his full attire.
He'd nothing else to wear.
There was no dignity,
the geriatric ward
was sparse, ill cared for, soiled.
They blamed anaemia
(of the pernicious kind)
for all the change in him.
His memory was shot.
Drugged, he hardly knew us,
but knew he was in Epsom
"Where all the horses are!"
Roaming the ward to find
his best binoculars,
last time I saw him he'd
become half stranger, half
the Grandad I had known.
You'd never see him but
his cap was on his head.
At meal times it was there -
even at Ascot and
in bed, it was in place.
Ask how he was: "Hard up
and happy, mate!" he'd say.
Not so, when we last met!
Somehow, the phrase had died.
All that was left of him,
it seemed, was that old cap.
It still sat on his head,
and in addition he
had on a too-big shirt,
blue striped, with a long tail.
That was his full attire.
He'd nothing else to wear.
There was no dignity,
the geriatric ward
was sparse, ill cared for, soiled.
They blamed anaemia
(of the pernicious kind)
for all the change in him.
His memory was shot.
Drugged, he hardly knew us,
but knew he was in Epsom
"Where all the horses are!"
Roaming the ward to find
his best binoculars,
last time I saw him he'd
become half stranger, half
the Grandad I had known.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Are you listening, Planet Earth?
Magpie Tales offered this intriguing image (slightly altered by me!) for this week's prompt.
Space calling Earth.
Space Station Jane
to Mother Earth...
Where are you mum?
Your children need
to hear your voice.
We need advice...
Dear Auntie Jane
has lost the plot
is stripping off
her outer clothes...
The thermal skin
is breaking up -
or so it seems
to us in here.
It's even sheen's
gone negative
and spawned a rash
of dazzling spots.
(Intensity
of light and heat
is now five suns -
and rising still.)
Is this some form
of radiation?
(The instruments
are playing dumb.)
We need advise
on medication.
Poor Auntie Jane's
down to her slip.
A million stars
like sequins glint
and glitter from
the tattered tulle.
The Engineer
is asking: What
goes on - and will
Aunt fall apart?
We'd like to know:
does skin transmute?
Reply, please Earth -
for Aunty's sake!
Some better news!
The "Pepper Pot's" -
The Lander's - sad
attempt to dock...
superficial
damage only!
Will be fixed A.
S.A.P. - as
good as ever.
A simple tape
and sealing wax
repair will see
it done real good.
Space calling Earth.
Space Station Jane
to Mother Earth...
Where are you mum?
Your children need
to hear your voice.
We need advice...
Dear Auntie Jane
has lost the plot
is stripping off
her outer clothes...
The thermal skin
is breaking up -
or so it seems
to us in here.
It's even sheen's
gone negative
and spawned a rash
of dazzling spots.
(Intensity
of light and heat
is now five suns -
and rising still.)
Is this some form
of radiation?
(The instruments
are playing dumb.)
We need advise
on medication.
Poor Auntie Jane's
down to her slip.
A million stars
like sequins glint
and glitter from
the tattered tulle.
The Engineer
is asking: What
goes on - and will
Aunt fall apart?
We'd like to know:
does skin transmute?
Reply, please Earth -
for Aunty's sake!
Some better news!
The "Pepper Pot's" -
The Lander's - sad
attempt to dock...
superficial
damage only!
Will be fixed A.
S.A.P. - as
good as ever.
A simple tape
and sealing wax
repair will see
it done real good.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Wild Horses
Edwin Muir was among the very first of my poetry heroes and almost from the beginning his poem The Horses struck me as among his most powerful, and certainly one of his strangest. I began to see an affinity - if that is not claiming too much - during the course of writing Wild Horses and so I offer it as a tribute to him.
That morning there were horses in the field;
all strangers to us, no one knew from where.
Sixteen bronze mustangs, deeply traumatized.
They stood together staring straight ahead,
though some eyes were unfocussed and seemed blind.
They shivered in the cold - or trembled at
the sight of us or what we brought to mind.
Paul used his skills to look them in each eye;
his right to their right, left to each of theirs
(as if he could look straight into their thoughts),
reporting what he saw. And what he saw
astonished us and terrified us all.
He spoke of suns, intensely hot - each one
a staring eye - and felt them burning his.
We heard descriptions of their retinas
alight, consumed by flames of purest black
and smoke from far behind them, billowing
like sails in a high wind - and full of light.
Yet other suns, he saw, were filigreed
with veins from which blood flowed and pooled until
the pools became a flood in which they drowned
or struggled to survive. Mustangs he saw
in deadly combat. With each other, so
it seemed at first - until he saw their eyes.
Our mustangs' eyes were deeply set and black.
The beasts attacking them (in what they must
have thought was privacy) had bulbous eyes
of amber, blue or grey. Harrowing to
see the damage every horse sustained!
In other eyes he watched the mustangs lose
to feral boars whose greater numbers won
the day. A golden mustang in full stride,
he saw. Late evening and a low sun, ever
more intense, the mustang's shadow stretched to
breaking point - except, the horse it was that
went, the shadow left to gallop gamely on.
Others he saw gallop to a cliff edge
and go over, lemming-like, to waiting
deaths (or if they lived, were buried under
rock falls), soft food for those marauding lions.
Some, caged behind a rash of razor wire,
were tearing at it with their hoofs and teeth
until their bloodless forms fell to the ground.
In one eye was a Pegasus in flight
above a choir of golden angels. These
it buried with dark scatter bombs of shame.
In other eyes the mustangs fought, reared up
and boxed each other with their forelegs raised.
In one eye was a horse that backed away
and swung its head until the scene went black.
Then in the oldest mustang's eyes he saw
the tractors and the 'dozers moving in
and levelling the ground. Some colts there were
who stretched themselves before them in the mud,
but were swept up and dumped in pits of lime.
They could not stop the graceless shapes that rose
like old teeth biting into what had been
green skylines full of hope. Then came the rain,
the floods and a new hope: the horses swam.
They came straight from their baptism to us.
That morning there were horses in the field;
all strangers to us, no one knew from where.
Sixteen bronze mustangs, deeply traumatized.
They stood together staring straight ahead,
though some eyes were unfocussed and seemed blind.
They shivered in the cold - or trembled at
the sight of us or what we brought to mind.
Paul used his skills to look them in each eye;
his right to their right, left to each of theirs
(as if he could look straight into their thoughts),
reporting what he saw. And what he saw
astonished us and terrified us all.
He spoke of suns, intensely hot - each one
a staring eye - and felt them burning his.
We heard descriptions of their retinas
alight, consumed by flames of purest black
and smoke from far behind them, billowing
like sails in a high wind - and full of light.
Yet other suns, he saw, were filigreed
with veins from which blood flowed and pooled until
the pools became a flood in which they drowned
or struggled to survive. Mustangs he saw
in deadly combat. With each other, so
it seemed at first - until he saw their eyes.
Our mustangs' eyes were deeply set and black.
The beasts attacking them (in what they must
have thought was privacy) had bulbous eyes
of amber, blue or grey. Harrowing to
see the damage every horse sustained!
In other eyes he watched the mustangs lose
to feral boars whose greater numbers won
the day. A golden mustang in full stride,
he saw. Late evening and a low sun, ever
more intense, the mustang's shadow stretched to
breaking point - except, the horse it was that
went, the shadow left to gallop gamely on.
Others he saw gallop to a cliff edge
and go over, lemming-like, to waiting
deaths (or if they lived, were buried under
rock falls), soft food for those marauding lions.
Some, caged behind a rash of razor wire,
were tearing at it with their hoofs and teeth
until their bloodless forms fell to the ground.
In one eye was a Pegasus in flight
above a choir of golden angels. These
it buried with dark scatter bombs of shame.
In other eyes the mustangs fought, reared up
and boxed each other with their forelegs raised.
In one eye was a horse that backed away
and swung its head until the scene went black.
Then in the oldest mustang's eyes he saw
the tractors and the 'dozers moving in
and levelling the ground. Some colts there were
who stretched themselves before them in the mud,
but were swept up and dumped in pits of lime.
They could not stop the graceless shapes that rose
like old teeth biting into what had been
green skylines full of hope. Then came the rain,
the floods and a new hope: the horses swam.
They came straight from their baptism to us.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
The Gypsy's Testament
Oh my God,
the things I've seen
in crystal balls
you'd not believe!
A man who yearns
for fire - how's that
for starters? One
who thrives on it,
who bathes in it
and walks on it,
consumes it whole
and loves it,
hugs it
half to death -
and sleeps
on burning coals.
And then
I've seen the earth,
a spinning globe -
snug fit inside
the crystal ball.
And inside earth
another world
and inside that...
a score or more
of spinning globes.
I've seen the Saviour
crucified
deep in the bowels
of all those spinning globes,
deep in the deepest
sphere of all.
His bleached,
attenuated limbs
reach out
strive to engulf the ball.
The globe contains him,
yet he takes its weight,
the spheres hold him,
and yet he holds the spheres,
the natural law
placed in abeyance
and himself
untouched by fire.
He was not born this way,
asbestos-skinned,
but took it to himself,
the role.
I watched his dream unfold
and saw him tremble
like the thin blades on
a tuning fork
with sounds not his
until his limbs caught fire
and he was in
his element.
the things I've seen
in crystal balls
you'd not believe!
A man who yearns
for fire - how's that
for starters? One
who thrives on it,
who bathes in it
and walks on it,
consumes it whole
and loves it,
hugs it
half to death -
and sleeps
on burning coals.
And then
I've seen the earth,
a spinning globe -
snug fit inside
the crystal ball.
And inside earth
another world
and inside that...
a score or more
of spinning globes.
I've seen the Saviour
crucified
deep in the bowels
of all those spinning globes,
deep in the deepest
sphere of all.
His bleached,
attenuated limbs
reach out
strive to engulf the ball.
The globe contains him,
yet he takes its weight,
the spheres hold him,
and yet he holds the spheres,
the natural law
placed in abeyance
and himself
untouched by fire.
He was not born this way,
asbestos-skinned,
but took it to himself,
the role.
I watched his dream unfold
and saw him tremble
like the thin blades on
a tuning fork
with sounds not his
until his limbs caught fire
and he was in
his element.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
AN Epiphany : Vermeer meets Braque
Imagine that a painter paints a portrait of himself
and in the distance shows a mirrored image of himself
(rear view)before an easel on which both (the image
and himself) are busy with the larger portrait (a front view)
reflected in the second of two mirrors
(which, being just behind it, the image cannot see)
and tell me which you would most trust for its veracity -
you've one of three (be wary, though, for by your choice
you might define reality).
Now change the metaphor: three ancient manuscripts:
the first is the original. The analogy
is with the painter - who in the case above
is never seen, and in the matter of the manuscript,
exists in fragments and in "reconstructions" of the past
from later copies. Call the painter and the ancient manuscript
The Source. One copy of the document
is close in time to the original (a front,
one quarter view) from which a later copy
(corresponding to the front view of the painter) has come down.
Which will you take as your reality, the self-
depicter's (rear) view, incomplete because the features
are unknown, the now fragmented manuscript?
the self-depicter, out of sight, unknowable? the more
straight-forward image from the glass?
The mirrors show us look-alikes, but not the man.
(No man has seen the world's view of his face.)
It isn't just the blemish in the glass,
it's what can happen to the image when reversed.
(Try holding up this typescript to a glass
and think how with much greater subtlety
it might indeed make changes to your face.)
The look-alikes are filtered through the painter's brain,
the properties of paint and canvas take their toll,
the man is no more human than a doll.
He looks at us, but only sees himself.
We look at him and see a bit of us, a blemish
and what he sees of him.
*
This is a response to Writers Island's prompt of Epiphany. (Apologies for being late with this link.)
and in the distance shows a mirrored image of himself
(rear view)before an easel on which both (the image
and himself) are busy with the larger portrait (a front view)
reflected in the second of two mirrors
(which, being just behind it, the image cannot see)
and tell me which you would most trust for its veracity -
you've one of three (be wary, though, for by your choice
you might define reality).
Now change the metaphor: three ancient manuscripts:
the first is the original. The analogy
is with the painter - who in the case above
is never seen, and in the matter of the manuscript,
exists in fragments and in "reconstructions" of the past
from later copies. Call the painter and the ancient manuscript
The Source. One copy of the document
is close in time to the original (a front,
one quarter view) from which a later copy
(corresponding to the front view of the painter) has come down.
Which will you take as your reality, the self-
depicter's (rear) view, incomplete because the features
are unknown, the now fragmented manuscript?
the self-depicter, out of sight, unknowable? the more
straight-forward image from the glass?
The mirrors show us look-alikes, but not the man.
(No man has seen the world's view of his face.)
It isn't just the blemish in the glass,
it's what can happen to the image when reversed.
(Try holding up this typescript to a glass
and think how with much greater subtlety
it might indeed make changes to your face.)
The look-alikes are filtered through the painter's brain,
the properties of paint and canvas take their toll,
the man is no more human than a doll.
He looks at us, but only sees himself.
We look at him and see a bit of us, a blemish
and what he sees of him.
This is a response to Writers Island's prompt of Epiphany. (Apologies for being late with this link.)
A week in Haiku
he'd have to be brain injured -
Martin Amis
a man not focused on work -
Chechnya leader
never a one to be seen -
Franco's monuments
no more internet addresses
the protocol full
say the Channel Islanders -
first Dark Sky Island
Morrison's Supermarkets
their Valentine Cards
Saturday, 12 February 2011
My Words
the page
pure white
white as driven snow -
until I laid my marks
the words
like awkward footprints
black
and muddy
trailed across it
line on line
always in the same direction
never coming back
where am I now?
and did I then
desert my words?
leave them in the cold
alone
to die
fend for themselves?
They have to make their way...
or not
it is the law
so be it then
pure white
white as driven snow -
until I laid my marks
the words
like awkward footprints
black
and muddy
trailed across it
line on line
always in the same direction
never coming back
where am I now?
and did I then
desert my words?
leave them in the cold
alone
to die
fend for themselves?
They have to make their way...
or not
it is the law
so be it then
Friday, 11 February 2011
sometimes the technology just gets in the way.
Some of you will know that for some time I have been having problems with my computer, among which was its tendency to crash whenever I visited certain blogs. Always the same blogs. There were other problems too, that had begun to mount. So it was that I resolved (after much heart searching - did I really want the hassle?) to acquire a new machine. Eventually, and following long assessment of what the market had to offer, I ordered one direct from the makers. It should have been straight-forward. It wasn't. I knew before I took it from the box that it was going to go back. As I tipped the box slightly to ease the machine out, there came the sound of a definite, and very loud, CLUNK from within said machine. Indeed, whenever I tipped it, it clunked. This is not right, I thought, for I am nothing if not quick on the uptake. Still, I persevered. I thought the manufacturer would probably want me to. I positioned the machine within range of the monitor (I had ordered only the base unit) and went to plug in the afore-mentioned monitor. This proved impossible. Investigation revealed that there were broken pins in the socket holes. These I was able to extract. The plug then went snugly in, and we were in business. Timidly, I pressed the start button. There came the sound of huge butterflies knocking themselves senseless somewhere in the machine. The monitor briefly sprang to life and then stopped. The last two lines read:
Fan Fault
Board Fault.
The thing switched off. I rang the manufacturer. Correction: I looked for a phone number, but could find none save that of the main switchboard, which I had rung once before in a previous life and had no intention of treading that road again. No, I wanted a phone number closer to my destination, say one for disenchanted potential customers. Nothing of the sort could be found. Not in the literature, such as it was, not from my past dealings with said firm, not in the phone book. I emailed them. I got a NO REPLY reply, telling me that the matter would be resolved in a day or two. It wasn't. In fact it still hadn't been resolved as we approached the seven day deadline - i.e. the purchaser's absolute right to return goods bought on the Internet. Swallowing hard and fortifying myself with the smallest possible tot of single malt, I rang the only phone number I had come across, the main switch board - of course - but first I armed myself also with my list of numbers. Each and every contact I had had with the manufacturer had generated a new reference number of incredible length. I had a page in my notebook dedicated to them. It was full. Laid end to end they would have reached to the moon and back. There were customer numbers, order numbers, (note the plurals) and numbers whose names gave no clue as to what they might signify, but I sort of guessed that one or more of these arcane numbers would be required at some point in my dealings with those endowed with the power to resolve my issue.
I thought I knew what I was in for. The dialling tone gave way to an electronic voice introducing the now familiar menu: "If your call is about... ...press 1" I pressed 1, listened again and pressed 1 again. And again. And again. And again, on and on. Oh, for the relief of pressing 2! I persevered and was rewarded by what I at first took to be a real human voice. It wasn't. It was a real recorded human voice introducing the next menu. This was a repeat of the first menu, not in its instructions, but in its structure. I sat there, dutifully listening and pressing the inevitable 1. And then: "If your business is to do with... please key in your..." I froze. The voice was asking for a number to which I had not been introduced, which was not on my carefully prepared list. It would, the voice informed me, be a number of 19 or 21 digits. (Ah, a short one, good! What am I talking about? How does that help?) Followed by: "If you do not know where this number is to be found... press2!" Oh, the joy of it! To be allowed to press a number other than 1! The joy was short lived: the number was on the rear of the computer on the right hand side. The computer was, of course, back in its box, back in all its packaging. The box was sealed. I hung up. Unpacked the box, and... yes, there was the number, right where the voice had said it would be.
I went back to the phone. I started the whole process again from square 1. I got as far as keying in my new-found number - and the line went dead. Third time lucky. On this occasion I went the whole distance and was rewarded with... yes... a real live bloke who was, it must be said, extremely helpful. I related the whole sad tale. "Well, what would you like us to do?" he asked. I explained that I would like them to collect the non-functioning computer and either give me my money back or, better still, a replacement computer. "Would you not like us to see if we can mend it for you?" he inquired. (His phraseology did not exactly inspire confidence.) "No, I do not feel I can trust this particular machine," I said. "I am not convinced that it is a Bona Fide new machine." He made soothing noises and declared that he quite understood. Alas, he was not authorised to give me a replacement machine, but he could return my cash. To get a replacement, I would have to... only I could see where this was leading. Take the cash and run, I thought. He passed me on to an equally pleasant and helpful lady who sorted me out in no time at all. Well, it was a little time, to tell the truth. It was nearly a week before they could collect the computer, and three working days after that before the money would appear in my bank account. Three working days turned out to be three to five working days which translated as six working days, but at last the money did appear.
I then decided that I would buy the new machine from a reliable source that I could deal with rather more easily - Tesco. They can deal with the suppliers if it goes pear-shaped again, I thought. I will deal with them. I like their returns policy. I almost bought the same model as I had nearly bought from the makers, but no, in the end I bought an Acer - on which I am typing this, on which I have been visiting your blogs, even those on which formerly I was crashing - that is, the computer was crashing, but it felt like me!
Fan Fault
Board Fault.
The thing switched off. I rang the manufacturer. Correction: I looked for a phone number, but could find none save that of the main switchboard, which I had rung once before in a previous life and had no intention of treading that road again. No, I wanted a phone number closer to my destination, say one for disenchanted potential customers. Nothing of the sort could be found. Not in the literature, such as it was, not from my past dealings with said firm, not in the phone book. I emailed them. I got a NO REPLY reply, telling me that the matter would be resolved in a day or two. It wasn't. In fact it still hadn't been resolved as we approached the seven day deadline - i.e. the purchaser's absolute right to return goods bought on the Internet. Swallowing hard and fortifying myself with the smallest possible tot of single malt, I rang the only phone number I had come across, the main switch board - of course - but first I armed myself also with my list of numbers. Each and every contact I had had with the manufacturer had generated a new reference number of incredible length. I had a page in my notebook dedicated to them. It was full. Laid end to end they would have reached to the moon and back. There were customer numbers, order numbers, (note the plurals) and numbers whose names gave no clue as to what they might signify, but I sort of guessed that one or more of these arcane numbers would be required at some point in my dealings with those endowed with the power to resolve my issue.
I thought I knew what I was in for. The dialling tone gave way to an electronic voice introducing the now familiar menu: "If your call is about... ...press 1" I pressed 1, listened again and pressed 1 again. And again. And again. And again, on and on. Oh, for the relief of pressing 2! I persevered and was rewarded by what I at first took to be a real human voice. It wasn't. It was a real recorded human voice introducing the next menu. This was a repeat of the first menu, not in its instructions, but in its structure. I sat there, dutifully listening and pressing the inevitable 1. And then: "If your business is to do with... please key in your..." I froze. The voice was asking for a number to which I had not been introduced, which was not on my carefully prepared list. It would, the voice informed me, be a number of 19 or 21 digits. (Ah, a short one, good! What am I talking about? How does that help?) Followed by: "If you do not know where this number is to be found... press2!" Oh, the joy of it! To be allowed to press a number other than 1! The joy was short lived: the number was on the rear of the computer on the right hand side. The computer was, of course, back in its box, back in all its packaging. The box was sealed. I hung up. Unpacked the box, and... yes, there was the number, right where the voice had said it would be.
I went back to the phone. I started the whole process again from square 1. I got as far as keying in my new-found number - and the line went dead. Third time lucky. On this occasion I went the whole distance and was rewarded with... yes... a real live bloke who was, it must be said, extremely helpful. I related the whole sad tale. "Well, what would you like us to do?" he asked. I explained that I would like them to collect the non-functioning computer and either give me my money back or, better still, a replacement computer. "Would you not like us to see if we can mend it for you?" he inquired. (His phraseology did not exactly inspire confidence.) "No, I do not feel I can trust this particular machine," I said. "I am not convinced that it is a Bona Fide new machine." He made soothing noises and declared that he quite understood. Alas, he was not authorised to give me a replacement machine, but he could return my cash. To get a replacement, I would have to... only I could see where this was leading. Take the cash and run, I thought. He passed me on to an equally pleasant and helpful lady who sorted me out in no time at all. Well, it was a little time, to tell the truth. It was nearly a week before they could collect the computer, and three working days after that before the money would appear in my bank account. Three working days turned out to be three to five working days which translated as six working days, but at last the money did appear.
I then decided that I would buy the new machine from a reliable source that I could deal with rather more easily - Tesco. They can deal with the suppliers if it goes pear-shaped again, I thought. I will deal with them. I like their returns policy. I almost bought the same model as I had nearly bought from the makers, but no, in the end I bought an Acer - on which I am typing this, on which I have been visiting your blogs, even those on which formerly I was crashing - that is, the computer was crashing, but it felt like me!
Thursday, 10 February 2011
fish and mash
footprints lead to them paws return
metamorphosis
found some weeks later by a friend
safely guarded by a fox
in its shoe box laid among
chewed gloves wet papers and old coins
when love turns sour...
The trees knew of our coming.
In that secret way the trees possess
they knew of us and welcomed us.
God made the wind
that they might wave
a greeting to us when we came.
And do they wave in friendship still,
in fury or in sadness at the way
we've butchered them?
The land knew of our coming.
In that secret way the land has
it knew us from the first.
God gave the land its greenery
that it might spread a carpet
for us when we came.
And has it still those feelings,
now that we have raped
it half to death?
The sea knew of our coming.
In that secret way that water has,
it hugged us, would not let us go.
So God set up a tryst for us
that it and we might grow
a romance that would last.
And is the love still mutual
now that it's felt the power
of what is human and obscene?
In that secret way the trees possess
they knew of us and welcomed us.
God made the wind
that they might wave
a greeting to us when we came.
And do they wave in friendship still,
in fury or in sadness at the way
we've butchered them?
The land knew of our coming.
In that secret way the land has
it knew us from the first.
God gave the land its greenery
that it might spread a carpet
for us when we came.
And has it still those feelings,
now that we have raped
it half to death?
The sea knew of our coming.
In that secret way that water has,
it hugged us, would not let us go.
So God set up a tryst for us
that it and we might grow
a romance that would last.
And is the love still mutual
now that it's felt the power
of what is human and obscene?
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Love All
What did we do
to render God so impotent?
How did he come to this:
surrendering the match?
We crucified his son...
but that could not be it:
he rolled us over then
and took the opening set.
But something happened next:
his service let him down?
The way Ted Hughes has told it, O
we tightened all the screws
and turned up all the pain
'til he could not believe
what we had done to him,
or what he had become.
He was in shock - of sorts -
not comprehending how
his own kids could behave
in such outlandish ways -
like sluts from down the road.
These day we'd say
his focus had been lost.
We wiped the floor with him,
just base line sloggery with no finesse.
He'd boasted he'd come back.
Some sort of tie-break? Can
you credit that? -
Too late. The crowd went home -
and who could blame them, eh?
They hadn't paid their cash
to see that sort of show.
(O His poem A God)
to render God so impotent?
How did he come to this:
surrendering the match?
We crucified his son...
but that could not be it:
he rolled us over then
and took the opening set.
But something happened next:
his service let him down?
The way Ted Hughes has told it, O
we tightened all the screws
and turned up all the pain
'til he could not believe
what we had done to him,
or what he had become.
He was in shock - of sorts -
not comprehending how
his own kids could behave
in such outlandish ways -
like sluts from down the road.
These day we'd say
his focus had been lost.
We wiped the floor with him,
just base line sloggery with no finesse.
He'd boasted he'd come back.
Some sort of tie-break? Can
you credit that? -
Too late. The crowd went home -
and who could blame them, eh?
They hadn't paid their cash
to see that sort of show.
(O His poem A God)
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
3 Haiku
perhaps more feebly than ourselves -
dolphins jays and chimps
such a beautiful image
juxtaposed in the news
contents spilt iced to the ground -
the recycle bins
Monday, 7 February 2011
The Conscious Hills
The meme supplied by Writers Island was the one word Beguile
The dust of generations fills these hills.
It's blown by winds, but moves in ways that fill
the mind with awe - or would, were we aware
of how it shapes so many features here,
of how it isn't simply dust, how nothing
in this world is quite as simple as itself.
There's something there that's active on behalf
of us and what the world prescribes. It's just
as much alive as strontium. The dust
knows nothing of a half life, but survives
its scatterings and burials to form
itself again. It formed us once, as we
formed it, and it will form our heirs - but make
them unlike us. It draws and redraws blue-
prints, score on score, as do all things
of flesh - and those of granite, too. They do
it in the way they act, respond to this,
our world. How else did shape and movement come
about? How else did we reach consciousness?
Are we more conscious than the dust? Perhaps.
The difference is in the measure, not
the kind. We are beguiled to think there is
no consciousness. Without it is no chance
to be deceived - not even by ourselves.
The dust of generations fills these hills.
It's blown by winds, but moves in ways that fill
the mind with awe - or would, were we aware
of how it shapes so many features here,
of how it isn't simply dust, how nothing
in this world is quite as simple as itself.
There's something there that's active on behalf
of us and what the world prescribes. It's just
as much alive as strontium. The dust
knows nothing of a half life, but survives
its scatterings and burials to form
itself again. It formed us once, as we
formed it, and it will form our heirs - but make
them unlike us. It draws and redraws blue-
prints, score on score, as do all things
of flesh - and those of granite, too. They do
it in the way they act, respond to this,
our world. How else did shape and movement come
about? How else did we reach consciousness?
Are we more conscious than the dust? Perhaps.
The difference is in the measure, not
the kind. We are beguiled to think there is
no consciousness. Without it is no chance
to be deceived - not even by ourselves.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
I be witness.
Yes, sure I saw it coming down, but now
you want to know my thoughts on it, young man?
They's rather scrambled just at present, but
I'll tell thee what I saw: first off, a clear
blue sky, as blue as ever was, the sun
an eyeball that you wouldn't look straight at -
not unless thee wanted to go blind. And
then it all goes dark, all sudden like. A
big black shadow spreads across the fields. Well,
bugger me, I thought. Big thing between me
and the sun, there was. Not far off, and not
far off the ground - a bloody great Noahs Ark
up in the sky. No wonder it's gawn dark!
That's what I thought. Well, I could see the crew -
or some of 'em maybe - and animals.
Them's in the hull. The men - if that's the word -
they's one deck up. Great picture windows they
be looking out. Yes, sure I watched it as
it dropped. I couldn't look away, and that's
a fact. It rocked from end to end, as if
the pilot was not steady in his hands
or like the sea was getting rough. Summat
like that! It knocked me sideways - fact nummer
Two! The crew looked much like us. Not green, no,
not in the least like that. Bit leathery,
like they had hide for skin. And then their arms
reminded me of lobsters... then pads where
we has fingers. Stuff sticks to them or not,
just as they wished, it seemed to me. And then
the beasts, they too was much like ourn, jist
diff'rent breeds, you might say. Breeds I'se never
seen before - and that's fact nummer three!
An' then, Gawd knock me sideways once again,
the thing was gawn. I means it. Jist like that.
Plain, bloody gawn it was. But not the beasts.
There they all was, large as life, a-grazing
and a-chumping at my corn and trees, like
there was no tomorrow. Like they had jist
been rescued from some great disaster and
then dumped there on my land for now, whiles Noah
and his crew are away to save some more.
And then... I have to say... I wondered - could
it be that there's a planet out there, much
worse off then ourn? That they be making us
their refuge for a while... Could that be it?
you want to know my thoughts on it, young man?
They's rather scrambled just at present, but
I'll tell thee what I saw: first off, a clear
blue sky, as blue as ever was, the sun
an eyeball that you wouldn't look straight at -
not unless thee wanted to go blind. And
then it all goes dark, all sudden like. A
big black shadow spreads across the fields. Well,
bugger me, I thought. Big thing between me
and the sun, there was. Not far off, and not
far off the ground - a bloody great Noahs Ark
up in the sky. No wonder it's gawn dark!
That's what I thought. Well, I could see the crew -
or some of 'em maybe - and animals.
Them's in the hull. The men - if that's the word -
they's one deck up. Great picture windows they
be looking out. Yes, sure I watched it as
it dropped. I couldn't look away, and that's
a fact. It rocked from end to end, as if
the pilot was not steady in his hands
or like the sea was getting rough. Summat
like that! It knocked me sideways - fact nummer
Two! The crew looked much like us. Not green, no,
not in the least like that. Bit leathery,
like they had hide for skin. And then their arms
reminded me of lobsters... then pads where
we has fingers. Stuff sticks to them or not,
just as they wished, it seemed to me. And then
the beasts, they too was much like ourn, jist
diff'rent breeds, you might say. Breeds I'se never
seen before - and that's fact nummer three!
An' then, Gawd knock me sideways once again,
the thing was gawn. I means it. Jist like that.
Plain, bloody gawn it was. But not the beasts.
There they all was, large as life, a-grazing
and a-chumping at my corn and trees, like
there was no tomorrow. Like they had jist
been rescued from some great disaster and
then dumped there on my land for now, whiles Noah
and his crew are away to save some more.
And then... I have to say... I wondered - could
it be that there's a planet out there, much
worse off then ourn? That they be making us
their refuge for a while... Could that be it?
Saturday, 5 February 2011
2 Haiku
and muddied the patio -
last night's wind and rain
even above the wind's noise -
the cats and foxes
Friday, 4 February 2011
This is the prompt for this week from Magpie Tales
My apologies if I am not seen around quite so much for a day or two: I am in the throes of setting up a new computer, exploring the mysteries and wonders of Windows 7 and - more to the point - re-establishing the network!
Put your cash in bricks
my Grandpa used to say -
though Grandma wouldn't let him.
I see it from both angles:
collectively bricks can beguile,
seduce the not-too-wary, make
all the right approaches with
their artful colourings,
their patterns and their textures,
subtle weathering
and how they look so solid
and dependable. We're here,
they seem to say,
for the long haul.
They are a perfect metaphor
for all that seeks -
collectively - to lure
us from the wider world
the way that words may do
or painted shapes
or harmonies of sounds.
We ply the trowel and brick
by brick confine ourselves
like priests of old
in tiny holes
away from sumptuous rooms.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
The Disillusioned Archaeologist
I have walked these moors at night
and walked the Cornish cliffs at night
and not disturbed a single bone
(as far as I could know)
of those who lie below.
And should I then dig down below,
disturb the bones to better know
the Arthur's and the Guineveres
who walked these hills
so long ago?
If I could dig deep in these hills
and find there in some ancient grave
the bones of what is yet to come,
those bones I would disturb and save
and savour all my days.
and walked the Cornish cliffs at night
and not disturbed a single bone
(as far as I could know)
of those who lie below.
And should I then dig down below,
disturb the bones to better know
the Arthur's and the Guineveres
who walked these hills
so long ago?
If I could dig deep in these hills
and find there in some ancient grave
the bones of what is yet to come,
those bones I would disturb and save
and savour all my days.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
On finding an idol-shaped pebble on a beach
Little stone god
small as a pebble
are you controlling
the fate of the world?
Little pink god
fallen from heaven
how large were you there?
how small are you now?
Little lost god
how shall you return?
Shall you burn, baby burn
in the Father's stern gaze?
Little veined god
is it blood that I see -
or a depth that will deepen
the spirit in me?
Little loved god
I'll not throw you back
I'll treasure the fortune
that brought you to me.
Little lewd god
how tactile you feel
when my fingers caress you
all stress disappears.
Little dumb god
it's silent you are...
your siblings still rattle
around on the beach.
Little bright god
polished by seas
you shine like a sun -
a sun cold as ice.
Little proud god
yet hungry for love
if all the world loved thee
would that be enough?
Little stone god
a stone like the stones
that cover the beach -
Oh, commonplace god!
small as a pebble
are you controlling
the fate of the world?
Little pink god
fallen from heaven
how large were you there?
how small are you now?
Little lost god
how shall you return?
Shall you burn, baby burn
in the Father's stern gaze?
Little veined god
is it blood that I see -
or a depth that will deepen
the spirit in me?
Little loved god
I'll not throw you back
I'll treasure the fortune
that brought you to me.
Little lewd god
how tactile you feel
when my fingers caress you
all stress disappears.
Little dumb god
it's silent you are...
your siblings still rattle
around on the beach.
Little bright god
polished by seas
you shine like a sun -
a sun cold as ice.
Little proud god
yet hungry for love
if all the world loved thee
would that be enough?
Little stone god
a stone like the stones
that cover the beach -
Oh, commonplace god!
Monday, 31 January 2011
3 Haiku
their bonus celebrations
drank the city dry.
careful when choosing a spouse -
compatibility
contestants choose the winner -
that's the way for sport
Sunday, 30 January 2011
A Day Out at Hamptoon Court.
Time Change Evolution - this week's challenge set by NanU, who is driving the poetry bus for a second week.
The day begins
fishing with my largest net
and paddling along the bank.
A lot of wash from passing boats.
Daydreaming
lost in thought and coming
unaware to where
the bank and bed together
form a slide of slimy clay.
I'm in the water grasping the net
as though my life depended
on it. Floundering.
Far out. Beyond my depth.
My Gran is picnicking and has not seen.
Somehow I splash and thrash
and find the bank.
Bedraggled find my Gran who loses it
divests me of my clothes.
replaces them with her great ginger fur...
Why fur on such a sunny day?
How should a lad
who is not yet out of shorts,
but out of salts, know that?
Homeward on the bus. The 152.
Hampton Court and Home are its two termimi
(that fact essential to this treat:
to climb aboard, to be
the very first, and wait for it to go).
Upstairs. Front seat. The way we came.
The way we always travel for this trip
but doubly necessary now
to hide the shame of wearing Granma's coat.
This much is what the world already knows.
Now hear the missing seconds tick away.
White noise
buzz and smudge
I side between them as between two sheets
two seconds or two hours
to swallow water thrash
of arms and legs. I see
the sky below faces
peering up at me blurred indistinct
and one of them my gran?
Someone
picks his way into my brain
enters through my ears
then hammers to get out
the buzz or the water unburdens itself
plays on a vinyl the sound of people talking
distant through waves of needle scratch.
Water rolls out drains from ears and eyes.
I see again people diminutive
sitting on stone chairs spread
from bank to bank across the muddy bed.
The Thames is silent and they chat in silence.
People of stone, some stony as the chairs,
others crystal like water.
It is a city that I see a city without buildings
a city of people not bricks and concrete
not stone and steel, but only
of people. There
on the very mid-line of the river,
a wave frozen out of time
a sculpture an installation a gallery exhibit.
Like but unlike it, the wave of death,
divides my family
they sit on either side of it.
I know it as the final transformation
shapes unshaping themselves moving
from known to unknown each repeating
the very last words
that he or she had said to me - and me not listening -
then or now except in snatches. So they sit,
but not in water but in light. A crystal light.
A heavy light, one carved by craftsmen and supporting
the great weight of water piled above it. Magical.
This is a cave in which I'm breathing air
Fresh air ice cold refreshing. Refreshing
the thought that I, who cannot swim, will die.
I look for the wave, but now I do not see it.
In its place a rainbow hangs No, not one
but hundreds of.
Fragments of.
All the colours of.
And flaring
glaring from the dazzle of
fisheyes like mini suns unsparing eyes
unsparing of the eyes or skin.
and either side of it or them
the crystal people are reflected there
and are reflecting them . their colours
as their colours spread
like hues in watercolour paintings
or water stirred in artist's jars. The brown
and muddied River Thames becomes the rainbow -
Is a rainbow - arced above
and only I am here to know the fact
and celebrate it to myself.
What happened to that land, that stage
in my mutation
from dreamless boy to dreaming man
as nightmares turned to fantasy and fantasy to fun?
How long I thrashed
and sank and rose
through pipe dreams, trance and watery world
to splash my way to shore who knows.
It was not half as bad
not half as terrifying
as was the wearing home
of Granma's ginger fur.
The day begins
fishing with my largest net
and paddling along the bank.
A lot of wash from passing boats.
Daydreaming
lost in thought and coming
unaware to where
the bank and bed together
form a slide of slimy clay.
I'm in the water grasping the net
as though my life depended
on it. Floundering.
Far out. Beyond my depth.
My Gran is picnicking and has not seen.
Somehow I splash and thrash
and find the bank.
Bedraggled find my Gran who loses it
divests me of my clothes.
replaces them with her great ginger fur...
Why fur on such a sunny day?
How should a lad
who is not yet out of shorts,
but out of salts, know that?
Homeward on the bus. The 152.
Hampton Court and Home are its two termimi
(that fact essential to this treat:
to climb aboard, to be
the very first, and wait for it to go).
Upstairs. Front seat. The way we came.
The way we always travel for this trip
but doubly necessary now
to hide the shame of wearing Granma's coat.
This much is what the world already knows.
Now hear the missing seconds tick away.
White noise
buzz and smudge
I side between them as between two sheets
two seconds or two hours
to swallow water thrash
of arms and legs. I see
the sky below faces
peering up at me blurred indistinct
and one of them my gran?
Someone
picks his way into my brain
enters through my ears
then hammers to get out
the buzz or the water unburdens itself
plays on a vinyl the sound of people talking
distant through waves of needle scratch.
Water rolls out drains from ears and eyes.
I see again people diminutive
sitting on stone chairs spread
from bank to bank across the muddy bed.
The Thames is silent and they chat in silence.
People of stone, some stony as the chairs,
others crystal like water.
It is a city that I see a city without buildings
a city of people not bricks and concrete
not stone and steel, but only
of people. There
on the very mid-line of the river,
a wave frozen out of time
a sculpture an installation a gallery exhibit.
Like but unlike it, the wave of death,
divides my family
they sit on either side of it.
I know it as the final transformation
shapes unshaping themselves moving
from known to unknown each repeating
the very last words
that he or she had said to me - and me not listening -
then or now except in snatches. So they sit,
but not in water but in light. A crystal light.
A heavy light, one carved by craftsmen and supporting
the great weight of water piled above it. Magical.
This is a cave in which I'm breathing air
Fresh air ice cold refreshing. Refreshing
the thought that I, who cannot swim, will die.
I look for the wave, but now I do not see it.
In its place a rainbow hangs No, not one
but hundreds of.
Fragments of.
All the colours of.
And flaring
glaring from the dazzle of
fisheyes like mini suns unsparing eyes
unsparing of the eyes or skin.
and either side of it or them
the crystal people are reflected there
and are reflecting them . their colours
as their colours spread
like hues in watercolour paintings
or water stirred in artist's jars. The brown
and muddied River Thames becomes the rainbow -
Is a rainbow - arced above
and only I am here to know the fact
and celebrate it to myself.
What happened to that land, that stage
in my mutation
from dreamless boy to dreaming man
as nightmares turned to fantasy and fantasy to fun?
How long I thrashed
and sank and rose
through pipe dreams, trance and watery world
to splash my way to shore who knows.
It was not half as bad
not half as terrifying
as was the wearing home
of Granma's ginger fur.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Photos from the archive
Well, actually from the bottom of a cupboard that had not been cleared out for too many long years. I had forgotten about them. They date from my early teens and were probably the first serious photographs I ever took. It was my first camera. I forget much about it. I remember that it took 120 film. Black and white in those days. It was probably one up from a Brownie Box. I didn't develop my own film. Didn't have the facilities. I got the local photographic shop to develop the film and supply contact prints. I then marked in indian ink on the prints how I wanted each one cropped and wrote on the back the kind of paper I wanted it printed on. I had a preference for textured papers - and at the time that these were taken, sepia printing.
<>
The first three were taken on a walk in The Forest of Dean. I and a friend walked all day, I remember, without seeing anyone. We did see several kingfishers, though. Alas, I have lost the photographs I took of the kingfishers.
The last two were taken at Bournemouth. We had several holidays there just after the war. The last one of all shows my parents relaxing at last.
The last two were taken at Bournemouth. We had several holidays there just after the war. The last one of all shows my parents relaxing at last.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Definitely NOT Haiku...
to boost the immune system -
will boost much more beside
Jeff Koons first twists balloons
then laws of copyright
...though this might be...
the garden's mostly doing well -
how sad the Alpines look.
Thursday, 27 January 2011
The Arrow
some of us see signs
some may see the voices
others hear the signs
some of us make choices
where do we draw the lines?
Seeing, hearing signs and voices?
And which of us declines?
Snow-blind.
An arrow
its mirage
appears
beyond trees
above ground
above snow
hanging
there
light as air -
a diversion
beware.
Some follow the sign
some look for a word.
The blind see the sign
though the vision is blurred.
The sighted incline
to words, although slurred.
But signs by design
are replacing the word.
The image was provided by Magpie Tales as this week's prompt.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
3 Haiku
give the garden a spring feel
icing sugar snow
spontaneous his words
so don't ask him their meaning -
Liam Gallagher
The snow's wot did it
the trains could not get going -
even Hornby's trains.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Creation : Phase 2
God had been away from earth awhile.
Not long. A hundred megayears
or so. Just long enough to launch
his second project - further earths,
more humans running them,
a chain of Edens stretched across
the universe on likely planets
brought to his attention
by some drinking friends of his.
"What's happened here?" he cried,
on looking out first morning back.
First to answer was his P.P.A.
"difficult to say," my Lord.
"Nothing we could put our fingers on.
We kept a watchful eye. Things seemed
to go on down there much as always...
except perhaps for this: it seems
they were too burdened by a goodness excess;
too many good ideas, religions, saints and cultures -
and all of them in competition with each other.
And then again: no father figure in your absence, Lord.
That seemed to be a major influence.
You know how kids behave
when they are sure they've got it right
and so are out to please."
"I do," said God. "a fractious, independent lot,
far too competitive - combative even -
selfish, greedy, kudos-driven..."
"How did the project go, my lord?"
asked angel 137, to divert him from
his negative direction.
"Well! Really well, I think,"
I've axed the tree of knowledge this time round.
Give that a whirl, I thought. See how it goes."
"Good move, my lord!" That from the P.P.A.
"I'm not so sure," a quiet voice said, doubtfully -
the head of heaven's civil service joining in.
"Knowledge and revolt are part of growing up.
Without them they will live in innocence for ever."
"We shall have to see," said God.
"I've kept my options open - might throw down
an apple tree or two if things get stuck."
"And what of all the flora and the fauna?"
a trainee angel asked his lord. "Will that
be as it was on earth for your Phase 1?"
"Indeed," said god "the tried and tested will be there.
All my old models that have proved their worth,
plus one or two new prototypes, a neohorse,
for instance. That should take the humans down
a peg or two. I'd love to beat them at their silly game!
"What game is that?" asked the chief clerk.
"Their G.M. game. To hear them talk you'd guess
they were the first to think of it! - Oh, and then
there's X.V.4/3.7 don't forget."
"X.V.4/3.7!" the cry went up. "You've populated that?
"Indeed," said God. "Why not?"
"Well, how?" they asked. "It's anti-life!"
"Oh, don't you start!" said god,
"That's why. I'm tired of humans
looking everywhere for life on other planets,
saying with great relish:'No,
it can't be here... or here... or there. Not at all
like earth. Too hot. The atmosphere could not
support life as we know it.' - As we know it,
their own words, but still the cliche doesn't drop
for them. And so I've set up planet X.V.4/3.7.
There's life sans oxygen, sans water, sans the lot -
sans everything they think that life must have.
Too hot, I've made it. Too much pressure there.
Let's see what they make of it!"
"What sort of life then has it, god?" the trainee asked.
"One based on silicon..." - the angels nodded wisely -
"and nicotine and arsenic," he finished with
a flourish that was quite out of character for him.
They were not nodding now. There was a silence,
deep and most profound. Such a silence
as heaven had not known before. Not one sound
from anywhere. They all just stared at god. Gobsmacked.
Not long. A hundred megayears
or so. Just long enough to launch
his second project - further earths,
more humans running them,
a chain of Edens stretched across
the universe on likely planets
brought to his attention
by some drinking friends of his.
"What's happened here?" he cried,
on looking out first morning back.
First to answer was his P.P.A.
"difficult to say," my Lord.
"Nothing we could put our fingers on.
We kept a watchful eye. Things seemed
to go on down there much as always...
except perhaps for this: it seems
they were too burdened by a goodness excess;
too many good ideas, religions, saints and cultures -
and all of them in competition with each other.
And then again: no father figure in your absence, Lord.
That seemed to be a major influence.
You know how kids behave
when they are sure they've got it right
and so are out to please."
"I do," said God. "a fractious, independent lot,
far too competitive - combative even -
selfish, greedy, kudos-driven..."
"How did the project go, my lord?"
asked angel 137, to divert him from
his negative direction.
"Well! Really well, I think,"
I've axed the tree of knowledge this time round.
Give that a whirl, I thought. See how it goes."
"Good move, my lord!" That from the P.P.A.
"I'm not so sure," a quiet voice said, doubtfully -
the head of heaven's civil service joining in.
"Knowledge and revolt are part of growing up.
Without them they will live in innocence for ever."
"We shall have to see," said God.
"I've kept my options open - might throw down
an apple tree or two if things get stuck."
"And what of all the flora and the fauna?"
a trainee angel asked his lord. "Will that
be as it was on earth for your Phase 1?"
"Indeed," said god "the tried and tested will be there.
All my old models that have proved their worth,
plus one or two new prototypes, a neohorse,
for instance. That should take the humans down
a peg or two. I'd love to beat them at their silly game!
"What game is that?" asked the chief clerk.
"Their G.M. game. To hear them talk you'd guess
they were the first to think of it! - Oh, and then
there's X.V.4/3.7 don't forget."
"X.V.4/3.7!" the cry went up. "You've populated that?
"Indeed," said God. "Why not?"
"Well, how?" they asked. "It's anti-life!"
"Oh, don't you start!" said god,
"That's why. I'm tired of humans
looking everywhere for life on other planets,
saying with great relish:'No,
it can't be here... or here... or there. Not at all
like earth. Too hot. The atmosphere could not
support life as we know it.' - As we know it,
their own words, but still the cliche doesn't drop
for them. And so I've set up planet X.V.4/3.7.
There's life sans oxygen, sans water, sans the lot -
sans everything they think that life must have.
Too hot, I've made it. Too much pressure there.
Let's see what they make of it!"
"What sort of life then has it, god?" the trainee asked.
"One based on silicon..." - the angels nodded wisely -
"and nicotine and arsenic," he finished with
a flourish that was quite out of character for him.
They were not nodding now. There was a silence,
deep and most profound. Such a silence
as heaven had not known before. Not one sound
from anywhere. They all just stared at god. Gobsmacked.
Monday, 24 January 2011
3 Haiku
a third are deceased
some are six score years or more -
Zimbabwe's voters
among the bottles
when recycling day arrives -
the siamese cat
does a body good
to see top "celebs" shopping -
in a discount store.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
To the good people of Writers Island... please return my cigarette packet!
From Writers' Island this week: this -
and the one word:Clarity
This has the clarity
of poetic
ambiguity,
the clarity
of fitness for a purpose,
the beauty
of an effect
called a venturi.
(An hour glass-shaped constriction
to a flow of gas or liquid in a pipe.)
We see one used
as part of:
an inspirator or inhaler
mixing gas and air;
or
an atomiser spraying hair;
or
a clarinet or a trombone
speeding breath for a better tone;
or
a carburetor sucking fuel;
or
a vacuum cleaner sucking dust;
or
where the jet plane gets its thrust;
or
a scuba diving regulator
controlling the amount of air;
or none of these:
a lakescape: hills and mountains
establishing themselves on land.
Or none of the above,
but cleverly disguised as one of them,
and confounding all those sex police and censors,
an hour glass figure - feminine - reclines
increasing for a while the flow of love
or ecstacy
or both.
It is of course the jet plane's engine. I know this for a fact, because during WWII my father worked at Farnborough with Frank Whittle on its development. Naturally, it was very hush-hush at the time, but he drew the engine for me. And to emphasise it's hush-hushness, he drew it on the inside of a cigarette packet. The packet went missing years ago, b ut somehow it has ended up on Writers' Island!
and the one word:
This has the clarity
of poetic
ambiguity,
the clarity
of fitness for a purpose,
the beauty
of an effect
called a venturi.
(An hour glass-shaped constriction
to a flow of gas or liquid in a pipe.)
We see one used
as part of:
an inspirator or inhaler
mixing gas and air;
or
an atomiser spraying hair;
or
a clarinet or a trombone
speeding breath for a better tone;
or
a carburetor sucking fuel;
or
a vacuum cleaner sucking dust;
or
where the jet plane gets its thrust;
or
a scuba diving regulator
controlling the amount of air;
or none of these:
a lakescape: hills and mountains
establishing themselves on land.
Or none of the above,
but cleverly disguised as one of them,
and confounding all those sex police and censors,
an hour glass figure - feminine - reclines
increasing for a while the flow of love
or ecstacy
or both.
It is of course the jet plane's engine. I know this for a fact, because during WWII my father worked at Farnborough with Frank Whittle on its development. Naturally, it was very hush-hush at the time, but he drew the engine for me. And to emphasise it's hush-hushness, he drew it on the inside of a cigarette packet. The packet went missing years ago, b ut somehow it has ended up on Writers' Island!
Saturday, 22 January 2011
3 Haiku
at dusk a clear sky
criss-crossed in a moment by
bright orange vapour trails
rain on top of frost
and the world transformed again -
by frozen porridge
homes are for profit
parking and storage are for hire
in times of recession
Friday, 21 January 2011
Ladies in Snow
The image is this week's prompt from Magpie Tales
Seeing that, I'd like to be a sculptor. I would sculpt
this group of ladies ploughing through the snow.
They're perfect as they are: no need to recompose.
There's one who carries keys, large keys... the keys to what?
A church perhaps, and she - and they - are on their way
to open it. But one is wearing... wearing what? A golden chain?
A chain of office? Gold medallions? (Horse brasses
sprang to mind. But no, scrub that!) The Lady Mayoress
perhaps... but why would she be openinng the church?
They must be off to open some new pile in some
official role. They'll cut the tape and make a speech,
declare it well and truly open from now on. All that,
my dear, in snow, for snow lies everywhere. But now
the smallest lady of the group has pressed
her lips together in a long thin line. She is resolved
that she will press on, just behind the other two,
and come what may, fulfill her... what? Who knows!
But I, if I would model them in clay, would find
the clay confronting all these issues. Clay is soft
and answers every question. Begin then, with the biggy
and all the rest are given as you go.
The biggy is the unity that binds them all together.
Could they be sisters, friends - or lovers? Aunts
and niece - or strangers thrown together
in adversity? They might be ladies bountiful from church
or chapel, off to do their bit - perhaps the keys
are to the village lock-up, have been borrowed; and
the three are on their way to save the lost souls there?
These are the questions I could answer in the clay.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
3 Haiku
doing a runner
increasingly popular -
after eating out
a silver dragon
sliding spitting and foaming
when the river floods.
youthful unemployed
seventeen front page portraits -
smiling happily
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Autistic Boy
(The prompt at Jingle Poetry this week was "Languages, Symbols and Signs".)
Imagine mapping feelings like colours on a chart;
each hue, each segment, with its private sign:
the 'word' for what it is or what it does.
To us his world seemed geometric in design,
its people, trees and animals, those Euclid might have drawn -
or doodled in a dream. To Tim
it was a world of raw emotions.
It took a while to tumble to the fact
that this was literature, not visual art,
that symbols such as plus and minus joined
or punctuated words - or sometimes were
for emphasis! His word
for 'brother' was his word for 'friend'.
If overlapping circles spiralled to the sky,
then what was understood was 'steam' or 'smoke' - his word
for 'railway engine', 'kettle', 'factory' or 'fire'.
Whatever was emotive, caused him fear
or gave an object value, was its signature,
engendered that electric charge.
The engine and the kettle shared the steam.
By that they were related, and to that
his symbol pointed. That was what he 'wrote'.
Each day he worked with pen or brush
refining as he went, teasing out new strands of feeling,
feeling for the life he sensed the others had.
Imagine mapping feelings like colours on a chart;
each hue, each segment, with its private sign:
the 'word' for what it is or what it does.
To us his world seemed geometric in design,
its people, trees and animals, those Euclid might have drawn -
or doodled in a dream. To Tim
it was a world of raw emotions.
It took a while to tumble to the fact
that this was literature, not visual art,
that symbols such as plus and minus joined
or punctuated words - or sometimes were
for emphasis! His word
for 'brother' was his word for 'friend'.
If overlapping circles spiralled to the sky,
then what was understood was 'steam' or 'smoke' - his word
for 'railway engine', 'kettle', 'factory' or 'fire'.
Whatever was emotive, caused him fear
or gave an object value, was its signature,
engendered that electric charge.
The engine and the kettle shared the steam.
By that they were related, and to that
his symbol pointed. That was what he 'wrote'.
Each day he worked with pen or brush
refining as he went, teasing out new strands of feeling,
feeling for the life he sensed the others had.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Monday, 17 January 2011
Superman Me
driven this week by TFE.
Unusually I will not try to repeat the prompt, for two reasons: I could not do it justice; and it might give the game away. But do go and have a read - preferably after you've read the poem!
"We'll make a new man..."
Fool of a man
with stethoscope
blocking his ears!
Then comes the dream:
turning the tables
to make a new quack
of the joker out
of the medical pack.
None too pretty
quite nasty and gory -
but that as they say
is a whole different story
leading to me
waking in bed
decomposing composing,
strange in the head.
Light through the curtains
paints on my body
patches of gold
swellings and juttings -
anatomical, bold,
unknowable things.
From the site of his jabbings
antennae and gills.
Rubbing my eyes
the wall opens up
I see through the bricks
to the bedroom beyond
like a blueprint... an x-ray
a scene out of hell.
Closing my eyes
the scene has moved on,
I see in the street
(all the streets in the town)
silhouettes move around -
the traffic the people.
It's echo location -
it comes from my ears.
I hadn't caught on:
the street lamp is out
the light comes from me -
all those patches and things
luminescence I focus
breathing out, breathing in.
I'm the light of my room
the light of my world -
the world wakes to me!
Out there in the street...
that's me going out!
Getting into the car...
driving off in a huff...
now waving goodbye
from the front garden gate -
it's multi-location
I'm me everywhere...
I inhabit the world,
every bit, every jot
omnipresent omniscient -
omni-the-lot!
The seas and the land
there's no one to stop
the march or the flight,
the swim or the light
of what I've become.
I'm a dolphin on land,
an Einstein at sea -
in the air I'll be perfect,
these wings are for me.
I'm supreme on the earth:
all-knowing, all-seeing...
Unstoppable, see?
There'll be peace and accord -
or I'll hammer the lot.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
"Haiku" #334
Don't confuse my "Haiku" with genuine Haiku. (see here)
seen on Christmas Day
nesting in the Christmas tree
a turtle dove
seen on Christmas Day
nesting in the Christmas tree
a turtle dove
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Urban Foxes
Urban foxes
visiting each night.
A neighbour feeds them,
puts out bowls of food. Expensive food -
and so, of course they come.
Same lady nurtures cats.
Half feral and her own.
Cat and fox devise routines;
avoid each other
like two plagues.
Another neighbour keeps a dog
it loves to bark at foxes.
Incessantly.
With boy soprano bark -
and fear of foxes?
My daughter met a fox
confronted its two eyes
in total darkness late at night -
it having
cat-flapped in.
Weird sounds the foxes make
like babies crying. Times enough
more boy soprano than the dog.
The copulation finished,
they fail to disengage - I'm told.
So are they truly urban when
their homeland is a park -
the sort with cattle, deer
a golf course and a house -
forget the flowery kind?
And after death their spirits wander back
to lodge among the trees.
I see them etched in bark
or curled around a gnarl.
One runs along a branch
but mostly they look out
on where they used to live:
a head or face with paws.
Though one is stuck -
its tail is all I see.
visiting each night.
A neighbour feeds them,
puts out bowls of food. Expensive food -
and so, of course they come.
Same lady nurtures cats.
Half feral and her own.
Cat and fox devise routines;
avoid each other
like two plagues.
Another neighbour keeps a dog
it loves to bark at foxes.
Incessantly.
With boy soprano bark -
and fear of foxes?
My daughter met a fox
confronted its two eyes
in total darkness late at night -
it having
cat-flapped in.
Weird sounds the foxes make
like babies crying. Times enough
more boy soprano than the dog.
The copulation finished,
they fail to disengage - I'm told.
So are they truly urban when
their homeland is a park -
the sort with cattle, deer
a golf course and a house -
forget the flowery kind?
And after death their spirits wander back
to lodge among the trees.
I see them etched in bark
or curled around a gnarl.
One runs along a branch
but mostly they look out
on where they used to live:
a head or face with paws.
Though one is stuck -
its tail is all I see.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Symphony
The above image was provided by Magpie Tales as this week's prompt.
Out of a wood
birds black as jet
one at a time
like beads on a string -
an invisible string -
like notes on a stave.
There must be a hand
a baton
a man
behind what I see
and sounds of a theme
I'm unable to hear.
It's deep in the woods -
double bass and all that -
but over the fields
they rise with eclat.
Then piccolos scatter.
Percussion of guns.
Each motif repeats
understated the change
the woodwinds take hold
(Well they would
would they not?),
clarinets and bassoons.
The high flying beats -
staccato of wings -
introduce a new thought
the woodpecker
pecks at
from out in the wings.
The clash of ideas
emotions and sounds
reaches crescendo
moves me to tears.
It's there in the score
for those who can't hear.
But even in silence
the brain can read sounds
and metaphors peep
through a forest of notes
whilst the birds of the air
sing our babies to sleep.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
The Road
The Journey and Road Ahead was this week's prompt at Jingle Poetry's Pot Luck Monday
We knew the road,
did not expect
it suddenly to end
in that dark wood
with not a sign
that we could comprehend.
Not man nor beast
nor living thing
nor artefact was there.
No movements that
might raise our hopes -
just shuffling trees
that gathered round
to block the way ahead.
They closed their ranks
on all four sides,
not rays of light
could slip between
those silent sentinels
that made a night of day.
Before the first
foot ever fell
on stones our fathers laid,
that ancient way
ran through that wood,
across those hills
and by a brook
to where the sun shone true.
And all the roads
we've laid since then
run back from there to here
or skirt the land
of Wood-Bee-There
to bring us back again.
And all the hills
that block the view
and rivers that run dry
are only there
to spur us on
to woods where we must die -
for all the folk
who don't return
are saplings in that wood,
mere shadows of
a past we knew
but didn't follow through.
And in the wood
dishonour stands
implacable
as countless folk
who never saw
the fading light
or thought the light could fade.
We knew the road,
did not expect
it suddenly to end
in that dark wood
with not a sign
that we could comprehend.
Not man nor beast
nor living thing
nor artefact was there.
No movements that
might raise our hopes -
just shuffling trees
that gathered round
to block the way ahead.
They closed their ranks
on all four sides,
not rays of light
could slip between
those silent sentinels
that made a night of day.
Before the first
foot ever fell
on stones our fathers laid,
that ancient way
ran through that wood,
across those hills
and by a brook
to where the sun shone true.
And all the roads
we've laid since then
run back from there to here
or skirt the land
of Wood-Bee-There
to bring us back again.
And all the hills
that block the view
and rivers that run dry
are only there
to spur us on
to woods where we must die -
for all the folk
who don't return
are saplings in that wood,
mere shadows of
a past we knew
but didn't follow through.
And in the wood
dishonour stands
implacable
as countless folk
who never saw
the fading light
or thought the light could fade.
to all at Jingle Poetry
and all who voted me a Celebrated Poet of 2010 Award...
plus apologies for not having posted this before. I'd like t say I couldn't believe it, but in fact I misread the post completely. It's a good job the
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Or, as the bishop said on The Poetry Bus...
There was a choice of three prompts by Emerging Writer who is driving the Poetry Bus this week. I chose L'esprit d'escalier which means The wit of the staircase and refers to that frustrating experience in which the perfect witty response occurs too late to be of any use. But do visit and check it out for yourself. So I will just call this:-
L'esprit d'escalier
More eagle in his eyrie
than bishop in his pulpit, given that
the steely glare from steel rimmed eyes had found
this juicy morsel of an altar boy
about to be confirmed - and had locked-on.
Any moment now he'd swoop, and I
would be consumed. Or carried off
to feed the kids. Conspicuous
in bright red cassock and white surplice (no
one else in that great nave was wearing red -
my uniform had been the vicar's doing!)
you might have called it destined (or pre-destined?)
that a stomach ache the size of hell would strike.
I'd wriggled in its clutches. Now,
impaled upon that stony stare, I squirmed
the more. The beak-like nose had been aligned,
was pointing straight at me. How did he know?
His eyes on me - and only me - each time
he whispered, roared or otherwise re-
iterated his main text (how sinners
feel discomfort in the presence of the Lord),
so multitudes of demons gathered there.
He shook hands with us at the great west door
and whispered as we passed. To me he said:
The Lord will choose you for... but I was gone,
and half-way down the great stone steps before
it came to me: ...his breakfast, I don't doubt!
L'esprit d'escalier
More eagle in his eyrie
than bishop in his pulpit, given that
the steely glare from steel rimmed eyes had found
this juicy morsel of an altar boy
about to be confirmed - and had locked-on.
Any moment now he'd swoop, and I
would be consumed. Or carried off
to feed the kids. Conspicuous
in bright red cassock and white surplice (no
one else in that great nave was wearing red -
my uniform had been the vicar's doing!)
you might have called it destined (or pre-destined?)
that a stomach ache the size of hell would strike.
I'd wriggled in its clutches. Now,
impaled upon that stony stare, I squirmed
the more. The beak-like nose had been aligned,
was pointing straight at me. How did he know?
His eyes on me - and only me - each time
he whispered, roared or otherwise re-
iterated his main text (how sinners
feel discomfort in the presence of the Lord),
so multitudes of demons gathered there.
He shook hands with us at the great west door
and whispered as we passed. To me he said:
The Lord will choose you for... but I was gone,
and half-way down the great stone steps before
it came to me: ...his breakfast, I don't doubt!
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Medley
Younger they are than us
who lie beneath the ground,
more voluble than us
who never make a sound.
Their projects are complete
their every tool laid down,
their arts have made their marks -
and every word a noun.
Braver than us they were
walking these barren hills
with none of the weapons we use
to fend off the beast that kills.
Lighter than ours, their hearts,
for what they had was a god
like a star that went before
to guide them where they trod.
Stranger than us, they seem
now the bodies have fallen away
but we're one with each soul and spirit -
all made of the same rich clay.
all seemed so normal
none of her friends intervened
just what you'd expect
her taking all of those pills
then posting Bye Bye to them all -
the grandest of Christmas jests
for convenience
the package changes colour
as the food goes off
free of past's shackles
brains reassemble themselves
in time - or so they thought
those advocates of ECT
switching off parts of the brain.
(Not all my haiku are haiku - see here)
who lie beneath the ground,
more voluble than us
who never make a sound.
Their projects are complete
their every tool laid down,
their arts have made their marks -
and every word a noun.
Braver than us they were
walking these barren hills
with none of the weapons we use
to fend off the beast that kills.
Lighter than ours, their hearts,
for what they had was a god
like a star that went before
to guide them where they trod.
Stranger than us, they seem
now the bodies have fallen away
but we're one with each soul and spirit -
all made of the same rich clay.
all seemed so normal
none of her friends intervened
just what you'd expect
her taking all of those pills
then posting Bye Bye to them all -
the grandest of Christmas jests
for convenience
the package changes colour
as the food goes off
free of past's shackles
brains reassemble themselves
in time - or so they thought
those advocates of ECT
switching off parts of the brain.
(Not all my haiku are haiku - see here)
Thursday, 6 January 2011
From MAGPIE TALES a Puzzle...
(Do have a look at Magpie Tales.)
A skeleton
of something like
a mini-whale
(minutum-
dwarfadon
to such as us)
that NASA found
(or so they said)
full many a mile
below the ground
in thermal ducts.
The whole thing sucks.
My grandma had
a score of these
(given her
by Thick Lips Fred
for spending so
much time in bed)
each with diamonds
in a cluster -
It is of course,
a knuckle-duster.
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
A Peruvian Child Sacrifice
Little boy
I wish I knew your name
I would address you by it
you deserve that dignity.
What was your death
intended to achieve?
Or were you never told?
How did you die?
Your body language speaks to me
but speaks uncertainly.
So are you huddled there for warmth,
or does some spectre,
teeth and claws,
loom over you?
You seem a creature almost alien,
its body coiled into a ball
that might be fungal
foetal
or an infant
terrified
engulfed by fire
and gone to ground
the way small children do.
I saw a Nazi lampshade once
made from human skin,
it had been seared by fire.
Your skin reminds me of it.
But little boy,
are you as brittle as you look?
A wisp of frozen smoke, perhaps?
And would a finger-touch
then make you disappear
and crumble into dust?
You could be ghost
or haunted corpse.
Fragile, yes
and parchment-like
an origami creature
scorched
unfolding in the heat
then crumpled in upon itself.
There lies the irony:
you froze to death.
They left you there,
knowing that you would.
You are a natural mummy,
freeze-dried in windy mountain air.
But little boy
you were important to them, clearly.
Do not forget,
they gave you shells
(worth more than gold)
with which to barter
or use as freebies for the gods;
they dressed you in long, flowing robes,
allowing for your future growth;
and don't forget:
you were preserved
intact
for all eternity!
I wish I knew your name
I would address you by it
you deserve that dignity.
What was your death
intended to achieve?
Or were you never told?
How did you die?
Your body language speaks to me
but speaks uncertainly.
So are you huddled there for warmth,
or does some spectre,
teeth and claws,
loom over you?
You seem a creature almost alien,
its body coiled into a ball
that might be fungal
foetal
or an infant
terrified
engulfed by fire
and gone to ground
the way small children do.
I saw a Nazi lampshade once
made from human skin,
it had been seared by fire.
Your skin reminds me of it.
But little boy,
are you as brittle as you look?
A wisp of frozen smoke, perhaps?
And would a finger-touch
then make you disappear
and crumble into dust?
You could be ghost
or haunted corpse.
Fragile, yes
and parchment-like
an origami creature
scorched
unfolding in the heat
then crumpled in upon itself.
There lies the irony:
you froze to death.
They left you there,
knowing that you would.
You are a natural mummy,
freeze-dried in windy mountain air.
But little boy
you were important to them, clearly.
Do not forget,
they gave you shells
(worth more than gold)
with which to barter
or use as freebies for the gods;
they dressed you in long, flowing robes,
allowing for your future growth;
and don't forget:
you were preserved
intact
for all eternity!
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Off to the Jingle Party (and a Haiku)
Hardly am I back from one party than Pot Luck Monday at Jingle Poetry suggests another in this week's prompt. What they want is for us to list the goodies we will take to their mega "Do".
Come with me, my darling
before the year grows old,
we'll have just one more party
before the fun goes cold.
So come with me, my darling
for the party has begun.
Yes, come and have a ball, my sweet,
my favourite honey-bun.
Bring nibbles with you, darling,
hot scones of parsley cheese,
polenta tart with custard -
and salmon, if you please.
Bring pop and fizz, my darling,
cool chablis and a hock
and hot, mulled wine, my darling
for tipples round the clock.
Bring packs of party poppers
and crackers and some beer -
and possibly your double bass
for gravitas, my dear.
And if that's all too much, my sweet,
we'll grab a taxi, dear,
for we shall have a party
to remember all the year.
I've brought a sausage, darling
and stuck it on a stick
and pigs in blankets, sweetheart
and a large vanilla brick.
So come with me, my darling
and bring your fun-filled ways,
for we shall have a party
to remember all our days.
the nation's purse strings
the better health of patients
fewer drugs suits both
Come with me, my darling
before the year grows old,
we'll have just one more party
before the fun goes cold.
So come with me, my darling
for the party has begun.
Yes, come and have a ball, my sweet,
my favourite honey-bun.
Bring nibbles with you, darling,
hot scones of parsley cheese,
polenta tart with custard -
and salmon, if you please.
Bring pop and fizz, my darling,
cool chablis and a hock
and hot, mulled wine, my darling
for tipples round the clock.
Bring packs of party poppers
and crackers and some beer -
and possibly your double bass
for gravitas, my dear.
And if that's all too much, my sweet,
we'll grab a taxi, dear,
for we shall have a party
to remember all the year.
I've brought a sausage, darling
and stuck it on a stick
and pigs in blankets, sweetheart
and a large vanilla brick.
So come with me, my darling
and bring your fun-filled ways,
for we shall have a party
to remember all our days.
the better health of patients
fewer drugs suits both
Monday, 3 January 2011
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Consciousness attained on A Poetry Bus ride
Revolutionary Revelry came up with three suggestions for this week's challenge. Three crackers. One of these was the suggestion that we should consider what we will do this year to advance humanity (if you please!) or simply ourself to a new level of consciousness. Being of a suitably masochistic bent, that was the one I chose.
I place the C.D. in the tray, then close
it to a slight vibration as it spins,
sense how a tomb of dumb and lifeless bits,
dull catacomb of science, understood
by men, unrousing monument to what
is numb, brings forth a ghost (of sorts), unseen,
of simple form - that no one understands -
to weave the ether of our high desires
with intimations that take me by storm.
Yet I am able to relax inside
that storm. This is the great conundrum: we
can understand and build complexities
of tool and temple for our gods to live,
yet they themselves, such simple things, remain
beyond our powers. Sounds take solid shape
or seem but human in their attributes.
What is it of a tune that strikes such rich
emotions in our hearts to lift or save?
to badger? bend and sway? to laugh or grieve?
We are but leaves blown headlong in a squall,
but in that gust the whole of death, desire,
requital of desire, divinity
and beauty, ugliness and sin (each sworn
to silence) faces us with God and man -
the whole of man and that of God we've grown
to know. The confrontation makes us all
more truly man. In that we come of age.
It is the same with any art. In thought
we meet the Maker that we choose. But thought
needs data from the senses or it dies.
We line our homes with images that speak
of freedoms - and in doing so, the walls
and chambers of our souls with purest gold.
I too have felt the dark encroachment of
that old catastrophe. It seems almost too
self-indulgent to increase our good.
But I will take the C.D. from the tray
and know that I am able no way else
to journey to the depths the music took
my captive consciousness on freedom's hook -
though other arts at other times may do
the same. The subject is not that which art
puts in the frame - the landscape, virus, tree
or blushing nude - but that which of those speaks
to me of what is most humane in me.
I place the C.D. in the tray, then close
it to a slight vibration as it spins,
sense how a tomb of dumb and lifeless bits,
dull catacomb of science, understood
by men, unrousing monument to what
is numb, brings forth a ghost (of sorts), unseen,
of simple form - that no one understands -
to weave the ether of our high desires
with intimations that take me by storm.
Yet I am able to relax inside
that storm. This is the great conundrum: we
can understand and build complexities
of tool and temple for our gods to live,
yet they themselves, such simple things, remain
beyond our powers. Sounds take solid shape
or seem but human in their attributes.
What is it of a tune that strikes such rich
emotions in our hearts to lift or save?
to badger? bend and sway? to laugh or grieve?
We are but leaves blown headlong in a squall,
but in that gust the whole of death, desire,
requital of desire, divinity
and beauty, ugliness and sin (each sworn
to silence) faces us with God and man -
the whole of man and that of God we've grown
to know. The confrontation makes us all
more truly man. In that we come of age.
It is the same with any art. In thought
we meet the Maker that we choose. But thought
needs data from the senses or it dies.
We line our homes with images that speak
of freedoms - and in doing so, the walls
and chambers of our souls with purest gold.
I too have felt the dark encroachment of
that old catastrophe. It seems almost too
self-indulgent to increase our good.
But I will take the C.D. from the tray
and know that I am able no way else
to journey to the depths the music took
my captive consciousness on freedom's hook -
though other arts at other times may do
the same. The subject is not that which art
puts in the frame - the landscape, virus, tree
or blushing nude - but that which of those speaks
to me of what is most humane in me.
Saturday, 1 January 2011
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