Sex for an old Man
They are coming nearer those dancing bony old women
who look nice in a Dior dress, but naked has skin that
wraps around them like an old stocking, they have no
tits and could be mistaken for skinny old men who have
had their penises removed. They are coming closer stale
perfume hides not their urinal smell, back against the wall
I have no where to run; “You are as old as us, we are your
only choice for sex, so come lick our cunts, fuck us you
can’t, not with your slack cock, they chant and laugh
loudly to the sound of their own vulgarity. I close my eyes
when I open them again they are transformed into some
obese women, fat as pregnant pigs, with buffalo hides and
udders bigger than prize cows; they too laugh and taunts
my lack of prowess and it strikes me that heroic is an old
man who can fuck an old woman or perhaps it is because
he’s blind and suffers from senility?
Sunday, December 30, 2007
the gorge
The Gorge
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; “I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; “I love you,”” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
the gorge
The Gorge
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence
I nearly met a poet once
I nearly met a poet once.
No I can’t swim, there are no swimming pools
where I live and the coast is so far away.
I’m watching a program about a Portuguese
poet, she came from a rich family, had homes
dotted about the landscape, she loved the sea and
wrote many poems about the oceans
I used to work on the seas, on ships, as a cook,
I write about the seas too, but from a different
perspective and they, my poems are naturally
less romantic; about seeking beauty where love
is a commodity, seeing pain in eyes of those who
must wear a smile while being degraded.
She wrote about Greece her language and Gods,
I wrote about Athens, whore houses, booze and
eternal shame, but I do know of the odd moment
when eyes met in a bar understanding each others
quest for truth and beauty and knew I would win
through, one day.
No I can’t swim, there are no swimming pools
where I live and the coast is so far away.
I’m watching a program about a Portuguese
poet, she came from a rich family, had homes
dotted about the landscape, she loved the sea and
wrote many poems about the oceans
I used to work on the seas, on ships, as a cook,
I write about the seas too, but from a different
perspective and they, my poems are naturally
less romantic; about seeking beauty where love
is a commodity, seeing pain in eyes of those who
must wear a smile while being degraded.
She wrote about Greece her language and Gods,
I wrote about Athens, whore houses, booze and
eternal shame, but I do know of the odd moment
when eyes met in a bar understanding each others
quest for truth and beauty and knew I would win
through, one day.
disheartened
Disheartened
The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms, and who says grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.
The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms, and who says grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The Eyes Have It
The “Eyes” Have It
There are many summers, but we only get one
to remember, the rest ends up in a blur.
This particular one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a nice little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom
the salt sea. Late September still summer though,
but the window in her cottage was shut, knocked
on her door, a neighbour came, said she had gone
to abroad with her old boyfriend who was Danish.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.
Daybreak brought a chill in the air, dark clouds
congregated and it rained. Many years later I was
served in a bar in Copenhagen by an old woman
carrying too much make up on her warn face, but
those eyes, a memory stirred. Her hand shook when
pouring beer into my glass, yes I know all those
long nights, she didn’t look at me and swiftly left
through the back door and a younger woman took
her place. I left soon after, outside I looked up and
saw the curtain on the first floor move; those eyes
I had seen them before, but refused to remember.
There are many summers, but we only get one
to remember, the rest ends up in a blur.
This particular one had lasted long and the girl
I loved lived across the river, a nice little stream
that serenely floated down to meet its doom
the salt sea. Late September still summer though,
but the window in her cottage was shut, knocked
on her door, a neighbour came, said she had gone
to abroad with her old boyfriend who was Danish.
Unseemly haste! I smiled, shrugged my shoulders,
women! And I suffered the longest night.
Daybreak brought a chill in the air, dark clouds
congregated and it rained. Many years later I was
served in a bar in Copenhagen by an old woman
carrying too much make up on her warn face, but
those eyes, a memory stirred. Her hand shook when
pouring beer into my glass, yes I know all those
long nights, she didn’t look at me and swiftly left
through the back door and a younger woman took
her place. I left soon after, outside I looked up and
saw the curtain on the first floor move; those eyes
I had seen them before, but refused to remember.
tanka
Tanka
We’ve two TV’s
When we had one, we fought
Almost divorced
Now she watches the football
While I watch Brazilian soaps
We’ve two TV’s
When we had one, we fought
Almost divorced
Now she watches the football
While I watch Brazilian soaps
tanka
Tanka
I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery
I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
winter night
Winter Night
When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode
Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.
A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned
When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode
Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.
A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned
Monday, December 24, 2007
the future is a dream
The Future Is a Dream
I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.
The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.
I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.
A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.
In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.
Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea
I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.
The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.
I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.
A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.
In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.
Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea
Friday, December 21, 2007
fun wall
Fun-Wall.
It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.
I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left
It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.
I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
an old fool
An Old Fool
At fifty two he looked remarkable young; that, he told
everyone who asked, was because he had never been
in love and spared debilitating heartache…silly remark.
So he fell brutally in love with a woman half his age,
never knew that love making could be that wonderful,
but than he experience, in this matter, was limited to
massage parlours. He bought her costly sweets and frilly
knickers, diamonds too, she was his queen a slight tiff,
he couldn’t sleep called her in the middle of the night
and begged forgiveness.
Then suddenly her door was shut, he knocked and rang,
stood outside her house all night, in the rain, but she had
fallen in love with someone else; yes, it was October.
He thought of castles in the sky, blankets on the ground,
yes Willy Nelson understood his woos. Went to bed and
stayed there till spring came and a neighbour gave him
a puppy dog. Bad on his feet, gout, showing his age, yet
he walks for miles with his mute. If asked if he would
have wished not to have fallen in love; he will, I think,
shake his head, look soulful, and walk on
At fifty two he looked remarkable young; that, he told
everyone who asked, was because he had never been
in love and spared debilitating heartache…silly remark.
So he fell brutally in love with a woman half his age,
never knew that love making could be that wonderful,
but than he experience, in this matter, was limited to
massage parlours. He bought her costly sweets and frilly
knickers, diamonds too, she was his queen a slight tiff,
he couldn’t sleep called her in the middle of the night
and begged forgiveness.
Then suddenly her door was shut, he knocked and rang,
stood outside her house all night, in the rain, but she had
fallen in love with someone else; yes, it was October.
He thought of castles in the sky, blankets on the ground,
yes Willy Nelson understood his woos. Went to bed and
stayed there till spring came and a neighbour gave him
a puppy dog. Bad on his feet, gout, showing his age, yet
he walks for miles with his mute. If asked if he would
have wished not to have fallen in love; he will, I think,
shake his head, look soulful, and walk on
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tasers
The New Weapon
Taser him, taser everyone out there
who looks different from the norm
or answer back. Taser, them to they
wet themselves and taste dirt.
Taser all those who looks aggressive
and has an opinion unlike yours,
we, the men in blue, are in charge;
a taser leaves no mark
Taser him, taser everyone out there
who looks different from the norm
or answer back. Taser, them to they
wet themselves and taste dirt.
Taser all those who looks aggressive
and has an opinion unlike yours,
we, the men in blue, are in charge;
a taser leaves no mark
double Tanaka
Double Tanka
we train a canine
not to follow its instinct
and sink its teeth
a postman’s tempting behind
but wag a tail for peace
but we do train man
to follow his deep instinct
to fight and to kill
and he needs no excuse
if his foe has a long nose
we train a canine
not to follow its instinct
and sink its teeth
a postman’s tempting behind
but wag a tail for peace
but we do train man
to follow his deep instinct
to fight and to kill
and he needs no excuse
if his foe has a long nose
tanak Christmas thought
Tanka (Christmas Thought)
Poor little children
Mortality amongst them
In free Iraq
Is thirty percent higher now
Then under Saddam Hussein
Poor little children
Mortality amongst them
In free Iraq
Is thirty percent higher now
Then under Saddam Hussein
timewell
timeless
When sky and land parted and the sea became
their child, god created man, but since this
happened before time existed it is useless to
speculation whether it took a day, seven or
seventy million years; therefore, evolution is
creation, which must be good to know for
those of religious faith, if meaningless for those
who seek a logic explanation for everything
When sky and land parted and the sea became
their child, god created man, but since this
happened before time existed it is useless to
speculation whether it took a day, seven or
seventy million years; therefore, evolution is
creation, which must be good to know for
those of religious faith, if meaningless for those
who seek a logic explanation for everything
the slaughter
The Slaughter.
A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.
A spruce forest stand at attention,
brainwashed trees
do not know of the guilty secret
they grow on the grave
oak trees fir and elm, that were not deem
suitable as Christmas trees,
chopped down and made into matchsticks
and tooth picks, the ultimate indignity.
Stupid spruce, they have been promised
glittering uniforms and bright light
and replanting to an eternal life
come the new, year their corpses will
be dotted
about in the landscape.
Someone should tell the children.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
women of Iraq
Women of Iraq
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
come dancing
Come Dancing
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
no lady
No Lady.
She, the hex with magic charms, stands in a forest’s
clearing and smiles brightly, rich and translucent
white is her body, rosebuds on her breasts; in scented
air, floats multi coloured moons and silver stars.
I’m drawn to her ethereally sensuality, she and I,
and it is much more what pedestrians call love,
a rabbit and a hare, nature’s cowards, warn me not
to approach; but I laugh at their comic alarm.
Just as I’m to touch her, a wild boar butts her bum,
in the air she flies lands on a bush full of religious
thorns; blue flames darts from her mouth, and foul
language stinks of phosphorous in the clearing.
So now we know, she ain’t no lady and heartily
we laugh, the rabbit, hare and I, but not the boar
it didn’t think it was a mirthful matter, humorless
and brave it knows not of fear
She, the hex with magic charms, stands in a forest’s
clearing and smiles brightly, rich and translucent
white is her body, rosebuds on her breasts; in scented
air, floats multi coloured moons and silver stars.
I’m drawn to her ethereally sensuality, she and I,
and it is much more what pedestrians call love,
a rabbit and a hare, nature’s cowards, warn me not
to approach; but I laugh at their comic alarm.
Just as I’m to touch her, a wild boar butts her bum,
in the air she flies lands on a bush full of religious
thorns; blue flames darts from her mouth, and foul
language stinks of phosphorous in the clearing.
So now we know, she ain’t no lady and heartily
we laugh, the rabbit, hare and I, but not the boar
it didn’t think it was a mirthful matter, humorless
and brave it knows not of fear
Thursday, December 13, 2007
tanka
Tanka
On a bail of straw
The newborn child soundly slept
When dawn brought light
To what now is Christmas Day
We had a Saviour.
On a bail of straw
The newborn child soundly slept
When dawn brought light
To what now is Christmas Day
We had a Saviour.
farwell Marilyn
Farewell Marilyn
Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination
Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination
a short visit
A Short Visit
Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s
funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his
place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen
engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer.
I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk,
the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still
my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles
three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him
the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to
remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him
in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see
the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving
harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us
all, never told my brother I loved him
Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s
funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his
place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen
engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer.
I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk,
the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still
my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles
three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him
the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to
remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him
in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see
the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving
harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us
all, never told my brother I loved him
come dancing
Come Dancing
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.
A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.
women of Iraq
Women of Iraq
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?
After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished
Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.
Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate
The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
viva Cuba
Viva Cuba.
Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.
He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.
Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.
He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.
the theft
The Theft
I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.
Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should
I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .
Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.
I child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.
Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should
I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .
Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.
tanka
Tanka
I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.
Tanka
Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous
Tanka (x-mass warning)
Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo
I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.
Tanka
Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous
Tanka (x-mass warning)
Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo
a cottage
A Cottage
I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;
no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;
unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;
I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.
I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;
no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;
unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;
I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.
peace6 quiet
Peace & Quiet.
Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.
Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.
There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?
Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.
Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.
There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Going home
Going Home
The white day was gliding into twilight details
clearer and shadows deeper, traffic lights sharp
green, amber and red and cars that had stopped
gleamed like a pearl necklace.
Ambulance and police sirens, there had been an
accident traffic down to a trickle, a small car
has hit a truck from behind, white sheet over
lady driver, her hand showed she had many rings.
Was she rushing home after seeing her lover?
an affair caused by the boredom of having too
little to do? Or just another middle aged woman
hasting home to make the evening meal?
The pulse of the traffic is quickening, motorway
ahead car lights are on now the accident is
already forgotten, the woman was being careless
not thinking, we are safe and in our metal boxes.
The white day was gliding into twilight details
clearer and shadows deeper, traffic lights sharp
green, amber and red and cars that had stopped
gleamed like a pearl necklace.
Ambulance and police sirens, there had been an
accident traffic down to a trickle, a small car
has hit a truck from behind, white sheet over
lady driver, her hand showed she had many rings.
Was she rushing home after seeing her lover?
an affair caused by the boredom of having too
little to do? Or just another middle aged woman
hasting home to make the evening meal?
The pulse of the traffic is quickening, motorway
ahead car lights are on now the accident is
already forgotten, the woman was being careless
not thinking, we are safe and in our metal boxes.
A positive Cristmas story
A positive Christmas story
There had been a long war and peace time was hard
and winters, with its lack of wood to burn, colder
than in the years of war, christmas was looming and
mother had got hold of some rice and margarine,
she made a big pan of rice porridge for the eve night.
And did we eat I thought I was going to burst, mother
was tired after this Herculean effort and went to bed.
I sat near the fire feeling a bit lost, when the doorbell
rang it was Uncle William and Aunt Teresa they had
brought cakes, sweets, presents and a tree with lights
and around the tree we walked around singing carols.
In the end I was so tired that I fell asleep on the sofa.
Mother, being very tired had slept through all this
festivities, she worked long hours at a canning factory
for very little pay, but I told her about it and she was
glad that I had had a great Christmas
There had been a long war and peace time was hard
and winters, with its lack of wood to burn, colder
than in the years of war, christmas was looming and
mother had got hold of some rice and margarine,
she made a big pan of rice porridge for the eve night.
And did we eat I thought I was going to burst, mother
was tired after this Herculean effort and went to bed.
I sat near the fire feeling a bit lost, when the doorbell
rang it was Uncle William and Aunt Teresa they had
brought cakes, sweets, presents and a tree with lights
and around the tree we walked around singing carols.
In the end I was so tired that I fell asleep on the sofa.
Mother, being very tired had slept through all this
festivities, she worked long hours at a canning factory
for very little pay, but I told her about it and she was
glad that I had had a great Christmas
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Nostalgia
Nostalgia
I love this land for its plentiful sunlight,
long Nordic winter nights depress me
it has a brooding violence within.
I love this land because I do not understand
the language and is not expected to partake
in chit chat (never was a great talker)
I love this land they are so kind, now that
they know my silence is harmless and I need
not perform an act, only smile.
I love my valley, in this land, it’s modest and
has olive and almond tree, long legged sheep
but sadly no donkeys left
Yet as I get older and look like a weathered
sand stone, I long for silent snow that used
to fall every Christmas Eve, up north.
I love this land for its plentiful sunlight,
long Nordic winter nights depress me
it has a brooding violence within.
I love this land because I do not understand
the language and is not expected to partake
in chit chat (never was a great talker)
I love this land they are so kind, now that
they know my silence is harmless and I need
not perform an act, only smile.
I love my valley, in this land, it’s modest and
has olive and almond tree, long legged sheep
but sadly no donkeys left
Yet as I get older and look like a weathered
sand stone, I long for silent snow that used
to fall every Christmas Eve, up north.
when a spade is a spade
When a spade is a spade.
There are festering sores on the face of Africa murder,
sickness, poverty injustice and excessive vulgarity of
the powerful, but we are so polite will not point our
white fingers and say anything that might cause offence,
but we must and not perversely go on blaming ourselves
for Africa’s many ills, they must walk their own walk
and stop blaming their colonial past for their problems
There is great injustice done to the Palestinians, by Israeli
occupiers who stolen and keep stealing their land, but we
are so polite will not point our goy fingers and not say
anything that might cause offense to those who call
themselves “the chosen people,” but we must, not go on
perversely excusing them in the holy name of holocaust
There are festering sores on the face of Africa murder,
sickness, poverty injustice and excessive vulgarity of
the powerful, but we are so polite will not point our
white fingers and say anything that might cause offence,
but we must and not perversely go on blaming ourselves
for Africa’s many ills, they must walk their own walk
and stop blaming their colonial past for their problems
There is great injustice done to the Palestinians, by Israeli
occupiers who stolen and keep stealing their land, but we
are so polite will not point our goy fingers and not say
anything that might cause offense to those who call
themselves “the chosen people,” but we must, not go on
perversely excusing them in the holy name of holocaust
a viking funreal
A Viking Funereal
My cat, originally called Satan since it was black, but
re-christened to Odin after my wife, who’s from Kinshasa,
objected, I found - on the terrace one afternoon - dead;
some sort of pest I supposed. When my wife came home
it was dark she wasn’t feeling well and went to bed.
I had a good fire going in the hearth and put the cat there;
“I smell burning hair” she hollered from the bedroom.
“Yes dear, I’ve been cleaning the cat’s bed plenty of hair.”
In the morning as I was cleaning the fireplace of ash and
tiny bones, she wondered where the cat was. “Probably eaten
by foxes, many have been seen lately in the vicinity, wildlife
is moving into towns now” I learnedly said. Meow, “so there
you are” she said as Odin, the cat, jumped up and sat on her
lap, purred, looking triumphantly at me.
My cat, originally called Satan since it was black, but
re-christened to Odin after my wife, who’s from Kinshasa,
objected, I found - on the terrace one afternoon - dead;
some sort of pest I supposed. When my wife came home
it was dark she wasn’t feeling well and went to bed.
I had a good fire going in the hearth and put the cat there;
“I smell burning hair” she hollered from the bedroom.
“Yes dear, I’ve been cleaning the cat’s bed plenty of hair.”
In the morning as I was cleaning the fireplace of ash and
tiny bones, she wondered where the cat was. “Probably eaten
by foxes, many have been seen lately in the vicinity, wildlife
is moving into towns now” I learnedly said. Meow, “so there
you are” she said as Odin, the cat, jumped up and sat on her
lap, purred, looking triumphantly at me.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Christmas poem
Christmas Poem
By shop entrance, in a quiet street, that still emitted
Warmth from a busy day, he stood; he wasn’t cold
The Salvation Army had given him a big coat and
Solid boots; snow had fallen and street lamps lit this
Christmas Eve and there was peace over the land.
He unscrewed the cork of a bottle of strong spirit,
Drank and lit a cigarette, at the hostel there was a bed
Waiting for him and food, but he didn’t want to go
There now, meeting other losers, men who had lost
It all he didn’t want to see ruined lives tonight.
The purity of snow, he drank some more spilt some
On his coat, the glow of his cigarette touch it and
A blue flame began eating into his coat, he struggled
To get it off; spilt more spirit, a human torch. A child
Looked out and wondered what it was.
By shop entrance, in a quiet street, that still emitted
Warmth from a busy day, he stood; he wasn’t cold
The Salvation Army had given him a big coat and
Solid boots; snow had fallen and street lamps lit this
Christmas Eve and there was peace over the land.
He unscrewed the cork of a bottle of strong spirit,
Drank and lit a cigarette, at the hostel there was a bed
Waiting for him and food, but he didn’t want to go
There now, meeting other losers, men who had lost
It all he didn’t want to see ruined lives tonight.
The purity of snow, he drank some more spilt some
On his coat, the glow of his cigarette touch it and
A blue flame began eating into his coat, he struggled
To get it off; spilt more spirit, a human torch. A child
Looked out and wondered what it was.
look again
Senryu
warm was summer
we swam in various rivers,
in a mere once
no man or woman
can win a war on mars
or on a new moon
warm was summer
we swam in various rivers,
in a mere once
no man or woman
can win a war on mars
or on a new moon
employment
Employment
At the office by the docks where sailors go to get
a job, wretched people in drab jeans, I went there
dressed as always, in a striped business suit; they
thought I was a captain in need of a crew. I handed
my papers to the man at the desk, he leafed through
them, looked up and said; my man you’re seventy
five.” So what! I’m have been ship cook for fifty
years and can make Irish stew and Danish meatballs.
A whisper flew amongst the harbour dredge, “he’s
only an old cook,” their laughter had no mercy,
I had given the sea scum something to make them
feel less inferior, but only for a moment; till the clerk
said: “but we have a job for you on the Staten Island
ferry, starting tonight; knew it wasn’t true, adjusted
my tie walked out of the office ram rod straight, as
only an old sailor on his last job can do
At the office by the docks where sailors go to get
a job, wretched people in drab jeans, I went there
dressed as always, in a striped business suit; they
thought I was a captain in need of a crew. I handed
my papers to the man at the desk, he leafed through
them, looked up and said; my man you’re seventy
five.” So what! I’m have been ship cook for fifty
years and can make Irish stew and Danish meatballs.
A whisper flew amongst the harbour dredge, “he’s
only an old cook,” their laughter had no mercy,
I had given the sea scum something to make them
feel less inferior, but only for a moment; till the clerk
said: “but we have a job for you on the Staten Island
ferry, starting tonight; knew it wasn’t true, adjusted
my tie walked out of the office ram rod straight, as
only an old sailor on his last job can do
Noah the seafarer
Noah the Seafarer.
There was an inundation years ago, seas rose up and flooded
the landscape, what used to be valleys became lakes. Why?
I don’t know, only have a degree in domestic science, my ship
this had engine problems just followed the surge and cast
anchor in one of those lakes. I saw villagers clinging to hill
tops waiting for the water to sink; and it did, my ship was sunk
in the mud only her super structure was visible. The crew,
faithless as the oceans, fled to the coast, I didn’t ,
and soon mud greened into grassland. I bought land and sheep,
the bridge of my ship is a roof terrace, a house now but I do
speak of her as she. I know what they say about me around here
that I’m a relic from the sea, a flotsam, let them.
I’m a hill farmer know and don’t miss the sea at all; however,
should there be another floodI’m ready to rescue my sheep and
set sail again
There was an inundation years ago, seas rose up and flooded
the landscape, what used to be valleys became lakes. Why?
I don’t know, only have a degree in domestic science, my ship
this had engine problems just followed the surge and cast
anchor in one of those lakes. I saw villagers clinging to hill
tops waiting for the water to sink; and it did, my ship was sunk
in the mud only her super structure was visible. The crew,
faithless as the oceans, fled to the coast, I didn’t ,
and soon mud greened into grassland. I bought land and sheep,
the bridge of my ship is a roof terrace, a house now but I do
speak of her as she. I know what they say about me around here
that I’m a relic from the sea, a flotsam, let them.
I’m a hill farmer know and don’t miss the sea at all; however,
should there be another floodI’m ready to rescue my sheep and
set sail again
Friday, November 30, 2007
not a victim
Not a Victim
It is important for me to begin my day by not
feeling guilty or inferior for what happened
when I was a child; abuse, those grasping hands
I should have pulled a way, didn’t -out of fear-
but I also wished to please an adult world.
It is important for me to believe this every day
and not let the past break me down into despair
and hate them, for they are dead and lived a life
of little moral value; but I must be unafraid and
forgive myself for what was done to me.
It is important for me to begin my day by not
feeling guilty or inferior for what happened
when I was a child; abuse, those grasping hands
I should have pulled a way, didn’t -out of fear-
but I also wished to please an adult world.
It is important for me to believe this every day
and not let the past break me down into despair
and hate them, for they are dead and lived a life
of little moral value; but I must be unafraid and
forgive myself for what was done to me.
the politics of the ridiculues
The Politics of the Ridicules
Dear teacher, from Liverpool, going to work in Sudan and
let the children at your school call a teddy bear Muhammad.
Didn’t you know you’re dealing with bigots scouring texts
to find an excuse to say that Europe has insulted them again?
You are amongst people, who are three centuries behind us,
and in no hurry catching up. Odin is the name of my cat, and
that’s also the name of Iceland’s god, I better be careful when
going to Reykjavik on my holiday next year.
Dear teacher, from Liverpool, going to work in Sudan and
let the children at your school call a teddy bear Muhammad.
Didn’t you know you’re dealing with bigots scouring texts
to find an excuse to say that Europe has insulted them again?
You are amongst people, who are three centuries behind us,
and in no hurry catching up. Odin is the name of my cat, and
that’s also the name of Iceland’s god, I better be careful when
going to Reykjavik on my holiday next year.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Gun Culture
Gun Culture.
They teased the young black boy in the school yard,
his older twin sisters went to university and dated
White boys; he had lost street credibility and respect.
“So he bought himself a gun” as the song goes, four
bullets too. Next day at school when one of the boys
taunted him he pulled out his gun and shot him three
times in the chest.
So much blood coming out of the shot boy’s mouth;
so much noise he couldn’t hear, he ran and ran didn’t
know where; into a park where a blizzard of autumn
leaves fell and he was lost in a world of delusion.
“They will respect me, look up to me, I’m their hero,”
he said to the trees, one bullet left he shot himself in
the head, empty gun and end of dreams.
They teased the young black boy in the school yard,
his older twin sisters went to university and dated
White boys; he had lost street credibility and respect.
“So he bought himself a gun” as the song goes, four
bullets too. Next day at school when one of the boys
taunted him he pulled out his gun and shot him three
times in the chest.
So much blood coming out of the shot boy’s mouth;
so much noise he couldn’t hear, he ran and ran didn’t
know where; into a park where a blizzard of autumn
leaves fell and he was lost in a world of delusion.
“They will respect me, look up to me, I’m their hero,”
he said to the trees, one bullet left he shot himself in
the head, empty gun and end of dreams.
At Anchor
At Anchor
From the hilltop I can see the townscape,
a maze of roof tiles rust red in the sun,
a tank ship has anchored in the bay that is
blue with glitter on. I can see people on her
deck looking towards shore; and they have
dreams they do not share with fellow sailors.
If they get a chance to go ashore they will
find bodegas that serve good red wine and
stronger stuff as well, food is wholesome
and generously served. But they’ll not find
what they came for, windows are shuttered
and no home light illuminates their path.
From the hilltop I can see the townscape,
a maze of roof tiles rust red in the sun,
a tank ship has anchored in the bay that is
blue with glitter on. I can see people on her
deck looking towards shore; and they have
dreams they do not share with fellow sailors.
If they get a chance to go ashore they will
find bodegas that serve good red wine and
stronger stuff as well, food is wholesome
and generously served. But they’ll not find
what they came for, windows are shuttered
and no home light illuminates their path.
epitaph
Epitaph
I scratch tiny letters
in the exercise book of the world
You’ll need a magnifying glass to read them…
and yes I know it is vanity,
but also so you can remember me
If you come across my words, say,
when you look up and cloud formations spelling
“worship” with a double “P”, you will sweetly smile
turn to your new friend and say:
“He was a hopeless speller.”
I scratch tiny letters
in the exercise book of the world
You’ll need a magnifying glass to read them…
and yes I know it is vanity,
but also so you can remember me
If you come across my words, say,
when you look up and cloud formations spelling
“worship” with a double “P”, you will sweetly smile
turn to your new friend and say:
“He was a hopeless speller.”
Sleepless in Portugal
Sleepless in Portugal.
Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.
I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.
Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
of shame; his sidekick, a woman, who wears so much
make-up, feign to interview him. Soon it will be morning,
and the talking and pretence on the TV will be forgotten.
Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.
I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.
Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
of shame; his sidekick, a woman, who wears so much
make-up, feign to interview him. Soon it will be morning,
and the talking and pretence on the TV will be forgotten.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
europe
New Europe
The white face of Europe is slowly fading away, middleclass
couples have few children; there are exiting careers to follow
in the world of business, media and the glitzy entertainment
industry. Shake their heads, in united dismay, when reading
about a poor woman, from a sink estate, unmarried and with
seven healthy, white children; they reward her with contempt
and without shame let her live in disgraceful poverty.
There was a time when a mother like that was given a medal
called mother of the nation.
When the same couples are mid forties and successful they
miss children and import some, 3, 4 or 5, preferable healthy
ones from Asia or Chad in Africa, shower them with riches
and a superior education. Europe has a new face, a smoother,
darker skinned one, on holiday it can sit longer in the sun
without getting burned.
There are, however, a minority of people who wants
a white European culture, without ever having read a book
other than pamphlets of hate; minds blinded by fear of
the future and with hearts that only know love of kit & kin,
fight desperately against a tide of humanity that will eradicate
them. Will they be reduced to a footnote, in the era of white supremacy, when its history is written?
The white face of Europe is slowly fading away, middleclass
couples have few children; there are exiting careers to follow
in the world of business, media and the glitzy entertainment
industry. Shake their heads, in united dismay, when reading
about a poor woman, from a sink estate, unmarried and with
seven healthy, white children; they reward her with contempt
and without shame let her live in disgraceful poverty.
There was a time when a mother like that was given a medal
called mother of the nation.
When the same couples are mid forties and successful they
miss children and import some, 3, 4 or 5, preferable healthy
ones from Asia or Chad in Africa, shower them with riches
and a superior education. Europe has a new face, a smoother,
darker skinned one, on holiday it can sit longer in the sun
without getting burned.
There are, however, a minority of people who wants
a white European culture, without ever having read a book
other than pamphlets of hate; minds blinded by fear of
the future and with hearts that only know love of kit & kin,
fight desperately against a tide of humanity that will eradicate
them. Will they be reduced to a footnote, in the era of white supremacy, when its history is written?
Encounter
Encounter
Profound tiredness I’m sinking into myself
body gone, weightless now but my mind
sees that sea and sky are one, the aimless
cosmic cloud is a redundant god that has
been alone so long it will see no one.
Mother Teresa tried to talk to It, but failed;
she was very tired when she died. There is
stillness here where there is no night or day
and a forever fading cumulous;
I have great fear, will not sleep before dawn
is here, delivering me another day.
Profound tiredness I’m sinking into myself
body gone, weightless now but my mind
sees that sea and sky are one, the aimless
cosmic cloud is a redundant god that has
been alone so long it will see no one.
Mother Teresa tried to talk to It, but failed;
she was very tired when she died. There is
stillness here where there is no night or day
and a forever fading cumulous;
I have great fear, will not sleep before dawn
is here, delivering me another day.
Wick & Candle
Wick and Candle
I woke up in a strange room, couldn’t find my way out
collided with a standard lamp, thought it was an intruder
and wrestled it to the ground. Ice on the living room floor
fell many times till a Chinese lady, dressed in a short,
green shirt and blouse, showed me where the loo was.
When I came out I was very tired I’m a fireman, you see,
and there had been a forest fire, laid down on the ground
and could smell freshly dug earth and noticed, before
falling asleep, white coffins being unloaded from a truck.
Awoke it was morning in the mirror I saw a dead man he
had sot in his face a victim of the fire? I tried to get him
out of there but couldn’t break the mirror; and anyway he
disappeared when I got up from the floor.
“Not your fault, he died of a heart attack,” the Chinese lady
said and with that she climbed back into the picture on
the wall. “Your heart is weak” the cardiologist said,
“Walk an hour a day, you have to let go, someone else has
to extinguish the forest fire.”
I woke up in a strange room, couldn’t find my way out
collided with a standard lamp, thought it was an intruder
and wrestled it to the ground. Ice on the living room floor
fell many times till a Chinese lady, dressed in a short,
green shirt and blouse, showed me where the loo was.
When I came out I was very tired I’m a fireman, you see,
and there had been a forest fire, laid down on the ground
and could smell freshly dug earth and noticed, before
falling asleep, white coffins being unloaded from a truck.
Awoke it was morning in the mirror I saw a dead man he
had sot in his face a victim of the fire? I tried to get him
out of there but couldn’t break the mirror; and anyway he
disappeared when I got up from the floor.
“Not your fault, he died of a heart attack,” the Chinese lady
said and with that she climbed back into the picture on
the wall. “Your heart is weak” the cardiologist said,
“Walk an hour a day, you have to let go, someone else has
to extinguish the forest fire.”
Thursday, November 22, 2007
still life
Still Life
He sat in a rowboat, in the deep fiord, with
a bottle of vodka, a flask of tea, bacon butty
and an apple. A mild spring day and he was
fishing mackerel; many he hooked too, soon
the boat was quite full of blue, silvery bodies
writhing and painfully dying.
Tea and vodka he drank munched the butty,
ate the apple; lit a cigarette inhaled deeply
and enjoyed his solitude.
Bodily functions never stop, he stood up to
have a pee, slipped on his catch and fell into
the sea; heavy boots he soon sank down to
where the sea is dark and unforgiving; rain
fell on an empty bottle of booze, apple core,
thermos flask and fish that had lost their glow.
He sat in a rowboat, in the deep fiord, with
a bottle of vodka, a flask of tea, bacon butty
and an apple. A mild spring day and he was
fishing mackerel; many he hooked too, soon
the boat was quite full of blue, silvery bodies
writhing and painfully dying.
Tea and vodka he drank munched the butty,
ate the apple; lit a cigarette inhaled deeply
and enjoyed his solitude.
Bodily functions never stop, he stood up to
have a pee, slipped on his catch and fell into
the sea; heavy boots he soon sank down to
where the sea is dark and unforgiving; rain
fell on an empty bottle of booze, apple core,
thermos flask and fish that had lost their glow.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
the visitor
The Visitor
Sensed his presence, on the terrace, when I turned to look
he disappeared, first I wasn’t sure but when they rang and
said that my old friend had been claimed by cancer.
I don’t know why he came hadn’t seen him for many years,
we used to chase girls, drink a lot and live it up, but he was
claimed by love and got wed; and so did I …five times.
Oddly enough he rang me six month ago when we had
spoken of the old days we didn’t have much else to say and
I was relieved when he hung up
Don’t know what he wanted to tell me, I know one thing,
though, I can never go back to the past, lost the passport
called youth long ago, but I will remember him well.
Sensed his presence, on the terrace, when I turned to look
he disappeared, first I wasn’t sure but when they rang and
said that my old friend had been claimed by cancer.
I don’t know why he came hadn’t seen him for many years,
we used to chase girls, drink a lot and live it up, but he was
claimed by love and got wed; and so did I …five times.
Oddly enough he rang me six month ago when we had
spoken of the old days we didn’t have much else to say and
I was relieved when he hung up
Don’t know what he wanted to tell me, I know one thing,
though, I can never go back to the past, lost the passport
called youth long ago, but I will remember him well.
thew future
The Future
When the last fishing boat docked it had only
a sardine and a haddock and eerily the sea
washed an indifferent shoreline;
the rich moved inland to escape the stench
of rotting seaweed that grew so thick that
one could walk form Calais to Dover in a day;
the poor took over what once were posh villas
but since they had no money for upkeep, houses
sank into ruin and stank as much as the sea did;
and the moneyed class said: look at the poor
we gave the fine housing and they have ruined
it all, their slothfulness is genetic you know;
the sardine and the haddock were preserved in
spirit so future generation could see what filthy
food people, in the old days, ate;
everyone is vegan now, even the poor who have
to do with potatoes that makes them fat, the rich
live on soy beans, cuscus and fried bananas.
When the last fishing boat docked it had only
a sardine and a haddock and eerily the sea
washed an indifferent shoreline;
the rich moved inland to escape the stench
of rotting seaweed that grew so thick that
one could walk form Calais to Dover in a day;
the poor took over what once were posh villas
but since they had no money for upkeep, houses
sank into ruin and stank as much as the sea did;
and the moneyed class said: look at the poor
we gave the fine housing and they have ruined
it all, their slothfulness is genetic you know;
the sardine and the haddock were preserved in
spirit so future generation could see what filthy
food people, in the old days, ate;
everyone is vegan now, even the poor who have
to do with potatoes that makes them fat, the rich
live on soy beans, cuscus and fried bananas.
more senryu and tanka
Senryu
I’m getting old
I used to think of sex a lot
Now I consider death
Tanka
Sparkly consider this:
At ninety ageing ceases
And it’s good to know
That can you run at ninety
You can do so at hundred
I’m getting old
I used to think of sex a lot
Now I consider death
Tanka
Sparkly consider this:
At ninety ageing ceases
And it’s good to know
That can you run at ninety
You can do so at hundred
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
senryu and tanka
Senryu
Epiphany me now
With your enchanted smile
The forever I’ll see.
Tanka
Lucid as the day
Blinding sunlight obscured you
When I could see
The night had devoured you
The time when all is too late
Tanka
Mirror in the hall
Don’t sarcastically laugh
When I walk past
On my way to the kitchen
To eat another strawberry tart
Senryu
Night time lonely
Fear the encroaching stillness
Till you call my name
Epiphany me now
With your enchanted smile
The forever I’ll see.
Tanka
Lucid as the day
Blinding sunlight obscured you
When I could see
The night had devoured you
The time when all is too late
Tanka
Mirror in the hall
Don’t sarcastically laugh
When I walk past
On my way to the kitchen
To eat another strawberry tart
Senryu
Night time lonely
Fear the encroaching stillness
Till you call my name
as the clock ticks
As The Clock Ticks
Shall I resign to old age be a kind elderly man
who sits on a park bench and smile to passers by,
and wait for something, not knowing what it is,
but serenely accept the ending of the script and
not fighting back as brain cells die and my body
is a ruined edifice where the elevator has ceased
and the plumbing is unreliable?
Much time has been fritted away on sugar coated
banalities, sweet tarts and grapes of the reddest
kind; hang on, I’m so wrong, tell myself lies, this
was life, that and bawdy songs agreeing with my
sentiment; my salient friend literary learning is of
little use, hollow pursuit, what matters is human
companionship, the rest is a waste of time
Shall I resign to old age be a kind elderly man
who sits on a park bench and smile to passers by,
and wait for something, not knowing what it is,
but serenely accept the ending of the script and
not fighting back as brain cells die and my body
is a ruined edifice where the elevator has ceased
and the plumbing is unreliable?
Much time has been fritted away on sugar coated
banalities, sweet tarts and grapes of the reddest
kind; hang on, I’m so wrong, tell myself lies, this
was life, that and bawdy songs agreeing with my
sentiment; my salient friend literary learning is of
little use, hollow pursuit, what matters is human
companionship, the rest is a waste of time
the mislaid
The Mislaid
It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month
does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast
flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call
it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by
my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach.
Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in
her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only
she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day
off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we
went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing.
Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears
strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window
it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday.
The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she
looked vulnerable and forty eight.
It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month
does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast
flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call
it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by
my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach.
Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in
her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only
she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day
off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we
went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing.
Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears
strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window
it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday.
The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she
looked vulnerable and forty eight.
filling in the blanks
Filling in the blanks
A spindrift of an abstract screen,
it blinds me I can’t think of words to write down
to break the monotony of whiteness,
Bush’s wet-nurse was a Mexican,
peasant woman, that’s why he likes to hug,
and touch people;
maybe he’s a nice man
who has only seen war movie and think
all wars are like that;
he only wanted to be president
because his father had been one, wanted to prove
that he wasn’t stupid;
but he was hypnotized by an evil neo-com,
and lost the thread of his dream in
blinding spindrift
A spindrift of an abstract screen,
it blinds me I can’t think of words to write down
to break the monotony of whiteness,
Bush’s wet-nurse was a Mexican,
peasant woman, that’s why he likes to hug,
and touch people;
maybe he’s a nice man
who has only seen war movie and think
all wars are like that;
he only wanted to be president
because his father had been one, wanted to prove
that he wasn’t stupid;
but he was hypnotized by an evil neo-com,
and lost the thread of his dream in
blinding spindrift
getting away
Getting Away
I rubbed my eyeballs and
saw a universe of millions of stars,
not unlike the one I see at nights,
only here stars where rainbow coloured baubles
on a stygian background
and void of life;
not even a bambi or a lion cub crossing
this firmament of endless night,
and soon it will be christmas,
baubles, coloured light and worried faces
everywhere, except for the grinning shadow
that brings winter wind.
I rubbed my eyeballs and
saw a universe of millions of stars,
not unlike the one I see at nights,
only here stars where rainbow coloured baubles
on a stygian background
and void of life;
not even a bambi or a lion cub crossing
this firmament of endless night,
and soon it will be christmas,
baubles, coloured light and worried faces
everywhere, except for the grinning shadow
that brings winter wind.
knowledge
Knowledge.
“Listen to him he has long experience,” be careful
do not heed the old man’s words his experience is
based on a time gone by, his mind lags far behind.
Be free to make your own mistake, but do listen to
your inner voice it isn’t god’s, as some will say, but
your own voice of quiet reasons
If you do this I cannot promise, you’ll be man, and
why should you if you’re a woman; I have nothing
to give you except a smile of encouragement.
“Listen to him he has long experience,” be careful
do not heed the old man’s words his experience is
based on a time gone by, his mind lags far behind.
Be free to make your own mistake, but do listen to
your inner voice it isn’t god’s, as some will say, but
your own voice of quiet reasons
If you do this I cannot promise, you’ll be man, and
why should you if you’re a woman; I have nothing
to give you except a smile of encouragement.
The kismet
The Kismet
Eerie, heaven has sunk, roof on houses have
disappeared, as has freedom of disagreement,
“anti” is stamped on the forehead on those who
dare question the righteousness of the mighty.
It doesn’t matter now though, silent and without
mercy the heaven presses us into the soil, it is
useless to scream; on the other hand if we look
up, we may angles be, or failing that; tiny stars.
Mist clouds drift passed my window, looks in
with a communal eye, seek revenge for the tree
I vandalized; and there will be no peace before
we get it: “nature will heal itself without us!”
Eerie, heaven has sunk, roof on houses have
disappeared, as has freedom of disagreement,
“anti” is stamped on the forehead on those who
dare question the righteousness of the mighty.
It doesn’t matter now though, silent and without
mercy the heaven presses us into the soil, it is
useless to scream; on the other hand if we look
up, we may angles be, or failing that; tiny stars.
Mist clouds drift passed my window, looks in
with a communal eye, seek revenge for the tree
I vandalized; and there will be no peace before
we get it: “nature will heal itself without us!”
Another yule
Another Yule
“Jingle bells”- “I’m dreaming of…” waft endlessly through
The supermarket and will do so for weeks; christmas is here
This time of banalities and forced goodwill, I only came here
To buy a pound of potatoes and was wished a happy Sunday
By a check-out girl dressed in a smart santa outfit and a smile
That didn’t reach her tired, soft bambi eyes; she was dying
For a break, a cup of coffee, and a quick drag of a cigarette.
There were beddings for sale at greatly reduced prices, but
Who wants a double-bed flannel sheet for Christmas? Mind,
It could be used to wrap around the baby in the arms of
The young gypsy woman breast feeding her child and begging
At the door of this Aladdin’s cave; this grand daughter of
Holocaust survivors, who never exploited their suffering; and
No remorse, no collective guilt ever sanctified them.
“Jingle bells”- “I’m dreaming of…” waft endlessly through
The supermarket and will do so for weeks; christmas is here
This time of banalities and forced goodwill, I only came here
To buy a pound of potatoes and was wished a happy Sunday
By a check-out girl dressed in a smart santa outfit and a smile
That didn’t reach her tired, soft bambi eyes; she was dying
For a break, a cup of coffee, and a quick drag of a cigarette.
There were beddings for sale at greatly reduced prices, but
Who wants a double-bed flannel sheet for Christmas? Mind,
It could be used to wrap around the baby in the arms of
The young gypsy woman breast feeding her child and begging
At the door of this Aladdin’s cave; this grand daughter of
Holocaust survivors, who never exploited their suffering; and
No remorse, no collective guilt ever sanctified them.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Slaves
Slaves
Wish I were an owner of a couple of slaves,
they can do the work in the house and paint
outside as well; I have to feed them, of course,
rancid butter and stale bread; they can sleep
on a mat in the garage, and if they get a cold
I’ll be kind and give them an aspirin.
I have a wife, who does of the housework,
but she isn’t reliable, often I have to do my
own ironing and washing up after dinner;
to get something done I have to kiss cuddle
and flatter her, my god she even wants me
to make love to once a week!
With poverty around there will be many,
hungry enough to work as slaves, perhaps
they are people who show initiative don’t
hang around, hands in pockets, demanding
handouts from the state, or beg outside
supermarkets and at the railway station.
Wish I were an owner of a couple of slaves,
they can do the work in the house and paint
outside as well; I have to feed them, of course,
rancid butter and stale bread; they can sleep
on a mat in the garage, and if they get a cold
I’ll be kind and give them an aspirin.
I have a wife, who does of the housework,
but she isn’t reliable, often I have to do my
own ironing and washing up after dinner;
to get something done I have to kiss cuddle
and flatter her, my god she even wants me
to make love to once a week!
With poverty around there will be many,
hungry enough to work as slaves, perhaps
they are people who show initiative don’t
hang around, hands in pockets, demanding
handouts from the state, or beg outside
supermarkets and at the railway station.
Friday, November 16, 2007
the song of autumn
The song of Autumn.
By the dried up lake a once blue painted rowing boat
lays on it side like an animal that has died of thirst and
rots under an abusive sun.
I drove across it on my scooter a trail of dust behind me,
had the lake been full I might have drowned and found
years later by amateur divers on a Sunday outing. .
“These bones are not from here they belong to one who
lived in the cold north” the coroner will weightily say,
look at his watch, lunch time, and close the case
There is whisper in the room “time for you to go home.”
Yes I will when spring comes around, I’ll drive across
Europe on my scooter, and admire the new EU wonder.
This will take long as I would like to see Rome again,
so the winter just might get north again before me (it has
a shorter way.) Think I will stay in my valley for… now.
There is, in a village called Benafim, a sunlit cemetery
on all saint’s day women put flowers on every grave;
a lovely place of peace, sotto voce and Nirvana’s wonder.
By the dried up lake a once blue painted rowing boat
lays on it side like an animal that has died of thirst and
rots under an abusive sun.
I drove across it on my scooter a trail of dust behind me,
had the lake been full I might have drowned and found
years later by amateur divers on a Sunday outing. .
“These bones are not from here they belong to one who
lived in the cold north” the coroner will weightily say,
look at his watch, lunch time, and close the case
There is whisper in the room “time for you to go home.”
Yes I will when spring comes around, I’ll drive across
Europe on my scooter, and admire the new EU wonder.
This will take long as I would like to see Rome again,
so the winter just might get north again before me (it has
a shorter way.) Think I will stay in my valley for… now.
There is, in a village called Benafim, a sunlit cemetery
on all saint’s day women put flowers on every grave;
a lovely place of peace, sotto voce and Nirvana’s wonder.
no fear of flying
No fear of Flying
Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.
Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on
Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.
My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.
Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.
Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on
Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.
My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.
no fear of flying
No fear of Flying
Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.
Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on
Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.
My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.
Forenoon, they had all gone to work I was alone
in the house, sat by the table reading a book about
cowboys in Texas, the silence in the room was so
intense that it droned like a faraway airplane.
Suddenly I could levitate, saw the living room from
the ceiling down, I could see through walls, what
other people were doing, never mind that I wanted
to fly; the air, cold so I put one more a jumper on
Opened the window, flew people looked up and
pointed I soared over the highest building grabbed
hold of the church spire and swung around for fun,
tomorrow morning I’m going to fly to America.
My leg in plaster, “lucky you live in a small house
the doctor said, falling off the roof like that” Never
told a soul, but knew that I had flown but could not
fly again the moment of magic had forever gone.
precipitation
Precipitation
Rain, but I couldn’t get out brother had the raincoat
it was made of plastic and big as a tent: often walked
around in it when it wasn’t raining, it made me feel
heroic, also I had tuberculosis and must avoid getting
wet, mother had coupons to buy creamy milk and white
bread just for me; brother was jealous, I refused to share
with me, said I was weak and would soon die and then
he would eat my bread and drink my milk; I cried.
Yet a couple from the council came, mother packed
a suitcase and off to a sanatorium I went. Two years is
a long time when coming back home I noticed how poor
we were, there was free milk and bread for everyone,
but brother wasn’t there he had gone to sea as a deck boy,
he had sent her a letter from Aruba, and later a postcard
from New York, I wanted to join the merchant navy too,
but had to drink more milk first.
Rain, but I couldn’t get out brother had the raincoat
it was made of plastic and big as a tent: often walked
around in it when it wasn’t raining, it made me feel
heroic, also I had tuberculosis and must avoid getting
wet, mother had coupons to buy creamy milk and white
bread just for me; brother was jealous, I refused to share
with me, said I was weak and would soon die and then
he would eat my bread and drink my milk; I cried.
Yet a couple from the council came, mother packed
a suitcase and off to a sanatorium I went. Two years is
a long time when coming back home I noticed how poor
we were, there was free milk and bread for everyone,
but brother wasn’t there he had gone to sea as a deck boy,
he had sent her a letter from Aruba, and later a postcard
from New York, I wanted to join the merchant navy too,
but had to drink more milk first.
a cold day
A Cold Day
The new day was cold frost on windows, pavements
were ice rinks, an old lady dressed in black fell flat,
couldn’t get up, she looked as a back fly that had lost
its wings. Ashen sky the sun just had strength enough
to give light and the old woman had a nosebleed that
she dried off with the whitest hankie I had ever seen
and when she thanked me for helping her up, I went
all shy and knew I had met nobility.
Good day for school though, the classroom was warm,
icy fingers ached when warming up again. Men from
the council came, a truck full of salt strewn on ice
making it into brine which wasn’t much fun for us
children. From the classroom big window I could see
the blue mountain it had snow on top and I wondered
if there were palms and an atoll, on the cobalt wonders
other side and how to get there
The new day was cold frost on windows, pavements
were ice rinks, an old lady dressed in black fell flat,
couldn’t get up, she looked as a back fly that had lost
its wings. Ashen sky the sun just had strength enough
to give light and the old woman had a nosebleed that
she dried off with the whitest hankie I had ever seen
and when she thanked me for helping her up, I went
all shy and knew I had met nobility.
Good day for school though, the classroom was warm,
icy fingers ached when warming up again. Men from
the council came, a truck full of salt strewn on ice
making it into brine which wasn’t much fun for us
children. From the classroom big window I could see
the blue mountain it had snow on top and I wondered
if there were palms and an atoll, on the cobalt wonders
other side and how to get there
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
fontana Della Api
Fontana Della Api
(The fountain of Bees)
At the corner of Piazza Barberini and Via Vittorio Veneto
I stood waiting for someone who did show up, it was
a warm September day, it had rained in the morning making
the air aromatic, but sensed I had fallen from grace, it was
time to leave Rome.
A horse, whose owner had gone into a bar for a fried sardine
and a glass red of wine came, pulling a cart, to drink water
off the well, when it had had enough I tried to let it drink some
more as it might be hours before it got another drink of water,
but the horse stubbornly refused, ate my flowers instead;
I led the horse back to the bar, but now it was facing the other
way, would the owner notice?
The horse didn’t know nor did I before reading about it in
a guide book that the fountain had been transferred from
the Via Sistina in 1644 (the book didn’t say why) and again
old Bernini had had a hand in its design
(The fountain of Bees)
At the corner of Piazza Barberini and Via Vittorio Veneto
I stood waiting for someone who did show up, it was
a warm September day, it had rained in the morning making
the air aromatic, but sensed I had fallen from grace, it was
time to leave Rome.
A horse, whose owner had gone into a bar for a fried sardine
and a glass red of wine came, pulling a cart, to drink water
off the well, when it had had enough I tried to let it drink some
more as it might be hours before it got another drink of water,
but the horse stubbornly refused, ate my flowers instead;
I led the horse back to the bar, but now it was facing the other
way, would the owner notice?
The horse didn’t know nor did I before reading about it in
a guide book that the fountain had been transferred from
the Via Sistina in 1644 (the book didn’t say why) and again
old Bernini had had a hand in its design
Fontana Sulle Piazza
Fontana Sulle Piazza
(Fountain in a square)
At the edge of Piazza di Campo dei Fiori there was
a fruit stall in august 1961, perhaps it is still there.
I bought a banana and a couple of tomatoes and sat
by the cooling sound of the late renaissance spring
eating the fruit, which where I came from was only
available at Christmas. Formed as a soup terrine
the fountain had plenty of water and I made mental
note that if the evening was too hot I could go have
a dip there when the piazza was empty of people; as
for now a naked man who isn’t a statue would cause
some disquiet. I carried the tomatoes in a paper bag
the rest the day and most of the night, forgot them at
Fonte del Tritone at the Piazza Barberini 1637 (where
I cooled off in its water, but modestly fully dressed)
A triton supported by dolphins symbolizing harmony
and proclaiming Barberinis’s fame, but yet again old
Bernini had constructed the fountain.
(Fountain in a square)
At the edge of Piazza di Campo dei Fiori there was
a fruit stall in august 1961, perhaps it is still there.
I bought a banana and a couple of tomatoes and sat
by the cooling sound of the late renaissance spring
eating the fruit, which where I came from was only
available at Christmas. Formed as a soup terrine
the fountain had plenty of water and I made mental
note that if the evening was too hot I could go have
a dip there when the piazza was empty of people; as
for now a naked man who isn’t a statue would cause
some disquiet. I carried the tomatoes in a paper bag
the rest the day and most of the night, forgot them at
Fonte del Tritone at the Piazza Barberini 1637 (where
I cooled off in its water, but modestly fully dressed)
A triton supported by dolphins symbolizing harmony
and proclaiming Barberinis’s fame, but yet again old
Bernini had constructed the fountain.
Fontana Del Nettuno
Fontana Del Nettuno
The fountain of Neptune
At the northern end of the Plaza Navona, Neptune
is fighting an octopus, his white sea-horse has flaring
nostrils and is ready to jump onto the plaza, this
muscular drama is unnoticed by the boy who has
jumped into the spring to pick up something floating
there, his mother calls him back he has a new shirt on,
like a boy should worry about that.
I met Neptune once on a winter beach in the Algarve,
waist deep in water he stood, old and cold while
mermaids sat on stones knitting him a pullover made
of seaweed and since he was hard of hearing made,
fun of his enormous belly.
The plaza is full of local people, this Sunday afternoon
a warm July afternoon 1961; ancestors of Antonio Della
Bitta and Gregorio Zappalà who made the sculptures
way back in 1590.
The fountain of Neptune
At the northern end of the Plaza Navona, Neptune
is fighting an octopus, his white sea-horse has flaring
nostrils and is ready to jump onto the plaza, this
muscular drama is unnoticed by the boy who has
jumped into the spring to pick up something floating
there, his mother calls him back he has a new shirt on,
like a boy should worry about that.
I met Neptune once on a winter beach in the Algarve,
waist deep in water he stood, old and cold while
mermaids sat on stones knitting him a pullover made
of seaweed and since he was hard of hearing made,
fun of his enormous belly.
The plaza is full of local people, this Sunday afternoon
a warm July afternoon 1961; ancestors of Antonio Della
Bitta and Gregorio Zappalà who made the sculptures
way back in 1590.
Fontana Nelle Via Romana
Fontana Nelle Via Romana
There is a fountain in the Via del Babuino,
guarded by a naked stone-man so old now
that his face is disappearing by the dust of
time; you can see he’s mad and ignored by
the women who come hear to get buckets
of soft water for washing their hair.
The stone-man has to endure this ignominy,
but his consolation is that he will guard
this street fountain after the women have
gone to their graves, what’s left of them is
an image on a photo in a black frame, thrown
into a worm eaten chest on the attic.
There is a fountain in the Via del Babuino,
guarded by a naked stone-man so old now
that his face is disappearing by the dust of
time; you can see he’s mad and ignored by
the women who come hear to get buckets
of soft water for washing their hair.
The stone-man has to endure this ignominy,
but his consolation is that he will guard
this street fountain after the women have
gone to their graves, what’s left of them is
an image on a photo in a black frame, thrown
into a worm eaten chest on the attic.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Fontana Della Galera
Fontana Della Galera
(Fountain of the galleon)
If I were a child and it was June 1961 I would have
enjoyed to have been captain of the galleon fountain,
near the Bramante’s stairs in the Vatican’s garden;
in my swimming trunk I would lead sailors into battle,
and strike an Errol Flynn pose.
Have the pope come to the window, dressed in white,
look down and wave, I would feel sorry for him ask
a guard if the pope can come down and be my mate,
he looked so lonely up there in the window. The guard
will tell a priest, there are many of them around,
the prelate will find this funny and tell the pope who
will come to the window, bless me and regret that he
never married and became a café owner in Berlin.
But I would not know or care to know that the fountain
was made in the 17th century, by Maderna, of whom
I know little, but I think he also was the chap who made
the Bramante’s stairs. If I go there now they will not
let me in as they would have done, the summer of 1961.
(Fountain of the galleon)
If I were a child and it was June 1961 I would have
enjoyed to have been captain of the galleon fountain,
near the Bramante’s stairs in the Vatican’s garden;
in my swimming trunk I would lead sailors into battle,
and strike an Errol Flynn pose.
Have the pope come to the window, dressed in white,
look down and wave, I would feel sorry for him ask
a guard if the pope can come down and be my mate,
he looked so lonely up there in the window. The guard
will tell a priest, there are many of them around,
the prelate will find this funny and tell the pope who
will come to the window, bless me and regret that he
never married and became a café owner in Berlin.
But I would not know or care to know that the fountain
was made in the 17th century, by Maderna, of whom
I know little, but I think he also was the chap who made
the Bramante’s stairs. If I go there now they will not
let me in as they would have done, the summer of 1961.
La Barccaia "The fountain of the boat"
La Barcaccia
“The fountain of the Boat”
A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.
It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human
The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things
“The fountain of the Boat”
A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.
It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human
The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things
Monday, November 12, 2007
A sunday Moment
A Sunday Moment
A large white butterfly with round markings,
like eyes, on its wings, will that be enough to
keep predatory sparrows at bay? It sat on
a rhododendron twig looking pretty amongst
wine red flowers. November, this butterfly
really has no business being here even though
the day is warm as a day in May; I ought to
catch it with my wife’s hairnet stick a needle
through it tiny heart and display it in a glass
on the mantelpiece where it will look sad, out
of place and remind me of my own mortality.
My, butterfly blessed you are not looking like
a common fly or worst of all a cockroach;
so fly off now before the sparrows see you
A large white butterfly with round markings,
like eyes, on its wings, will that be enough to
keep predatory sparrows at bay? It sat on
a rhododendron twig looking pretty amongst
wine red flowers. November, this butterfly
really has no business being here even though
the day is warm as a day in May; I ought to
catch it with my wife’s hairnet stick a needle
through it tiny heart and display it in a glass
on the mantelpiece where it will look sad, out
of place and remind me of my own mortality.
My, butterfly blessed you are not looking like
a common fly or worst of all a cockroach;
so fly off now before the sparrows see you
The autumnal
The Autumnal.
The trees, in the park, that bears lilac flowers and look
pretty in summers, are shedding their ochre leaves.
It is November but summer is still clinging on, a losing
battle, shakily pale in the morning, gather strength and
throw masculine heat about at noon, but pales after three
blending in with autumnal evensong.
I picked up a handful of leaves they felt soft and rich by
the touch, should I take some home, better not they will
end up on my bookshelf, curl up dry and die; reminding
me of years spent on iron decks in the company of men
who spoke of nothing but the last whore they had had in
some harbour hotel.
And I had stayed away from family and friends so long
that when I came home there was no one left, I was alone
walking in streets that resented my company.
The trees, in the park, that bears lilac flowers and look
pretty in summers, are shedding their ochre leaves.
It is November but summer is still clinging on, a losing
battle, shakily pale in the morning, gather strength and
throw masculine heat about at noon, but pales after three
blending in with autumnal evensong.
I picked up a handful of leaves they felt soft and rich by
the touch, should I take some home, better not they will
end up on my bookshelf, curl up dry and die; reminding
me of years spent on iron decks in the company of men
who spoke of nothing but the last whore they had had in
some harbour hotel.
And I had stayed away from family and friends so long
that when I came home there was no one left, I was alone
walking in streets that resented my company.
Perpetual Question
The Perpetual Question.
I journeyed through the night wanted to go back to the past and ask my first love a question that had dwelled, if not festered, on my mind for forty years. She was in her sister’s house and looked at me as she didn’t remember, so I introduced myself. “I know who you are, she said,” “but aren’t you a bit old to be traveling so far?” “For you I will journey as long as it takes, I came to ask you a question did you once love me?” Before she could answer her father came in, looking like Prince Philip, and the pair of them left arm in arm. Her brother in law, who wrote about astrology- a friendly man- promised me a great future, this to assuage my distress.
I walked out of the town and came upon a agricultural landscape with fields after fields of carrots, salads, potatoes, broccoli and cabbage, the farmer, it belonged to, told me he once had a herd of 120 prime milking cows, but had turned vegetarian because of mans cruelty to animals, he had had them slaughtered and put in a mass grave where
a carpet of soft greenness grew, grazed by no one, but happy bunnies.
I met my beloved again, in a bar, she was in a better mood and alone; I was about to ask her my perennial question; when a small, blond woman came between us and said “I have loved you all my life, but you don’t even know where I live!” Ignored her turned to my first love again, but her face was in deep shadows, she was fading fast; I concentrated hard, but couldn’t bring her back, but I knew the answer and it saddened me greatly.
The bus driving back to my own time was leaving, the little blond woman came with me, but as we journeyed she got older and older, when we arrived she was so ancient and couldn’t get off the bus.
The driver, a man with kind eyes and philosophical beard, whom
I had seen in many disguises before, promised to drive her back wench she came. I had no ring to give her, gave her a shiny euro
coin. When she looks at the coin and wonder where it came from
she will realize that I never loved her. She will sigh deeply; perhaps even blubber into her hankie and marry someone else.
I journeyed through the night wanted to go back to the past and ask my first love a question that had dwelled, if not festered, on my mind for forty years. She was in her sister’s house and looked at me as she didn’t remember, so I introduced myself. “I know who you are, she said,” “but aren’t you a bit old to be traveling so far?” “For you I will journey as long as it takes, I came to ask you a question did you once love me?” Before she could answer her father came in, looking like Prince Philip, and the pair of them left arm in arm. Her brother in law, who wrote about astrology- a friendly man- promised me a great future, this to assuage my distress.
I walked out of the town and came upon a agricultural landscape with fields after fields of carrots, salads, potatoes, broccoli and cabbage, the farmer, it belonged to, told me he once had a herd of 120 prime milking cows, but had turned vegetarian because of mans cruelty to animals, he had had them slaughtered and put in a mass grave where
a carpet of soft greenness grew, grazed by no one, but happy bunnies.
I met my beloved again, in a bar, she was in a better mood and alone; I was about to ask her my perennial question; when a small, blond woman came between us and said “I have loved you all my life, but you don’t even know where I live!” Ignored her turned to my first love again, but her face was in deep shadows, she was fading fast; I concentrated hard, but couldn’t bring her back, but I knew the answer and it saddened me greatly.
The bus driving back to my own time was leaving, the little blond woman came with me, but as we journeyed she got older and older, when we arrived she was so ancient and couldn’t get off the bus.
The driver, a man with kind eyes and philosophical beard, whom
I had seen in many disguises before, promised to drive her back wench she came. I had no ring to give her, gave her a shiny euro
coin. When she looks at the coin and wonder where it came from
she will realize that I never loved her. She will sigh deeply; perhaps even blubber into her hankie and marry someone else.
Inquisitive
Inquisitive Neighbour
The couple, who have moved into the yellow house by the river
that has been running dry for the last two year, are not young,
late middle age if you ask me, which you will not do as you
don’t know me, because I’m the man, hidden behind a great oak
at the edge of the forest, that is big as I have been relieving myself
up against it for over twenty years, but if they are married they
have not been so very long as the keep kissing
and cuddling a lot when painting the house inside,
I only know this because they have
no curtains yet. She, a widow and he a widower who met at
a dance (I’m guessing here) for lonely people, their love was met
with disapproval by their adult children who tend to think they
know what is best for their parents, so they left snow, frost and cold hearts, came to the Algarve. Yet they are prisoners of their past, in time their children will come, there will problem their offspring will be waiting for signs of weakness, forgetfulness a slurring of words any excuse to send them to an old folks home. But as for now they
are blissfully happy, but I do wish they will buy curtains, or paint the house’s façade ochre.
The couple, who have moved into the yellow house by the river
that has been running dry for the last two year, are not young,
late middle age if you ask me, which you will not do as you
don’t know me, because I’m the man, hidden behind a great oak
at the edge of the forest, that is big as I have been relieving myself
up against it for over twenty years, but if they are married they
have not been so very long as the keep kissing
and cuddling a lot when painting the house inside,
I only know this because they have
no curtains yet. She, a widow and he a widower who met at
a dance (I’m guessing here) for lonely people, their love was met
with disapproval by their adult children who tend to think they
know what is best for their parents, so they left snow, frost and cold hearts, came to the Algarve. Yet they are prisoners of their past, in time their children will come, there will problem their offspring will be waiting for signs of weakness, forgetfulness a slurring of words any excuse to send them to an old folks home. But as for now they
are blissfully happy, but I do wish they will buy curtains, or paint the house’s façade ochre.
Trees on a hill
Trees on a hill
The pair of hugging trees
looks like lovers, but they resent
each others presence;
meager soil, not much nourishment
around, nature doesn’t take any
prisoners… (off with their heads)
lately though, one looks healthier
than the other, it is winning this battle
of survival,
but will hold a dead body in its
muscular embrace, till the man with
the chainsaw does his rounds;
usually in winter when trees are
shivering and the foul smell of log fire
drifts their way
The pair of hugging trees
looks like lovers, but they resent
each others presence;
meager soil, not much nourishment
around, nature doesn’t take any
prisoners… (off with their heads)
lately though, one looks healthier
than the other, it is winning this battle
of survival,
but will hold a dead body in its
muscular embrace, till the man with
the chainsaw does his rounds;
usually in winter when trees are
shivering and the foul smell of log fire
drifts their way
Thursday, November 08, 2007
mysterious is Love
Mysterious is Love.
At the supermarket today I fell in love again. I was standing
there, by the frozen fish, when I looked up and saw her by
the fruit section, weighing a bunch of bananas in her hands;
she sent me a brilliant smiled and I fell instantly in love with
my own image. I thought of Josephine Baker, the famous
dancer, and the mysterious triangle in the Caribbean where
ships and planes suddenly disappears and never seen again.
To be sure her smiled was meant for me, I turned and looked
behind me; a row of milks, on cooling shelves, strawberry,
banana, chocolate, vanilla, melon, apple, blueberry and,
ordinary white milk, a rainbow coalition of milks, all from
the same cud chewing ruminant. Looked back at her, she was
moving away from me, picking up a bottle of washing up liquid;
now an ordinary housewife in need of a perm.
At the supermarket today I fell in love again. I was standing
there, by the frozen fish, when I looked up and saw her by
the fruit section, weighing a bunch of bananas in her hands;
she sent me a brilliant smiled and I fell instantly in love with
my own image. I thought of Josephine Baker, the famous
dancer, and the mysterious triangle in the Caribbean where
ships and planes suddenly disappears and never seen again.
To be sure her smiled was meant for me, I turned and looked
behind me; a row of milks, on cooling shelves, strawberry,
banana, chocolate, vanilla, melon, apple, blueberry and,
ordinary white milk, a rainbow coalition of milks, all from
the same cud chewing ruminant. Looked back at her, she was
moving away from me, picking up a bottle of washing up liquid;
now an ordinary housewife in need of a perm.
thirsty cars
Thirsty Cars
Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.
Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.
Tanka
Tanka.
Painted the floor green
Sit in a corner and wait
Quick drying paint
Four hour it says on the can
Where I sit it’s a life time.
Painted the floor green
Sit in a corner and wait
Quick drying paint
Four hour it says on the can
Where I sit it’s a life time.
forgetfulness
Forgetfulness.
I have to remember the sentence that just came
floating into my head, I’ll write it down as soon
as I get home, I’ll repeat it a few times, that helps.
Look at that crazy driver! No wonder there are so
many accidents on the roads; I have forgotten
the shopping list. Damn, now I have forgotten that
sentence too. Must remember to have pen and
paper with me at all time, that’s no good you can’t
drive and write at the same time. Totally blank,
just gone, all I can recall is that was the first line
of a four line epigram
I have to remember the sentence that just came
floating into my head, I’ll write it down as soon
as I get home, I’ll repeat it a few times, that helps.
Look at that crazy driver! No wonder there are so
many accidents on the roads; I have forgotten
the shopping list. Damn, now I have forgotten that
sentence too. Must remember to have pen and
paper with me at all time, that’s no good you can’t
drive and write at the same time. Totally blank,
just gone, all I can recall is that was the first line
of a four line epigram
Senryu
Senryu (Valley)
But for the beach
My valley would have been
A deep inland sea
,,,,,,,,
But for the mountain
My valley would have been
A cacti landscape
……
But for the widow
My valley would have been
A place of bliss
,,,,,
But for the old king
I hide in a vale of shame
As his bastard son
But for the beach
My valley would have been
A deep inland sea
,,,,,,,,
But for the mountain
My valley would have been
A cacti landscape
……
But for the widow
My valley would have been
A place of bliss
,,,,,
But for the old king
I hide in a vale of shame
As his bastard son
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
The longest Fall
The Long Fall
This Indian summer keeps rolling along as
rivers run dry, nature licks morning dew and
asks: “What has happened to the rain of fall?
Autumn without precipitation, the old can
recall that it has occurred before, had it been
a first, we should rightly be deeply worried.
Rhododendron have red flowers, sky is blue
with fluffy, grazing lambs on, but I do ask:
“Where have the frogs in the dry pond gone?
Suave is the breeze that blows across the lane,
too urbane to play with dust; it effete strokes
my face, and tells me not to fear the morrow.
This Indian summer keeps rolling along as
rivers run dry, nature licks morning dew and
asks: “What has happened to the rain of fall?
Autumn without precipitation, the old can
recall that it has occurred before, had it been
a first, we should rightly be deeply worried.
Rhododendron have red flowers, sky is blue
with fluffy, grazing lambs on, but I do ask:
“Where have the frogs in the dry pond gone?
Suave is the breeze that blows across the lane,
too urbane to play with dust; it effete strokes
my face, and tells me not to fear the morrow.
The Long farewell
The Long Farewell
We had only met a few days ago, and were in love, had
plans but first she had to go see her father who lived in
another town. At the railways station we kissed again,
she entered the carriage and found a window seat; and
we were waving farewells. Only the train didn’t leave
and our smiles became fixed, one cannot stay there all
day waving. Her eyes strayed to a magazine on her lap,
I took an interest in passers by, but every so often I had
to look up, smile and mouth; “I Love You.” Finally, to
our great relief, the whistle blew, steam engine hissed
and I waved till I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore
We had only met a few days ago, and were in love, had
plans but first she had to go see her father who lived in
another town. At the railways station we kissed again,
she entered the carriage and found a window seat; and
we were waving farewells. Only the train didn’t leave
and our smiles became fixed, one cannot stay there all
day waving. Her eyes strayed to a magazine on her lap,
I took an interest in passers by, but every so often I had
to look up, smile and mouth; “I Love You.” Finally, to
our great relief, the whistle blew, steam engine hissed
and I waved till I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore
prince oskar
Prince Oskar
I sat in a smallish café, near the harbour, when two
flunkies came in followed by the queen of Denmark,
who headed straight for the loo; the pair in suits was
guarding the door. When her majesty came back out
she saw me and came over; I kissed her hand it smelt
of the soap for the masses, but when mingling with
her expensive perfume, gave it a brief exclusive air.
We had coffee and spoke of the old days, but a whisper
had blown through the street, people had become aware
of her presence, time for her to leave. When I had read
my papers and asked for the bill, the manager wouldn’t
hear of it, “a friend of the queen it was a great privilege
to have me.” I didn’t tell him I’m Denmark’s best kept
secret, a product of her father’s youthful indiscretion.
I sat in a smallish café, near the harbour, when two
flunkies came in followed by the queen of Denmark,
who headed straight for the loo; the pair in suits was
guarding the door. When her majesty came back out
she saw me and came over; I kissed her hand it smelt
of the soap for the masses, but when mingling with
her expensive perfume, gave it a brief exclusive air.
We had coffee and spoke of the old days, but a whisper
had blown through the street, people had become aware
of her presence, time for her to leave. When I had read
my papers and asked for the bill, the manager wouldn’t
hear of it, “a friend of the queen it was a great privilege
to have me.” I didn’t tell him I’m Denmark’s best kept
secret, a product of her father’s youthful indiscretion.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
after the meeting
After the Meeting (resentment)
At the AA meeting, my dog, I had taken her with me as support.
looked around and went over to a tall, elegant man with a wave
of white hair and refined air (I’ve none) and sat there looking up
to him adorningly. On the way home I told her to sit in the back,
this confused her as she usually curls up on the seat beside me.
There was an awkward silence; her ears were up, knew something
was wrong: “So you think I’m bald; let me tell you this; that man
is a doctor and kill people when he’s drunk and perform heart
surgery ” Not addressing the dog directly, but I said no more as
I sounded ridiculous. Back home I drank vodka, with cola light
and ice, the dog had to sleep in outside, on the terrace.
At the AA meeting, my dog, I had taken her with me as support.
looked around and went over to a tall, elegant man with a wave
of white hair and refined air (I’ve none) and sat there looking up
to him adorningly. On the way home I told her to sit in the back,
this confused her as she usually curls up on the seat beside me.
There was an awkward silence; her ears were up, knew something
was wrong: “So you think I’m bald; let me tell you this; that man
is a doctor and kill people when he’s drunk and perform heart
surgery ” Not addressing the dog directly, but I said no more as
I sounded ridiculous. Back home I drank vodka, with cola light
and ice, the dog had to sleep in outside, on the terrace.
Sernryu (ageing)
Senryu (ageing)
Over seventy seven
I count the days left of life
Forsaken by love.
Old men’s last boast
Telling all how old they are
Words of brave despair
They call me Tom here.
People used to call me Sir
Then I got old
Over seventy seven
I count the days left of life
Forsaken by love.
Old men’s last boast
Telling all how old they are
Words of brave despair
They call me Tom here.
People used to call me Sir
Then I got old
Tanka (rejection
Tanka (Rejection)
Thanks for your poems,
Sorry, we cannot use them
Wish you luck elsewhere,
Even though we strongly doubt it
No one can be that crazy
Thanks for your poems,
Sorry, we cannot use them
Wish you luck elsewhere,
Even though we strongly doubt it
No one can be that crazy
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Tanka
Tanka
The storm had abated
Dark night, no electricity
Heard rattle outside
Reached for my teeth and torch
By the door fall leaves huddled
The storm had abated
Dark night, no electricity
Heard rattle outside
Reached for my teeth and torch
By the door fall leaves huddled
another epigram
Existentialistic Epigram
On the kitchen table a yellow honey melon,
It struck me if I suddenly died, an elliptical
Fruit would be the last thing I saw; so I cut
It in half removed the pips and ate it.
On the kitchen table a yellow honey melon,
It struck me if I suddenly died, an elliptical
Fruit would be the last thing I saw; so I cut
It in half removed the pips and ate it.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
the mind's landscape
The Mind’s Landscape
Collector of dry roses, that’s what you are,
in the mirror of tricks, your smile is of derision.
Seeker of the barren land where black goats
eat thorny roses.
Laughed they did when slewed the soil refused
to drink their life… a pool of darkening ruby
on yellow straws and angry glares of troll’s
blue eye.
Dweller, go back into your cave, contorted
you’re in the mirror of life, rimfrost on green grass
you’re breath’s an angst ridden screams of fear
as life passes you by.
Collector of dry roses, that’s what you are,
in the mirror of tricks, your smile is of derision.
Seeker of the barren land where black goats
eat thorny roses.
Laughed they did when slewed the soil refused
to drink their life… a pool of darkening ruby
on yellow straws and angry glares of troll’s
blue eye.
Dweller, go back into your cave, contorted
you’re in the mirror of life, rimfrost on green grass
you’re breath’s an angst ridden screams of fear
as life passes you by.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Rendezvous
Rendezvous
Cloudy, with rain, New York in October; dusk I stood outside
Radio City Music Hall and waited for no one in particular.
Jack Dempsey was walking by he had a strong masculine face,
smiled to everyone, which made sense, as everybody knew him,
beside him walked Alan Ladd, a tiny man with a big man’s face.
I felt like an inhabited, lonely island in a stream, “Hemingway?”
“No, not at all, and let me finish. A sea of people parted in front of
me joined up again, as a mighty river behind me that flowed down
the sidewalk reaching a group of excited, people, clicking cameras and flashlight that lit up even the faces of the notorious.
And there was Marilyn walking towards me, but as she came so
near that I could touch her; I was pushed aside by rude journalists who shouted silly questions at her: “Are you getting married?
Who’s your latest boyfriend?” I was her boyfriend, we had a secret understanding. Marilyn didn’t see me that twilight moment, but her perfume dreamily swirled around me as I entered the cinema to see Casablanca
Cloudy, with rain, New York in October; dusk I stood outside
Radio City Music Hall and waited for no one in particular.
Jack Dempsey was walking by he had a strong masculine face,
smiled to everyone, which made sense, as everybody knew him,
beside him walked Alan Ladd, a tiny man with a big man’s face.
I felt like an inhabited, lonely island in a stream, “Hemingway?”
“No, not at all, and let me finish. A sea of people parted in front of
me joined up again, as a mighty river behind me that flowed down
the sidewalk reaching a group of excited, people, clicking cameras and flashlight that lit up even the faces of the notorious.
And there was Marilyn walking towards me, but as she came so
near that I could touch her; I was pushed aside by rude journalists who shouted silly questions at her: “Are you getting married?
Who’s your latest boyfriend?” I was her boyfriend, we had a secret understanding. Marilyn didn’t see me that twilight moment, but her perfume dreamily swirled around me as I entered the cinema to see Casablanca
News Items
Rome News.
The Vatican is a landlord who wants to evict the poor
From their rented homes, so the church can re-rent its
Property to the middles class, at a higher prize; without
The poor, the church is a defunct, a fading irrelevance.
Berlin News.
In Germany each civil servants uses 8 sheets of toilet
Paper a day, with exception of the ministry of defense
There they use 8.8 sheets a day, we can grasp that, but
Why are we being fed this stream of irrelevant news?
Norwegian News.
To give Al Gore, a man who didn’t have the stomach
To fight for his presidency, the Nobel Peace Prize was
A populist certainty. But what else can one except of
A country that also gave the prize to Henry Kissinger?
The Vatican is a landlord who wants to evict the poor
From their rented homes, so the church can re-rent its
Property to the middles class, at a higher prize; without
The poor, the church is a defunct, a fading irrelevance.
Berlin News.
In Germany each civil servants uses 8 sheets of toilet
Paper a day, with exception of the ministry of defense
There they use 8.8 sheets a day, we can grasp that, but
Why are we being fed this stream of irrelevant news?
Norwegian News.
To give Al Gore, a man who didn’t have the stomach
To fight for his presidency, the Nobel Peace Prize was
A populist certainty. But what else can one except of
A country that also gave the prize to Henry Kissinger?
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wildlife pleasure
Wildlife Pleasure.
Tonight they serve giraffe neck, at the long
table in the restaurant, for fifty invited guests,
left over will be given to the poor who have
brought tin plates and metal spoons they bang
together to get attention and to make music.
They chatter about last week’s big meal when
a grilled gorilla was served at the round table,
with small oblong potatoes, rich gravy and
French wines but only for the chosen fifty.
Those outside were offered wine labels of
empty bottles to take home and decorate their
walls. Hippo stuffed with lions heart will be
next week’s menu, for afters monkey brains
sweetened with sherry Amontillado.
Tonight they serve giraffe neck, at the long
table in the restaurant, for fifty invited guests,
left over will be given to the poor who have
brought tin plates and metal spoons they bang
together to get attention and to make music.
They chatter about last week’s big meal when
a grilled gorilla was served at the round table,
with small oblong potatoes, rich gravy and
French wines but only for the chosen fifty.
Those outside were offered wine labels of
empty bottles to take home and decorate their
walls. Hippo stuffed with lions heart will be
next week’s menu, for afters monkey brains
sweetened with sherry Amontillado.
Haiku
Senryu
To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen
Haiku
Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps
Haiku
Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.
Senryu
When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.
To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen
Haiku
Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps
Haiku
Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.
Senryu
When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.
Motorway Driving
Motorway Driving
After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.
Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity
After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.
Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity
Sunday, October 28, 2007
the witness
The Witness
Doorbell rang, a police officer was selling tickets for some
do, forgotten what, he wore a smile, but was also armed, so
I bought a ticket. I admired his gun, told me he practiced
every day and was a crack shot. “Can you hit the tomcat that
crosses the road?” (The cat belonged to the nasty woman in
the house opposite mine?) “No problem,” drew his gun, shot
once and the cat rolled in the dust.
The woman came out she had a shotgun, aimed it at the officer
who ran to his car calling for back ups, she missed and went
back into the house. Five minutes later 24 patrol car drove up,
sirens and screeching tires arrived first; every car drove over
the cat till there was but some loose fur flying in the wind and
48 shooters were pointing at the woman’s front door; local TV
was also present, this was a scoop.
“Come out lady, we know you are in there, you have tried to
kill one of our officers.” “He shot my cat, she said.“ “We can
see no cat in the road, there is a bit of a tail here but that can
belong to a raccoon, or we’ll throw a stun grenade through
the window, your hair will be a mess and we know you have
been to the hairdresser for a perm this morning, a grenade”
will mess it all up again”
The lady came out, saw me in the doorway and said:
“He is my witness, he saw it all.” 48 blue uniforms and 48
guns glared at me, I shook my head, in denial, made a shrug,
the woman is mad, and closed the door. The judge was lenient,
the lady is middleclass, her husband wear a suit and works in
a bank; he let her off with a caution, smiled and gave her tiny
a kitten, and everyone, in courthouse day, cried and applauded.
Doorbell rang, a police officer was selling tickets for some
do, forgotten what, he wore a smile, but was also armed, so
I bought a ticket. I admired his gun, told me he practiced
every day and was a crack shot. “Can you hit the tomcat that
crosses the road?” (The cat belonged to the nasty woman in
the house opposite mine?) “No problem,” drew his gun, shot
once and the cat rolled in the dust.
The woman came out she had a shotgun, aimed it at the officer
who ran to his car calling for back ups, she missed and went
back into the house. Five minutes later 24 patrol car drove up,
sirens and screeching tires arrived first; every car drove over
the cat till there was but some loose fur flying in the wind and
48 shooters were pointing at the woman’s front door; local TV
was also present, this was a scoop.
“Come out lady, we know you are in there, you have tried to
kill one of our officers.” “He shot my cat, she said.“ “We can
see no cat in the road, there is a bit of a tail here but that can
belong to a raccoon, or we’ll throw a stun grenade through
the window, your hair will be a mess and we know you have
been to the hairdresser for a perm this morning, a grenade”
will mess it all up again”
The lady came out, saw me in the doorway and said:
“He is my witness, he saw it all.” 48 blue uniforms and 48
guns glared at me, I shook my head, in denial, made a shrug,
the woman is mad, and closed the door. The judge was lenient,
the lady is middleclass, her husband wear a suit and works in
a bank; he let her off with a caution, smiled and gave her tiny
a kitten, and everyone, in courthouse day, cried and applauded.
a Lament
A Lament
I have bought an air-condition unit for the kitchen,
It hangs there high up on the wall making me feel
Prosperous, the women in the village have been in
Seeing it, since I used to be a chef and do bake my
Own bread, the men think I’m a queer, don’t mind
Their wives swapping recipes with me…
It’s strange, is it not? Forever I was a chef in hotels
And posh restaurant, not well paid and cooks where
Not seen, the person sweating smelling of booze and
Being unappreciated; alas, now they are superstars
Their love life is reported in magazines. Yet, when
My women go they leave a scent of mimosa behind.
I have bought an air-condition unit for the kitchen,
It hangs there high up on the wall making me feel
Prosperous, the women in the village have been in
Seeing it, since I used to be a chef and do bake my
Own bread, the men think I’m a queer, don’t mind
Their wives swapping recipes with me…
It’s strange, is it not? Forever I was a chef in hotels
And posh restaurant, not well paid and cooks where
Not seen, the person sweating smelling of booze and
Being unappreciated; alas, now they are superstars
Their love life is reported in magazines. Yet, when
My women go they leave a scent of mimosa behind.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
from here to eternity
From Here to Eternity
It was a very long road – straight- and ending in a haze,
no place to stop for a drink only one shop selling coffins
and religious stuff. Those who lived in the beginning of
the road had never walked to its misty end, God lived
there it was said, but a keep fit fanatic, confident and
careless, walked the whole length of the road twice a day
got so bored and he hung himself. People who lived at
the beginning of the road and also those in the middle,
looked at each other and made a Gallic shrug.
The widow, a tall lady who played guitar sang folksongs
about saving the rain forest, dyed her hair olive and, bought
a white coffin and painted it green to make her husband’s
dead a celebration to life fell in love with the undertaker,
he too played a musical instrument, accordion; now they
make a good living playing sad music at funerals. As for
the haze, it turned out to come from the public bath, now
closed down, as everybody has their own bathroom, to be
seen near a bathhouse is a mark of disgraceful poverty.
It was a very long road – straight- and ending in a haze,
no place to stop for a drink only one shop selling coffins
and religious stuff. Those who lived in the beginning of
the road had never walked to its misty end, God lived
there it was said, but a keep fit fanatic, confident and
careless, walked the whole length of the road twice a day
got so bored and he hung himself. People who lived at
the beginning of the road and also those in the middle,
looked at each other and made a Gallic shrug.
The widow, a tall lady who played guitar sang folksongs
about saving the rain forest, dyed her hair olive and, bought
a white coffin and painted it green to make her husband’s
dead a celebration to life fell in love with the undertaker,
he too played a musical instrument, accordion; now they
make a good living playing sad music at funerals. As for
the haze, it turned out to come from the public bath, now
closed down, as everybody has their own bathroom, to be
seen near a bathhouse is a mark of disgraceful poverty.
Friday, October 26, 2007
empty jerry cans
Empty Jerry Cans.
There had been a war; there is always a war someplace,
both the opposing armies ran out of petrol, so they used
animals that could carry supply and weapon on their
backs, donkeys, mules and horses were preferred, they
are more pliant and used to slavery.
Also reindeers were tried, but with limited success,
could only be used in the north, in the Middle East
they keeled over by heat exhaustion and the Zebras
were impossible to tame they refused to be a casualty
of a war they had nothing to do with them.
Now that the war was over, surviving leaders pledged:
No More Wars, horses, mules and donkeys had finally
seen the light, from now on they were only selling their
services for the best hay available; a 35 hours working
week and a good hosing down and rub after work.
Since many of them had perished, there was a worldwide
understanding of their plight, they got what they wanted.
When the Zebras complained that the grass on Savannah
was cut and exported as food for the new elite, there was
little pity, however, if they promised to behave more like
horses, some fodder might be available.
There had been a war; there is always a war someplace,
both the opposing armies ran out of petrol, so they used
animals that could carry supply and weapon on their
backs, donkeys, mules and horses were preferred, they
are more pliant and used to slavery.
Also reindeers were tried, but with limited success,
could only be used in the north, in the Middle East
they keeled over by heat exhaustion and the Zebras
were impossible to tame they refused to be a casualty
of a war they had nothing to do with them.
Now that the war was over, surviving leaders pledged:
No More Wars, horses, mules and donkeys had finally
seen the light, from now on they were only selling their
services for the best hay available; a 35 hours working
week and a good hosing down and rub after work.
Since many of them had perished, there was a worldwide
understanding of their plight, they got what they wanted.
When the Zebras complained that the grass on Savannah
was cut and exported as food for the new elite, there was
little pity, however, if they promised to behave more like
horses, some fodder might be available.
Monday, October 22, 2007
sea tide
Sea Tide
Drove for an hour to get to the coast, climbed sand-dunes
before reaching the sea; immense, calm and full it was,
slight heaves, breathing easily. Didn’t splash about making
noises, it could so easily turn into a monster, a tsunami,
a sudden surge and both the sandy coastline and I would be
history. I picked a few shiny, wet stones to take home,
but when they dried looked so ordinary that I left them behind.
Sea air made me hungry thought of deep fried sardines, sliced
cucumber in sour cream and baked potatoes;
but it wasn’t the right season; had a bacon butty instead and
watched an old western, with John Wayne and his mates.
Drove for an hour to get to the coast, climbed sand-dunes
before reaching the sea; immense, calm and full it was,
slight heaves, breathing easily. Didn’t splash about making
noises, it could so easily turn into a monster, a tsunami,
a sudden surge and both the sandy coastline and I would be
history. I picked a few shiny, wet stones to take home,
but when they dried looked so ordinary that I left them behind.
Sea air made me hungry thought of deep fried sardines, sliced
cucumber in sour cream and baked potatoes;
but it wasn’t the right season; had a bacon butty instead and
watched an old western, with John Wayne and his mates.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
october mood
October Mood.
Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.
As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims, on but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.
Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.
As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims, on but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.
Friday, October 19, 2007
ocean blue
Blue Ocean
When I awoke it was Sunday morning and the seashore
had disappeared, lie in the grass by a stream that has its
nascent where winter shawls cover the blue mountain.
A white owl, ogled me as tiny snakes slithered across my
belly, dived into the streams coolness, which hurt since it
was only two feet deep.
Bleeding from a head wound, but having got rid of
the serpents, I hung my clothes to dry on an oak's
inviting branch.
Sat on a boulder as morning sun warmed my nudeness,
when the maid who milks morning dew walked by,
she paused and asked: " Are you a satyr?'
“No dear, I'm a sailor rejected by the sea". She gave me
roses' dew to drink, intoxicated I embraced her ephemeral
body and was free of the ocean's pull.
When I awoke it was Sunday morning and the seashore
had disappeared, lie in the grass by a stream that has its
nascent where winter shawls cover the blue mountain.
A white owl, ogled me as tiny snakes slithered across my
belly, dived into the streams coolness, which hurt since it
was only two feet deep.
Bleeding from a head wound, but having got rid of
the serpents, I hung my clothes to dry on an oak's
inviting branch.
Sat on a boulder as morning sun warmed my nudeness,
when the maid who milks morning dew walked by,
she paused and asked: " Are you a satyr?'
“No dear, I'm a sailor rejected by the sea". She gave me
roses' dew to drink, intoxicated I embraced her ephemeral
body and was free of the ocean's pull.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
the new poor
The New Poor
Many middleclass people are poor, I read,
when house and car are paid for there is no
money for food; they could sell the car and
move to a smaller house, but the indignity of
no longer being thought of as middleclass,
stops them from doing just that. Trapped in
a spiral of debt and their own insatiability,
they are stuck in semi poverty mitigated by
new the Volvo in the driveway
Many middleclass people are poor, I read,
when house and car are paid for there is no
money for food; they could sell the car and
move to a smaller house, but the indignity of
no longer being thought of as middleclass,
stops them from doing just that. Trapped in
a spiral of debt and their own insatiability,
they are stuck in semi poverty mitigated by
new the Volvo in the driveway
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
new beginning
A New Beginning
Her kisses tasted of iron railing a frosty morning,
tore skin off my lips, her eyes were frozen stars
set in a deadly sea of tranquillity, a beauty flawless
and free of guilt. Her body…unbending, unwilling,
an ice maiden in a winter forest, no warm May sun
could ever hope to thaw.
Her pale lips had spots of cardinal crystal residue
of my attempt of resurrection, my love for her I lay
at her feet struck a match in the vast night of silence.
Free, in the glade she stood my new smiling love,
surrounded by flowers of spring; hand in hand we
walked to where days begin.
Her kisses tasted of iron railing a frosty morning,
tore skin off my lips, her eyes were frozen stars
set in a deadly sea of tranquillity, a beauty flawless
and free of guilt. Her body…unbending, unwilling,
an ice maiden in a winter forest, no warm May sun
could ever hope to thaw.
Her pale lips had spots of cardinal crystal residue
of my attempt of resurrection, my love for her I lay
at her feet struck a match in the vast night of silence.
Free, in the glade she stood my new smiling love,
surrounded by flowers of spring; hand in hand we
walked to where days begin.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
the thrifty
The Thrifty
Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins
Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins
Saturday, October 13, 2007
mystic island
A Voyage
The ship was loaded we were going to
an island in the Saragossa that cannot be
seen by radar as it is always surrounded by
a miasma of sadness, here daybreak is
only a five second glimmer in an endless
night and only expert navigators are able
to find this island…
Our cargo consisted of discarded dreams
the islanders had lived so long in peace
that they had lost the ability to think of
esoteric things, their word expanse was
of seaweed and monster cods; but they
needed this diversion if not they would
sink into apathy and die
When the ship blew its siren for the third
time and the gangway was lifted, I was
hiding behind a warehouse that was full
of dreams destined for another island,
I wouldn’t like to be a part of this, giving
people second hand dreams when the could
consisting of clichés and spent phrases.
I could have lived with this mild betrayal
if it hadn’t been for the rule that no crew
member were allowed to dream or read
or sing, but be, as often long time sailors
are, men who have lost their ability to
remember that once their were children
and not blinded by endless tediousness.
Worst of all, perhaps, it was said that ships
going there were crewed by the world
weary, men who are shadows of themselves
who drowned when crossing the vastest
expands, too far away from a priests soothing
words were love had lost its meaning and
the last thought was of a whore in Santiago.
The ship was loaded we were going to
an island in the Saragossa that cannot be
seen by radar as it is always surrounded by
a miasma of sadness, here daybreak is
only a five second glimmer in an endless
night and only expert navigators are able
to find this island…
Our cargo consisted of discarded dreams
the islanders had lived so long in peace
that they had lost the ability to think of
esoteric things, their word expanse was
of seaweed and monster cods; but they
needed this diversion if not they would
sink into apathy and die
When the ship blew its siren for the third
time and the gangway was lifted, I was
hiding behind a warehouse that was full
of dreams destined for another island,
I wouldn’t like to be a part of this, giving
people second hand dreams when the could
consisting of clichés and spent phrases.
I could have lived with this mild betrayal
if it hadn’t been for the rule that no crew
member were allowed to dream or read
or sing, but be, as often long time sailors
are, men who have lost their ability to
remember that once their were children
and not blinded by endless tediousness.
Worst of all, perhaps, it was said that ships
going there were crewed by the world
weary, men who are shadows of themselves
who drowned when crossing the vastest
expands, too far away from a priests soothing
words were love had lost its meaning and
the last thought was of a whore in Santiago.
Friday, October 12, 2007
war weary
The War Weary
When I think of war I think of Falluja, massive
firepower total obliteration till silence descends
and one can hear blood dripping from the cross.
No heroes here only scarred and scared soldiers
who will take this horror home and remember it;
and for whom the war will go on in nightmares.
Falluja, here a miasma of fear obscure the ruined
dwellings workers are rebuilding, but how do we
repair a heart that has seen too much blood shed?
When I think of war I think of Falluja, massive
firepower total obliteration till silence descends
and one can hear blood dripping from the cross.
No heroes here only scarred and scared soldiers
who will take this horror home and remember it;
and for whom the war will go on in nightmares.
Falluja, here a miasma of fear obscure the ruined
dwellings workers are rebuilding, but how do we
repair a heart that has seen too much blood shed?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
on a day like this
On A Day Like This
Parked in a side-street, decided to walk into the town
centre to buy my newspaper; legs ached, so very tired,
and since it was July I wore shorts, my legs looked fine
calf-muscles still strong; had I been a woman I would
have said: “look at that man hasn’t he a pair of sex legs,
a masculine Marlene Dietrich.” Perhaps not, but as
I was thinking of her and Ernest Hemingway, they had
loved each other, but never got around to do anything
about it, I had walked out of the town wandering along
a lane, made of sea sand and crushed shells, till I came
to a crossing and at the left of it there was an enormous
carob tree and under it heavy low hanging branches
I found shade. Breeze filtered through the fleshy leaves
making it cool; I leaned on its solid trunk and felt at ease
with the world.
I was running up a very steep hill, light footed as an onyx,
the breeze…me, the act of running was a joy. At the top
I could see the glittering sea and to meet my love I raced
down hill faster than a stone could fall, and on the flatland
waved to farmers tilling their soil; and without pausing, at
the beach, I dived into the sea and began swimming till all
land disappeared.
I was at one with nature, around me circled happy dolphins,
but suddenly, flecks of dark shadows appeared on the surface
of the sea and it was cold despite the warm sun, I was utterly
alone, my arms were thin and belonging to someone very old;
as I throw my head back as not to drown my head hit the trunk
of the tree, I looked out the sun had just gone down, but was
still sending streaks of gold and orange across the sky. Back in
town I thought of the lovely story of Adam & Eve, a pity that
we’ll never know the name of the person, who wrote it;
at a grocer’s I bought an apple and went looking for my car
Parked in a side-street, decided to walk into the town
centre to buy my newspaper; legs ached, so very tired,
and since it was July I wore shorts, my legs looked fine
calf-muscles still strong; had I been a woman I would
have said: “look at that man hasn’t he a pair of sex legs,
a masculine Marlene Dietrich.” Perhaps not, but as
I was thinking of her and Ernest Hemingway, they had
loved each other, but never got around to do anything
about it, I had walked out of the town wandering along
a lane, made of sea sand and crushed shells, till I came
to a crossing and at the left of it there was an enormous
carob tree and under it heavy low hanging branches
I found shade. Breeze filtered through the fleshy leaves
making it cool; I leaned on its solid trunk and felt at ease
with the world.
I was running up a very steep hill, light footed as an onyx,
the breeze…me, the act of running was a joy. At the top
I could see the glittering sea and to meet my love I raced
down hill faster than a stone could fall, and on the flatland
waved to farmers tilling their soil; and without pausing, at
the beach, I dived into the sea and began swimming till all
land disappeared.
I was at one with nature, around me circled happy dolphins,
but suddenly, flecks of dark shadows appeared on the surface
of the sea and it was cold despite the warm sun, I was utterly
alone, my arms were thin and belonging to someone very old;
as I throw my head back as not to drown my head hit the trunk
of the tree, I looked out the sun had just gone down, but was
still sending streaks of gold and orange across the sky. Back in
town I thought of the lovely story of Adam & Eve, a pity that
we’ll never know the name of the person, who wrote it;
at a grocer’s I bought an apple and went looking for my car
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
unlucky thief
Unlucky Thief
The man who stole so much copper that
the suspension on his van broke when
he tried to get away; instead of legging it
he was caught when calling a tow-truck
The judge made cheap jokes on the man’s
behalf, like thieves hasn’t got pride too.
Not only sent down he also lost, unfairly,
I thought; the automobile associations
membership card he had had for ten years.
The man who stole so much copper that
the suspension on his van broke when
he tried to get away; instead of legging it
he was caught when calling a tow-truck
The judge made cheap jokes on the man’s
behalf, like thieves hasn’t got pride too.
Not only sent down he also lost, unfairly,
I thought; the automobile associations
membership card he had had for ten years.
a question
A Question
Does assimilation means
That the minority must
Become as the majority?
And if they refuse to be
As the majority, does that
Mean they are losers?
Does assimilation means
That the minority must
Become as the majority?
And if they refuse to be
As the majority, does that
Mean they are losers?
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
What the paper says.
What the Paper Says
There are no elephants on the shores of the Mosquito
coast, and that’s ok; only poor, red snapper catching,
people lives here. Lately, however, drugs meant for
the middle classes of Boston, drifts ashore, bales of
it, fallen off the back of a speed boat, it is sold back
to those who lost it, that only right and proper.
Money goes a long way when you’re poor, but only
as long as none of then inhale what’s in the bales.
If they do, phantom elephants, scared by buzzing of
angry, none existing bees, will stampede; and that’s
no good, red snappers will go uncaught and
the middle-classes of Boston will run amok as well.
There are no elephants on the shores of the Mosquito
coast, and that’s ok; only poor, red snapper catching,
people lives here. Lately, however, drugs meant for
the middle classes of Boston, drifts ashore, bales of
it, fallen off the back of a speed boat, it is sold back
to those who lost it, that only right and proper.
Money goes a long way when you’re poor, but only
as long as none of then inhale what’s in the bales.
If they do, phantom elephants, scared by buzzing of
angry, none existing bees, will stampede; and that’s
no good, red snappers will go uncaught and
the middle-classes of Boston will run amok as well.
the Twin towers
It is slowly raining in New York City today, big
drops lazy fall, roll along 42nd street pick up dust,
collide with other drops and become dirty water
that runs down a sewer hole with vertical bars.
Hudson River runs full too, much rain upland,
and New Jersey, where Tony lives, got a drenching
too, Mr. Soprano slouches in his pajamas feels
ancient at 47, and worries about the future
In the City, where the absence of the Twin Towers
is still seen, the Central Park need a good soaking;
a big rat put its snout through the vertical bars,
looks up at the mournful sky and sighs.
drops lazy fall, roll along 42nd street pick up dust,
collide with other drops and become dirty water
that runs down a sewer hole with vertical bars.
Hudson River runs full too, much rain upland,
and New Jersey, where Tony lives, got a drenching
too, Mr. Soprano slouches in his pajamas feels
ancient at 47, and worries about the future
In the City, where the absence of the Twin Towers
is still seen, the Central Park need a good soaking;
a big rat put its snout through the vertical bars,
looks up at the mournful sky and sighs.
Get a Dog.
Get a Dog
There are not enough stars on the heavens to light up
the path you have chosen to walk, in the bleakness of
the night your name is but an echo, yet I feel if I call
your name out loud one time more, you might hear
me open your eyes and smile; this crocked little smile
of yours, kidding me you’re.
I’m driving home after the sermon, the others are
going to a restaurant, to eat, mourn and drink wine.
I didn’t know a house could be so empty it screams
in agony, I switch on TV and radio, bland voices
sooth. In a month time friends will say” why don’t
get a dog?” Thoughtless they are, but so it goes on.
There are not enough stars on the heavens to light up
the path you have chosen to walk, in the bleakness of
the night your name is but an echo, yet I feel if I call
your name out loud one time more, you might hear
me open your eyes and smile; this crocked little smile
of yours, kidding me you’re.
I’m driving home after the sermon, the others are
going to a restaurant, to eat, mourn and drink wine.
I didn’t know a house could be so empty it screams
in agony, I switch on TV and radio, bland voices
sooth. In a month time friends will say” why don’t
get a dog?” Thoughtless they are, but so it goes on.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Shangri La
Shangri La.
Tibet used to be a quaint place, full of monks and
poor people who didn’t often washed their faces.
Intrepid westerners liked the place, thought it was
a Paradise, even though no one stayed too long.
Then the Chinese came and, as occupiers often,
do destroyed works of art, the Lama, and his staff,
fled to India. Today modernity has arrived, there is
less poverty, roads have been built and it has been
said that there are dancehalls and painted ladies in
Lhasa. Life is better now chiefly for the poor, yet
people would, it’s been said, endure the hardship
of freedom and yak butter in their morning tea for
a taste of independence. The intrepid would be back
and write books about this authentic Shangri La.
Tibet used to be a quaint place, full of monks and
poor people who didn’t often washed their faces.
Intrepid westerners liked the place, thought it was
a Paradise, even though no one stayed too long.
Then the Chinese came and, as occupiers often,
do destroyed works of art, the Lama, and his staff,
fled to India. Today modernity has arrived, there is
less poverty, roads have been built and it has been
said that there are dancehalls and painted ladies in
Lhasa. Life is better now chiefly for the poor, yet
people would, it’s been said, endure the hardship
of freedom and yak butter in their morning tea for
a taste of independence. The intrepid would be back
and write books about this authentic Shangri La.
november love
November Love.
He was around thirty, dressed in a grey suit, but he had
no arms, (accident) zip open, a man desperate and drunk,
came into my café wanted a beer with a straw, that’s
what I gave him. He needed a pee I had things to attend
to in the kitchen, a woman, his age, said she was a nurse,
helped him; back from the loo he looked respectable.
In her company he was more at ease and joked about his
plight, asked the time had to take a ferry home as he lived
on one of the islands. Ten to nine the nurse followed him
down to the docks, she didn’t return; but took the ferry
too, I think, and became his arms, lover and caring wife.
She had left a plastic bag behind it was full of crumbled
up bread and stale cakes meant for the ducks; I went to
the park next morning and fed them crumbs of love
He was around thirty, dressed in a grey suit, but he had
no arms, (accident) zip open, a man desperate and drunk,
came into my café wanted a beer with a straw, that’s
what I gave him. He needed a pee I had things to attend
to in the kitchen, a woman, his age, said she was a nurse,
helped him; back from the loo he looked respectable.
In her company he was more at ease and joked about his
plight, asked the time had to take a ferry home as he lived
on one of the islands. Ten to nine the nurse followed him
down to the docks, she didn’t return; but took the ferry
too, I think, and became his arms, lover and caring wife.
She had left a plastic bag behind it was full of crumbled
up bread and stale cakes meant for the ducks; I went to
the park next morning and fed them crumbs of love
epigram
Epigram.
Gold is a useless metal, shining bullions
In a bank vault, creates nothing but envy.
Human effluence is quite useful, enrich
The soil and fills the air with roses’ scent.
Gold is a useless metal, shining bullions
In a bank vault, creates nothing but envy.
Human effluence is quite useful, enrich
The soil and fills the air with roses’ scent.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Senryu and Tanka
Senryu
Can haiku stop wars?
Yes, but only if written
On a projectile
Tanka
Those who wedge wars
Are not prone to read poetry
Those who read verses
Often die on the frontline
Or are shamed in prison
Senryu
To not wear uniform
When everyone else does
Takes great courage
Can haiku stop wars?
Yes, but only if written
On a projectile
Tanka
Those who wedge wars
Are not prone to read poetry
Those who read verses
Often die on the frontline
Or are shamed in prison
Senryu
To not wear uniform
When everyone else does
Takes great courage
The Reason
The Reason
The bells you hear, when busy voices briefly ceases,
are made of brass and polished, at dawn, by the spittle
of seven deeply religious monks in the far away Tibet;
where they use yak butter in their morning tea.
When first light strikes the bells there is and explosion
of the colours, blue and green, that lives inside the sun,
without these tones the seas would have been dull as
a rain puddle, outside Gare de Lyon, a fall afternoon.
The bells you hear, when busy voices briefly ceases,
are made of brass and polished, at dawn, by the spittle
of seven deeply religious monks in the far away Tibet;
where they use yak butter in their morning tea.
When first light strikes the bells there is and explosion
of the colours, blue and green, that lives inside the sun,
without these tones the seas would have been dull as
a rain puddle, outside Gare de Lyon, a fall afternoon.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Review of my latest collection "End of a Journey"
JAN OSKAR HANSEN:
UNABASHED REFLECTIONS ON THE HUMAN CONDITION.
Review of “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, a new collection of poetry by Jan Oskar Hansen, Copyright 2007, 100 pages, softcover price: US$17.00. Published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.
This latest collection of poetry and short prose by Jan Oskar Hansen exemplifies immense personal and artistic maturity. I have elsewhere written about Hansen’s genius as regards the art of storytelling, and this work is no exception. Hansen seems to re-set the bar with each book he writes – much like good whiskey .. improving with age and experience.
Having previously reviewed two other poetry collections by Hansen (Letters from Portugal and La Strada), I am somewhat familiar with both his writing style and his artistic progression. I am pleased to see that Hansen has (in this latest collection of poetry) successfully managed to combine poetic economy and succinctness with prosaic boundlessness; at the same time retaining his innate sense of literary rebelliousness, social and political commentary and overall evenness of quality.
Jan Oskar Hansen has what is referred to in Norwegian (the land of his birth and youth) as “bakkekontakt” (a sense of reality). Hansen’s work often leaves an almost bittersweet chocolate aftertaste, with the effect that the reader is invariably left with a craving for more. Perhaps the most striking and enticing aspect of these short stories in poetic prose form is also that which makes them somewhat “uncomfortable”: Hansen ingeniously presents contemporary issues and personal experience in a way that is immediately digestible, both honest and humorous in its portrayal of humanity; and which cleverly pulls the reader so easily into the reasoning of the stories told that one cannot help but to question one’s own personal values upon reflection. His experiences and his viewpoints suddenly become those of the reader, and in order to satisfy the yearning to learn more about oneself one simply has to continue slavishly from poem to poem .. and perhaps even to take a second read-through upon reading the last words in the book.
The quality and genius of Hansen’s writing speaks well enough for itself, but I will refer to a few examples from his book which I particularly like:
“Mother does the washing up at my place, only she has arthritis in her hands breaks a lot of glasses and plates, has backache too standing for hours bent over the sink; and anyway, as mother says: “It’s time you get married, I can’t go on forever, and you are not young anymore.”
So that’s what I will do, when the moon is really full, ask the simple girl to marry me, and I’ll send mother to a home for the infirm.” (from “Harvest Moon”).
And
There is but one vast ocean
with an ever changing name,
so much sea, so little land.
It is rising, turquoise death
nibbling at tropical islands;
beaches are moving inland,
a new Noah’s Ark, a pair of
each, female/male and no gay
parade on her deck, drifting
on a clueless, windless ocean,
often called: “Nothing to see
but fucking water.”
(from “The Ocean”)
Hansen has also included several haiku in this collection. Two of the many fine examples follow:
As August heat wafts
Wayside weeds collect dust
For a rainy day
And
The grove’s olive trees
Look like a vanquished army
Slowly marching home
In conclusion, I would heartily recommend End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay to all who are looking for a reading experience that goes far beyond the boundaries of traditional poetry; reaching into the psychology and the humour of the human condition.
About the author:
Jan Oskar Hansen, a Norwegian expatriate, has published a wealth of poems, including individual works published in various anthologies, on the internet, and three collections which previously have been published in book form: Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006).
See also Jan Oskar's website: http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html
- Literary criticism (2007) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.).
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).
UNABASHED REFLECTIONS ON THE HUMAN CONDITION.
Review of “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, a new collection of poetry by Jan Oskar Hansen, Copyright 2007, 100 pages, softcover price: US$17.00. Published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.
This latest collection of poetry and short prose by Jan Oskar Hansen exemplifies immense personal and artistic maturity. I have elsewhere written about Hansen’s genius as regards the art of storytelling, and this work is no exception. Hansen seems to re-set the bar with each book he writes – much like good whiskey .. improving with age and experience.
Having previously reviewed two other poetry collections by Hansen (Letters from Portugal and La Strada), I am somewhat familiar with both his writing style and his artistic progression. I am pleased to see that Hansen has (in this latest collection of poetry) successfully managed to combine poetic economy and succinctness with prosaic boundlessness; at the same time retaining his innate sense of literary rebelliousness, social and political commentary and overall evenness of quality.
Jan Oskar Hansen has what is referred to in Norwegian (the land of his birth and youth) as “bakkekontakt” (a sense of reality). Hansen’s work often leaves an almost bittersweet chocolate aftertaste, with the effect that the reader is invariably left with a craving for more. Perhaps the most striking and enticing aspect of these short stories in poetic prose form is also that which makes them somewhat “uncomfortable”: Hansen ingeniously presents contemporary issues and personal experience in a way that is immediately digestible, both honest and humorous in its portrayal of humanity; and which cleverly pulls the reader so easily into the reasoning of the stories told that one cannot help but to question one’s own personal values upon reflection. His experiences and his viewpoints suddenly become those of the reader, and in order to satisfy the yearning to learn more about oneself one simply has to continue slavishly from poem to poem .. and perhaps even to take a second read-through upon reading the last words in the book.
The quality and genius of Hansen’s writing speaks well enough for itself, but I will refer to a few examples from his book which I particularly like:
“Mother does the washing up at my place, only she has arthritis in her hands breaks a lot of glasses and plates, has backache too standing for hours bent over the sink; and anyway, as mother says: “It’s time you get married, I can’t go on forever, and you are not young anymore.”
So that’s what I will do, when the moon is really full, ask the simple girl to marry me, and I’ll send mother to a home for the infirm.” (from “Harvest Moon”).
And
There is but one vast ocean
with an ever changing name,
so much sea, so little land.
It is rising, turquoise death
nibbling at tropical islands;
beaches are moving inland,
a new Noah’s Ark, a pair of
each, female/male and no gay
parade on her deck, drifting
on a clueless, windless ocean,
often called: “Nothing to see
but fucking water.”
(from “The Ocean”)
Hansen has also included several haiku in this collection. Two of the many fine examples follow:
As August heat wafts
Wayside weeds collect dust
For a rainy day
And
The grove’s olive trees
Look like a vanquished army
Slowly marching home
In conclusion, I would heartily recommend End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay to all who are looking for a reading experience that goes far beyond the boundaries of traditional poetry; reaching into the psychology and the humour of the human condition.
About the author:
Jan Oskar Hansen, a Norwegian expatriate, has published a wealth of poems, including individual works published in various anthologies, on the internet, and three collections which previously have been published in book form: Letters from Portugal (BeWrite Books, UK 2003), Lunch in Denmark (Lightningsource, UK 2005) and La Strada (Lapwing, Belfast 2006).
See also Jan Oskar's website: http://www.literati-magazine.com/magazine_features/winter05/poetry/jan-hansen.html
- Literary criticism (2007) by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon “End Of A Voyage – a Sailor’s home is a tranquil bay”, published by Water Forest Press, New York, USA, www.waterforestpress.com, ISBN 10:0-9723493-5-9; ISBN 13: 978-0-9723493-5-2.).
ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) is a literary critic and a multilingual author, writing in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian; and a professional visual artist. He has published five books (including collections of poetry, short stories and literary criticism) in the USA, Norway and India, as well as several short and longer works in international literary publications on several continents. He has previously authored theatrical works performed onstage, and he has (to-date) read his poetry at venues in New York City, Oslo (Norway), Buenos Aires and Kathmandu (Nepal).
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Statehood
Statehood
A shiny fly came, sat on the coffee pot lid, it wasn’t
big, but behaved in the manner of a son of, say,
a minor Hungarian aristocrat. I swatted it with a dish
cloth it fell into the sink, not dead opened the tap and
down the plughole it went. I was eating a slice of loaf
with blueberry jam, when it came out of the plughole,
clambered out of the sink, sat on saucer and began
cleaning its wings while buzzing loudly.
I was eating a slice of loaf with strawberry jam, as
a way of variation, when a small, grey faced fly came
flying in it settled on my cigarette lighter, I knew this
one came from a tower block estate hidden behind
a ring-road, a place with burnt out cars and grim silence;
where the “racaille” live, as the French president said.
I killed it twice to be sure to be sure it didn’t survive
long enough to try lit my lighter.
A shiny fly came, sat on the coffee pot lid, it wasn’t
big, but behaved in the manner of a son of, say,
a minor Hungarian aristocrat. I swatted it with a dish
cloth it fell into the sink, not dead opened the tap and
down the plughole it went. I was eating a slice of loaf
with blueberry jam, when it came out of the plughole,
clambered out of the sink, sat on saucer and began
cleaning its wings while buzzing loudly.
I was eating a slice of loaf with strawberry jam, as
a way of variation, when a small, grey faced fly came
flying in it settled on my cigarette lighter, I knew this
one came from a tower block estate hidden behind
a ring-road, a place with burnt out cars and grim silence;
where the “racaille” live, as the French president said.
I killed it twice to be sure to be sure it didn’t survive
long enough to try lit my lighter.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
3 haiku
Haiku.
The day is at ease
After a fortnight of rain,
Sun warms my face
Cool is the sun
One needn’t be a mad dog
To be out at noon
Rain, sun and billows
The tenth month is befuddled
Thinks it is April
The day is at ease
After a fortnight of rain,
Sun warms my face
Cool is the sun
One needn’t be a mad dog
To be out at noon
Rain, sun and billows
The tenth month is befuddled
Thinks it is April
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