The Beggar of Bath
The fountain, outside the bar- in the plaza,
where high spirited people throw pennies
late at night- has none at dawn, but soggy
leaves, ditto cigarette butts and coke cans.
At daytime a well dressed beggar sits near,
the fountain, clean hands he has, looks so
middleclass that people warm to him, smile
and throw big coins into his expensive hat.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
wonderfully old
Wonderfully Old.
Woke up a day in May felt serene and old,
admired my deep facial lines and tanned
baldness; yes, I’m a survivor of mudslingers
and character assassins. Infinite, my charity
is, even toward those who criticize my style.
My experience is vast, knowledge profound,
there is no hell and the heaven is a fairytale;
thus I fear not walking into the good night.
I keep my fingernails clean, dress well, now
that I’m old; bought a blue blazer with gold
buttons on and a captain’s cap; when I walk,
with measured dignity, through my town,
women will stop and say: “What a charming
man, this ancient tar with a song in his heart.”
Woke up a day in May felt serene and old,
admired my deep facial lines and tanned
baldness; yes, I’m a survivor of mudslingers
and character assassins. Infinite, my charity
is, even toward those who criticize my style.
My experience is vast, knowledge profound,
there is no hell and the heaven is a fairytale;
thus I fear not walking into the good night.
I keep my fingernails clean, dress well, now
that I’m old; bought a blue blazer with gold
buttons on and a captain’s cap; when I walk,
with measured dignity, through my town,
women will stop and say: “What a charming
man, this ancient tar with a song in his heart.”
love's lifetime
Love’s Lifetime
Of the hundreds of photos I keep
in a lacquered box made in China,
there is none of you.
Once had one, but it hurt too much
seeing you, I tore it into small pieces
and threw them to the wind, the same
day as my almond tree shed its enchanting flowers.
Yet, when I look up to the morning sky,
if it’s blue with wooly, playful clouds,
that makes the heaven less stern;
I see your reflection it has a shadow of a smile.
Since I shan’t go up north,
where we first met, so many dreams ago,
you will forever look young.
Of the hundreds of photos I keep
in a lacquered box made in China,
there is none of you.
Once had one, but it hurt too much
seeing you, I tore it into small pieces
and threw them to the wind, the same
day as my almond tree shed its enchanting flowers.
Yet, when I look up to the morning sky,
if it’s blue with wooly, playful clouds,
that makes the heaven less stern;
I see your reflection it has a shadow of a smile.
Since I shan’t go up north,
where we first met, so many dreams ago,
you will forever look young.
fishing
Fishing
In the river that flows past my window
I see a posh salmon swim,
shines like an assassin’s dagger before
it finds its victim and spray
the air in a mist of pink blood.
Pale fingers too swim, in this esoteric
stream, I catch them with my net
made of spiders’ web,
fry them golden brown, eat them by
the window.
Expensive fish doesn’t empress me
anymore, they are often
bony and hand-reared in some
Scottish fiord, unsavoury as titles
bought by ego bloated men.
In the river that flows past my window
I see a posh salmon swim,
shines like an assassin’s dagger before
it finds its victim and spray
the air in a mist of pink blood.
Pale fingers too swim, in this esoteric
stream, I catch them with my net
made of spiders’ web,
fry them golden brown, eat them by
the window.
Expensive fish doesn’t empress me
anymore, they are often
bony and hand-reared in some
Scottish fiord, unsavoury as titles
bought by ego bloated men.
the storm
A Storm
Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.
Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.
the storm
A Storm
Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.
Behind murky clouds giants fight,
glint of steel,
echoing thunder as the defeated
fall into a chasm of churning stones.
Rain makes roads into fast flowing rivers
and humanity is silent,
till the drips from roofs are music and
a dog’s tentative bark calls for a smile.
Alas, then the poet sleeps,
head in folded arms, on the kitchen table, and
the moment goes unrecorded.
april leaving
April Leaving
The morning bus isn’t full, mostly housewives
going shopping and the elderly who never had
a car, I’m leaving the valley for good, a bag,
and laptop need no more, always rented, best
this way, property is just another mulish burden.
Warm spring rain, mist rises from asphalt, afar
I see the sea, in half an hour we will be there,
the ocean looks like a shiny steel band keeping
the land intact. Five years, I’ve been living in
the valley, know every stick and stone, stayed
too long, though, I will miss the dried up river,
crippled olive trees, the meager, rusty soil and
the almond tree that deliriously strews beautiful
flowers on cold February ground.
The morning bus isn’t full, mostly housewives
going shopping and the elderly who never had
a car, I’m leaving the valley for good, a bag,
and laptop need no more, always rented, best
this way, property is just another mulish burden.
Warm spring rain, mist rises from asphalt, afar
I see the sea, in half an hour we will be there,
the ocean looks like a shiny steel band keeping
the land intact. Five years, I’ve been living in
the valley, know every stick and stone, stayed
too long, though, I will miss the dried up river,
crippled olive trees, the meager, rusty soil and
the almond tree that deliriously strews beautiful
flowers on cold February ground.
tomorrow
Tomorrow
Cream coloured cab, a lady is taking
me for a drive…to the airport:
suitcase packed, am going up North,
to the place where I was born;
watch planes land and take off,
busy place, drink a cup of coffee;
the lady drives me home, she’s got
grey hair and have seen it all;
forgotten my winter overcoat, will
wait till May I won’t need it then;
Cream coloured cab, a lady is taking
me for a drive…to the airport:
suitcase packed, am going up North,
to the place where I was born;
watch planes land and take off,
busy place, drink a cup of coffee;
the lady drives me home, she’s got
grey hair and have seen it all;
forgotten my winter overcoat, will
wait till May I won’t need it then;
the heroes
The Heroes.
Fourteen men and a woman sit under a roman
bridge that spans a river that dries up in summers,
they used to be navy personnel, captured in Iran,
spent days there before being released, now they
are civilian, ex heroes, who got paid for exalting
tales spiced up by reporters. Now new freedom
beckons, the open road, they have done their stint
for the fatherland. Alas nothing is a useless as an
ex navy man, who needs one who’s good at firing
cannons, ashore? No hamburger joints I know of.
Too much booze no proper food all money gone,
pension too small; it is as one sorry for their lot if
you see them at night when they are awake staring
into the abyss. Three pieces of silver and lost years
Fourteen men and a woman sit under a roman
bridge that spans a river that dries up in summers,
they used to be navy personnel, captured in Iran,
spent days there before being released, now they
are civilian, ex heroes, who got paid for exalting
tales spiced up by reporters. Now new freedom
beckons, the open road, they have done their stint
for the fatherland. Alas nothing is a useless as an
ex navy man, who needs one who’s good at firing
cannons, ashore? No hamburger joints I know of.
Too much booze no proper food all money gone,
pension too small; it is as one sorry for their lot if
you see them at night when they are awake staring
into the abyss. Three pieces of silver and lost years
the piano
The Piano
The piano tuner is in the big room, the one with
tall windows covered by see-through curtains.
On walls hang ancestors, serious looking men
fully bearded, in black and white, died, they did,
long before colours were invented. Women too,
on pictures, look gravely at the camera, but they
hang on less vital walls. Polished parquet floor,
a few armless chairs, placed along a wall, don’t
look inviting. The tuner has dramatic, wavy hair
wears sunglasses and doesn’t see. The upright is
black and varnished, I only keep it so the lady in
chiffon with a rose in her hair, should come one
night, when the wind blows leaves off tree, and
play me a melody of love.
The piano tuner is in the big room, the one with
tall windows covered by see-through curtains.
On walls hang ancestors, serious looking men
fully bearded, in black and white, died, they did,
long before colours were invented. Women too,
on pictures, look gravely at the camera, but they
hang on less vital walls. Polished parquet floor,
a few armless chairs, placed along a wall, don’t
look inviting. The tuner has dramatic, wavy hair
wears sunglasses and doesn’t see. The upright is
black and varnished, I only keep it so the lady in
chiffon with a rose in her hair, should come one
night, when the wind blows leaves off tree, and
play me a melody of love.
writer's block
Writer’s Block
On virtual blank page
A blinking cursor stops words
From being born
Wordless.
Cosmic night, infinite and still
no one here
“You are alone.”
a whisper echoed...
Clung to a fairytale,
but lost the grip.
A cock grew, aurora saved
me from falling into emptiness
.............
On virtual blank page
A blinking cursor stops words
From being born
Wordless.
Cosmic night, infinite and still
no one here
“You are alone.”
a whisper echoed...
Clung to a fairytale,
but lost the grip.
A cock grew, aurora saved
me from falling into emptiness
.............
the big secret
The Big Secret.
Strange to think how this big elephant come
to live in Antarctica, perhaps it’s is the last
of herd when clime was mild. It’s attracted to
the pole and had over years made a track that
made it easy for adventurers to get there and
plant flags and take pictures of themselves.
Roald Amundsen, the explorer, first man to
reach the pole, had a roman nose, looked
greatly heroic, ladies swooned, but he liked
the company of men. So different from Scott,
another lover of adventure on snow, cheated
by his wife, never found his way back home.
Why doesn’t anyone mention the elephant?
could it be because it’s white?
Strange to think how this big elephant come
to live in Antarctica, perhaps it’s is the last
of herd when clime was mild. It’s attracted to
the pole and had over years made a track that
made it easy for adventurers to get there and
plant flags and take pictures of themselves.
Roald Amundsen, the explorer, first man to
reach the pole, had a roman nose, looked
greatly heroic, ladies swooned, but he liked
the company of men. So different from Scott,
another lover of adventure on snow, cheated
by his wife, never found his way back home.
Why doesn’t anyone mention the elephant?
could it be because it’s white?
Don juan
Don Juan
The bar’s closed we now sit in an all-night café
drinking coffee, telling jokes that are as stale as
the doughnut we buy and eat as a surrogate for
the sex we haven’t had. The woman who serves
us is old, but willingly smiles it’s up to us to
make a move. Booze brave I grab her hand, and
only slowly let go; tell her she looks nice to night;
unusual compliment, my feeling is intense I will
sleep with her before my mates can. She mistakes
my lust for genuine desire, “Will you be mine to
night?” Sounds like a song. Friends leave, knowing
laughter. The café is emptying, she locks up; I kiss
her, think of sweet words to say, they come easily,
she’s a woman of no consequence.
The bar’s closed we now sit in an all-night café
drinking coffee, telling jokes that are as stale as
the doughnut we buy and eat as a surrogate for
the sex we haven’t had. The woman who serves
us is old, but willingly smiles it’s up to us to
make a move. Booze brave I grab her hand, and
only slowly let go; tell her she looks nice to night;
unusual compliment, my feeling is intense I will
sleep with her before my mates can. She mistakes
my lust for genuine desire, “Will you be mine to
night?” Sounds like a song. Friends leave, knowing
laughter. The café is emptying, she locks up; I kiss
her, think of sweet words to say, they come easily,
she’s a woman of no consequence.
August feelings
August… Feeling
Intense summer light
The road is impassable
Sun plough is broken.
White landscape
There will be no tomorrow
No one cares
August Feeling
A lone petrol pump
Café selling burgers and coke
Yesterday is today.
Intense summer light
The road is impassable
Sun plough is broken.
White landscape
There will be no tomorrow
No one cares
August Feeling
A lone petrol pump
Café selling burgers and coke
Yesterday is today.
Necropolis
Necropolis
Intense sunlight on marble, a white necropolis;
and a sea of flowers as decorated for a party
that will not happen. A deep hole, in dry earth,
awaits… The living too are silent here, speaks
with hushed voices, children are absent, dogs
not allowed, which makes sense, a paradise of
bones. Bird song. I can see the bay, it is azure
as the sky. Her fathers name in gold, on marble,
João, died at sixty, she remembers him as old,
he always wore a dark suit, hat and tie. We are
both older than her father now, dressed in jeans
and lemon yellow shirts, we don’t feel aged; had
her old man seen us now he would have frowned,
scolded and treated us as wayward teenagers.
Intense sunlight on marble, a white necropolis;
and a sea of flowers as decorated for a party
that will not happen. A deep hole, in dry earth,
awaits… The living too are silent here, speaks
with hushed voices, children are absent, dogs
not allowed, which makes sense, a paradise of
bones. Bird song. I can see the bay, it is azure
as the sky. Her fathers name in gold, on marble,
João, died at sixty, she remembers him as old,
he always wore a dark suit, hat and tie. We are
both older than her father now, dressed in jeans
and lemon yellow shirts, we don’t feel aged; had
her old man seen us now he would have frowned,
scolded and treated us as wayward teenagers.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
the fire
The Fire
They have all gone out dancing, locked the door
and left me here alone; there is a fire in the kitchen
smoke is seeping out. I can’t fine the key to get out
and the door is so very tall… “Under the carpet,”
I hear a distant voice. I find a key there, but can’t
reach the hole. I hear a song:” Forward Christian
soldiers…” So much smoke, firework outside, they
are celebrating first of May and peace by shooting
in the air. A window breaks, a big shadow picks me
up, I’m sure it was a friendly troll. Sunrise casts
rays of life on a smoldering cabin, red Indians have
burnt down our homestead, mother read about them
in a book; they have taken my father prisoner and
that’s ok, he’s always absent anyway.
They have all gone out dancing, locked the door
and left me here alone; there is a fire in the kitchen
smoke is seeping out. I can’t fine the key to get out
and the door is so very tall… “Under the carpet,”
I hear a distant voice. I find a key there, but can’t
reach the hole. I hear a song:” Forward Christian
soldiers…” So much smoke, firework outside, they
are celebrating first of May and peace by shooting
in the air. A window breaks, a big shadow picks me
up, I’m sure it was a friendly troll. Sunrise casts
rays of life on a smoldering cabin, red Indians have
burnt down our homestead, mother read about them
in a book; they have taken my father prisoner and
that’s ok, he’s always absent anyway.
to walk the walk
To Walk the Walk
On iron decks I have walked across
the Atlantic, and forever the drone
of the ship’s heart, beats in my ears
reminding me of our mortality.
Sleepless nights when the engine
ceased in port of calls
It used to be so very different
walked on solid planks to Mandalay
where fly-fish waked, flapping sails,
roaring silence and worried mariners
when rounding Cape Horn.
Memories go untold.
Fake pearls and crows’ silver I collected,
behind me a wake of loneliness
On iron decks I have walked across
the Atlantic, and forever the drone
of the ship’s heart, beats in my ears
reminding me of our mortality.
Sleepless nights when the engine
ceased in port of calls
It used to be so very different
walked on solid planks to Mandalay
where fly-fish waked, flapping sails,
roaring silence and worried mariners
when rounding Cape Horn.
Memories go untold.
Fake pearls and crows’ silver I collected,
behind me a wake of loneliness
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
wide horizon
Wide horizon
Dawn, I forgot to draw the curtains, last
night, pale light shyly enters, I feel your
warm body beside me, but I keep my eyes
shut, nor do I lift my arm to touch you.
I know you’re not there, but the intensity
of my longings makes you real, turn my
back to you, try to dream of youth, spring
and a wide horizons
Dawn, I forgot to draw the curtains, last
night, pale light shyly enters, I feel your
warm body beside me, but I keep my eyes
shut, nor do I lift my arm to touch you.
I know you’re not there, but the intensity
of my longings makes you real, turn my
back to you, try to dream of youth, spring
and a wide horizons
Strange birds
Strange Birds
The ladies of the night, in Puerto Limon,
when out in the glare of the day, look
like colourful bird lost and blinded by
the light; spat on by drab housewives
who call them “Putas.”
Ignored by men who looks another way;
just in case they are recognized, yet pay
for a visit when night is deep; frightened
birds, flapping wings, not welcome here,
wait for darkness and frolicsome fun.
The ladies of the night, in Puerto Limon,
when out in the glare of the day, look
like colourful bird lost and blinded by
the light; spat on by drab housewives
who call them “Putas.”
Ignored by men who looks another way;
just in case they are recognized, yet pay
for a visit when night is deep; frightened
birds, flapping wings, not welcome here,
wait for darkness and frolicsome fun.
lips
Lips.
Flowers on my window sill
are made of impregnated paper,
deep red they brighten up dull
winter days.
In summers they tend to look
pale, as lips of a woman after
a night of love; hence I paint
them red again
Flowers on my window sill
are made of impregnated paper,
deep red they brighten up dull
winter days.
In summers they tend to look
pale, as lips of a woman after
a night of love; hence I paint
them red again
forenoon
Forenoon Moment
Got a ladder climbed up to the roof,
had to fix a leak, this upset sparrows
that nest under the old tiles, greatly.
Flew in circles around me and didn’t
know that their warning quaver was
a beautiful overture to spring.
Got a ladder climbed up to the roof,
had to fix a leak, this upset sparrows
that nest under the old tiles, greatly.
Flew in circles around me and didn’t
know that their warning quaver was
a beautiful overture to spring.
late morning
Late Morning (Grumpy Man)
Nine o’clock heavy clouds obscure the light,
kitchen and living room cold think I’ll relax
here under my cozy duvet till ten. Only, if
someone knocks on my door and I’m still in
my pajamas, they will think I’m a lazy old
man who spends all his days in bed, mind I
worked late last night and deserve my rest,
my own boss, have nothing to be ashamed of.
So, who do the think they are, my neighours,
I don’t pry into their life to see how long they
sleep or when they go to work; and when their
bloody kids shouts outside my door kicking
a football about, do I say anything? I’m angry
now, so much for sleeping in for once…People!
Nine o’clock heavy clouds obscure the light,
kitchen and living room cold think I’ll relax
here under my cozy duvet till ten. Only, if
someone knocks on my door and I’m still in
my pajamas, they will think I’m a lazy old
man who spends all his days in bed, mind I
worked late last night and deserve my rest,
my own boss, have nothing to be ashamed of.
So, who do the think they are, my neighours,
I don’t pry into their life to see how long they
sleep or when they go to work; and when their
bloody kids shouts outside my door kicking
a football about, do I say anything? I’m angry
now, so much for sleeping in for once…People!
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
the fading
The Fading
I sit here in the corner, facing the door- like
a fat little spider- watching the coming and
going, and wait for someone to open the door,
enter, and tell a tale I can make a meal of,
cause I have not a life of my own. My view
is a dusty back yard with a pale almond tree
I’ve wrung every drop of corniness off; lost
all leaves, not that I care, it has done its duty,
chop it down, it’s full of ants, bees will not
touch it; a tit will rather die, in the claws of
a hawk, then been seen sitting on one of its
skeletal twigs. Invisible ink, between lines,
tell a story of waiting, lust for love and fear
when someone really knocks on that door.
I sit here in the corner, facing the door- like
a fat little spider- watching the coming and
going, and wait for someone to open the door,
enter, and tell a tale I can make a meal of,
cause I have not a life of my own. My view
is a dusty back yard with a pale almond tree
I’ve wrung every drop of corniness off; lost
all leaves, not that I care, it has done its duty,
chop it down, it’s full of ants, bees will not
touch it; a tit will rather die, in the claws of
a hawk, then been seen sitting on one of its
skeletal twigs. Invisible ink, between lines,
tell a story of waiting, lust for love and fear
when someone really knocks on that door.
2 haiku
Haiku
As winter returned
Butterflies fell like confetti
On rim frosted earth
Haiku.
When the enemy came
Swans, in the sky, surrendered
Flapped their white wings.
As winter returned
Butterflies fell like confetti
On rim frosted earth
Haiku.
When the enemy came
Swans, in the sky, surrendered
Flapped their white wings.
guilt mongers
Guilt Mongers
Why are middleclass people so daft, believing in
all sorts of this and that diets, when we all know
to slim, one has to eat less and walk a bit more.
But no, that’s not good enough, the diet has to have
a name, consists of yogurt, pineapple, and pushed
by someone famous and so unhappily starved that
they beat up their maid. Muesli, this dreadful
concoction of dried fruit and oats, it’s food for horses
not for man, yet it appears on every breakfast table
in the land to make no one goes to work with a smile.
A glass of wine a day is sliming, it’s said, what rot!
I drink a bottle a day, haven’t lost a gram. It isn’t your
fault that you are middleclass boring, stop worrying
about it, go fry an egg, or two for breakfast.
Why are middleclass people so daft, believing in
all sorts of this and that diets, when we all know
to slim, one has to eat less and walk a bit more.
But no, that’s not good enough, the diet has to have
a name, consists of yogurt, pineapple, and pushed
by someone famous and so unhappily starved that
they beat up their maid. Muesli, this dreadful
concoction of dried fruit and oats, it’s food for horses
not for man, yet it appears on every breakfast table
in the land to make no one goes to work with a smile.
A glass of wine a day is sliming, it’s said, what rot!
I drink a bottle a day, haven’t lost a gram. It isn’t your
fault that you are middleclass boring, stop worrying
about it, go fry an egg, or two for breakfast.
white man's burden
White Man’s Burden
It has stopped raining; the barrel in the yard is full
of soft liquid, but I’m not thirsty. Look into the barrel
and as I vainly smile at my own image, a delayed
raindrop falls; my face breaks into bits; scoop them
up put them back in place, minus my clichéd grin,
which sinks to the bottom, as residue of banality and
false pride. Panzer clouds, torpedoed by sharp light,
disperse; there is sun, glorious and nude, expecting
applause, too late in the afternoon for that, my friend.
But I’m cold will stay here for awhile warm my face,
and say sorry for all my misdeeds, I’m white and has
a lot to answer for, even when I sit in the sun, to get
a deep tan I end up looking like a lobster thrown into
boiling water; so let me atone for past future sins.
It has stopped raining; the barrel in the yard is full
of soft liquid, but I’m not thirsty. Look into the barrel
and as I vainly smile at my own image, a delayed
raindrop falls; my face breaks into bits; scoop them
up put them back in place, minus my clichéd grin,
which sinks to the bottom, as residue of banality and
false pride. Panzer clouds, torpedoed by sharp light,
disperse; there is sun, glorious and nude, expecting
applause, too late in the afternoon for that, my friend.
But I’m cold will stay here for awhile warm my face,
and say sorry for all my misdeeds, I’m white and has
a lot to answer for, even when I sit in the sun, to get
a deep tan I end up looking like a lobster thrown into
boiling water; so let me atone for past future sins.
Ms. god
Ms God
I saw god this morning she was naked, had
lose skin on her belly after giving birth to
the world… soldiers laughed prodded her
with sticks and called her a whore, I noticed
that her breast where firm, still lots of life
left in the old lady. Gave god a burnoose
to cover her naturality and a hood to protect
her hair from dust. “Dirty Arab!” a soldier
shouted, god smiled, she had nice even teeth,
the grin made the soldier into a statue, his
friends came and carried him away on a fork
lift truck. “Why don’t you bend every gun so?
they can shoot themselves in the ass, god. “
she shook her and said: “No, that’s suicide.”
I saw god this morning she was naked, had
lose skin on her belly after giving birth to
the world… soldiers laughed prodded her
with sticks and called her a whore, I noticed
that her breast where firm, still lots of life
left in the old lady. Gave god a burnoose
to cover her naturality and a hood to protect
her hair from dust. “Dirty Arab!” a soldier
shouted, god smiled, she had nice even teeth,
the grin made the soldier into a statue, his
friends came and carried him away on a fork
lift truck. “Why don’t you bend every gun so?
they can shoot themselves in the ass, god. “
she shook her and said: “No, that’s suicide.”
haiku tanka
Haiku
Acendia is
Blind spots in sunlight
Lost hopes in springs.
Tanka
The mist that arises
In Indonesian jungles
When day is newborn
Is that of clouded leopards.
If logging takes its habitat
The heavens will surely cry?
Acendia is
Blind spots in sunlight
Lost hopes in springs.
Tanka
The mist that arises
In Indonesian jungles
When day is newborn
Is that of clouded leopards.
If logging takes its habitat
The heavens will surely cry?
old carpets and lightbulbs
Old Carpets and Light Bulbs
I thought the diminutive secondhand carpet,
the dwarf like man was selling at the market,
a bit expensive; mind, it was nice, its colour
bright, just right for the hallway. I asked him
to reduce the price he got angry, swore, not
only at me, but at the rest of the world as well
so I didn’t get offended; he had a high pitched,
squeaking voice. To mollify him I purchased
the carpet, and as he neatly wrapped it in grey
paper, I tried to be friendly, but his face was
a Janus mask of dislike, he didn’t want to be
my friend. The light-bulb in the hall had gone
and I had no spares; when my wife came home
she slipped on the carpet and broke a leg
I thought the diminutive secondhand carpet,
the dwarf like man was selling at the market,
a bit expensive; mind, it was nice, its colour
bright, just right for the hallway. I asked him
to reduce the price he got angry, swore, not
only at me, but at the rest of the world as well
so I didn’t get offended; he had a high pitched,
squeaking voice. To mollify him I purchased
the carpet, and as he neatly wrapped it in grey
paper, I tried to be friendly, but his face was
a Janus mask of dislike, he didn’t want to be
my friend. The light-bulb in the hall had gone
and I had no spares; when my wife came home
she slipped on the carpet and broke a leg
rivalry
Rivalry
He slapped my face because I was late
coming home, this man and he’s not
my father, I’m eleven and can do what
I want. I’ve been shamed I was the man
in the house before he came along, I’ll
have my revenge; when they are asleep.
Mother needs to be freed from this man,
I’ll get up and slash his suit, with his
own shaving blade; and when they get up
I’ll be outside plying football. This man
will accuse me, but can’t prove nothing,
my mother will know, get the message
and get rid of this intruder, and we can go
back being a family again.
He slapped my face because I was late
coming home, this man and he’s not
my father, I’m eleven and can do what
I want. I’ve been shamed I was the man
in the house before he came along, I’ll
have my revenge; when they are asleep.
Mother needs to be freed from this man,
I’ll get up and slash his suit, with his
own shaving blade; and when they get up
I’ll be outside plying football. This man
will accuse me, but can’t prove nothing,
my mother will know, get the message
and get rid of this intruder, and we can go
back being a family again.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Arabic poem Cordoba 1031
Arabic Poem
Translated from Old Portuguese
With her I pass nights as a thirsty,
Little camel that fears being refused
The teat;
as in an orchard when someone inhales
sweet aroma, has a vision and wishes
For more;
what I’m not, however, is an abandoned
animal taken to grazing in other peoples
garden.
Ps I feel that “baby camel isn’t quite right”
Pegueno: small, little, short and so on
See original poem
IBN FARACH
Year 1031
Cordoba
E assim passei a noite com ela,
Como o pequeno camel sedento
A que o néscio impede de mamar
Tal como pomar
Onde alguém como eu
Apenas aproveita da visão e olfacto
Que eu não sou
Como os animais abandonados
Que tomam os jardins como pastos
Translated from Old Portuguese
With her I pass nights as a thirsty,
Little camel that fears being refused
The teat;
as in an orchard when someone inhales
sweet aroma, has a vision and wishes
For more;
what I’m not, however, is an abandoned
animal taken to grazing in other peoples
garden.
Ps I feel that “baby camel isn’t quite right”
Pegueno: small, little, short and so on
See original poem
IBN FARACH
Year 1031
Cordoba
E assim passei a noite com ela,
Como o pequeno camel sedento
A que o néscio impede de mamar
Tal como pomar
Onde alguém como eu
Apenas aproveita da visão e olfacto
Que eu não sou
Como os animais abandonados
Que tomam os jardins como pastos
Friday, March 30, 2007
tanka (accident)
Tanka (accident)
Miserable morning
Ominous was the forenoon
Motorway pile up
She wasn’t coming home for tea
A scream echoed through the night
Miserable morning
Ominous was the forenoon
Motorway pile up
She wasn’t coming home for tea
A scream echoed through the night
tanka (accident)
Tanka (accident)
Miserable morning
Ominous was the forenoon
Motorway pile up
She wasn’t coming home for tea
A scream echoed through the night
Miserable morning
Ominous was the forenoon
Motorway pile up
She wasn’t coming home for tea
A scream echoed through the night
arabic poems
Arabic poem from the collection
Ladrôes De Prazer. Arabic/ analuzes
Inconceivable weeps
The poetry of an Arab
Lost amongst infidels
IBN Baqi
Ca 1034
Choram as rimas de poesia
Por um árabe perdido
Entre os bárbaros
The is the first poem of the collection
I find it quite apt really, nothing much
has changed since then
Ladrôes De Prazer. Arabic/ analuzes
Inconceivable weeps
The poetry of an Arab
Lost amongst infidels
IBN Baqi
Ca 1034
Choram as rimas de poesia
Por um árabe perdido
Entre os bárbaros
The is the first poem of the collection
I find it quite apt really, nothing much
has changed since then
tanka dogs
Tanka (dogs)
Paul’s dog’s a vegan
Barks like his master’s voice
And never bites.
My dog doesn’t like carrots
Bites, if she can, the postman
Paul’s dog’s a vegan
Barks like his master’s voice
And never bites.
My dog doesn’t like carrots
Bites, if she can, the postman
from the newspaper
From the newspaper
The tallest man in the world lives in China,
once he stuck his long arm down a dolphin’s
throat and fished out a plastic bag and saved
the sea mammal’s life, made him famous too.
At the deep end of the pool swimming-pool
the tall man’s shoulders is above the water,
his girlfriend can only do that at the shallow
end. She doesn’t mind, at home- when he sits
on the floor watching TV- she sits on a chair,
and they are almost of the same height. No,
don’t ask me that, I don’t want to know, one
shouldn’t even speculate; but his girlfriend is
from Tibet, she used to climb steep mountains
and ride yaks as a child.
The tallest man in the world lives in China,
once he stuck his long arm down a dolphin’s
throat and fished out a plastic bag and saved
the sea mammal’s life, made him famous too.
At the deep end of the pool swimming-pool
the tall man’s shoulders is above the water,
his girlfriend can only do that at the shallow
end. She doesn’t mind, at home- when he sits
on the floor watching TV- she sits on a chair,
and they are almost of the same height. No,
don’t ask me that, I don’t want to know, one
shouldn’t even speculate; but his girlfriend is
from Tibet, she used to climb steep mountains
and ride yaks as a child.
riches
Riches.
The riches man in the world, originally from
Kirby, Liverpool is thin, getting skeletal,
when the cook makes him a bacon sandwich
and the rich man touches it, the sliced bread
and bacon turns to gold, the cook has a kitchen
full of that metal, plans to open an ice cream
parlour on the Wirral.. The loaded man drank
cola, liquid gold in his belly solidified a shiny
tumor big as a football. The doc who removed
it tried to run away with the tumor, but he was
tackled by the nurse and the anesthetist, who
too wanted a share. The state took the ball and
sacked the medical team. Great wealth belongs
to nations, to you and me it brings unhappiness.
The riches man in the world, originally from
Kirby, Liverpool is thin, getting skeletal,
when the cook makes him a bacon sandwich
and the rich man touches it, the sliced bread
and bacon turns to gold, the cook has a kitchen
full of that metal, plans to open an ice cream
parlour on the Wirral.. The loaded man drank
cola, liquid gold in his belly solidified a shiny
tumor big as a football. The doc who removed
it tried to run away with the tumor, but he was
tackled by the nurse and the anesthetist, who
too wanted a share. The state took the ball and
sacked the medical team. Great wealth belongs
to nations, to you and me it brings unhappiness.
As Seen When Not Seeing
On the night sky tiny particles explodes
in silent cacophony, the universe opens,
retracts behind a shower of colours, stars
are bright and near, then disappear when
blue dust crosses the esoteric firmament,
made of dreams that have yet to traverse
the human mind, and when lights come
on it’s all gone hidden, waiting for you
On the night sky tiny particles explodes
in silent cacophony, the universe opens,
retracts behind a shower of colours, stars
are bright and near, then disappear when
blue dust crosses the esoteric firmament,
made of dreams that have yet to traverse
the human mind, and when lights come
on it’s all gone hidden, waiting for you
Thursday, March 29, 2007
homecoming
Homecoming
The plane circled the local airport, foggy,
it hadn’t got clearing yet, I hoped it would
be forced to turn back again, find another
landing strip, preferable somewhere far
from my old home-town. Hadn’t been here
for years, in a fit of sentimental nostalgia
I had bought a ticket but regretted it now.
There is no way back, the place I knew is
in the dreamy land of memories, friends
are names on gravestone, and the drabness
of late Nordic autumn is bound to make
me utterly wretched. “Due to persistent fog
we are unable to land,” the pilot lamented.
His words filled me with tender melancholy
The plane circled the local airport, foggy,
it hadn’t got clearing yet, I hoped it would
be forced to turn back again, find another
landing strip, preferable somewhere far
from my old home-town. Hadn’t been here
for years, in a fit of sentimental nostalgia
I had bought a ticket but regretted it now.
There is no way back, the place I knew is
in the dreamy land of memories, friends
are names on gravestone, and the drabness
of late Nordic autumn is bound to make
me utterly wretched. “Due to persistent fog
we are unable to land,” the pilot lamented.
His words filled me with tender melancholy
the waiting
The Waiting
On the south-side of the, abandoned, house
leans an overgrown and untrimmed orange
tree; fruit fall to ground and feeds no one.
the elderly house has many wretched rooms,
that give shelter to no one; on floors where
sunrays, through old shutters, limply dance
with miserable dust. Profound is the silence,
except on windy days when the old house
groans, as in distress, when the orange tree
slams against its flank: They both wait for
someone to come along and give them zest
for life again, like last year when a family
came and children shook the tree, but no,
the adult thought it was too far from town.
On the south-side of the, abandoned, house
leans an overgrown and untrimmed orange
tree; fruit fall to ground and feeds no one.
the elderly house has many wretched rooms,
that give shelter to no one; on floors where
sunrays, through old shutters, limply dance
with miserable dust. Profound is the silence,
except on windy days when the old house
groans, as in distress, when the orange tree
slams against its flank: They both wait for
someone to come along and give them zest
for life again, like last year when a family
came and children shook the tree, but no,
the adult thought it was too far from town.
tanka
Tanka
Indolent at ease
In my unkempt back garden
The feral feline
Surveys its private kingdom
Leaves dead mice on my doorsteps
Indolent at ease
In my unkempt back garden
The feral feline
Surveys its private kingdom
Leaves dead mice on my doorsteps
my bride
My Bride.
She had such a pretty smile, green,
clear eyes… honesty personified;
she was to be my bride. I had been
down to the divine stream picking
costly stones to make a necklace,
just for her, when returning, she sat
in the park, near the spring of youth,
whispering words of adoration into
the ears of another man, her clear,
green eyes were full of truth and love.
I gave the rivulet back its precious
gift; walked for years, through many
lands, and never once returned to see
what had become of my bride.
She had such a pretty smile, green,
clear eyes… honesty personified;
she was to be my bride. I had been
down to the divine stream picking
costly stones to make a necklace,
just for her, when returning, she sat
in the park, near the spring of youth,
whispering words of adoration into
the ears of another man, her clear,
green eyes were full of truth and love.
I gave the rivulet back its precious
gift; walked for years, through many
lands, and never once returned to see
what had become of my bride.
Spring Cold
Spring’s here but winter is reluctant to go
resentfully blows helpless dust and chip
papers around, people are dressed for April
and freeze, huddled in naked streets.
Women are the coldest, short skirts and
see through blouses and ruffled hair,
like migrating birds returning too early
finding the nest occupied by squatters.
A new set of lungs, heart or liver will not
help winter much now, it can choose to
scream angry words to an uncaring god
or walk off stage with dignity
Spring’s here but winter is reluctant to go
resentfully blows helpless dust and chip
papers around, people are dressed for April
and freeze, huddled in naked streets.
Women are the coldest, short skirts and
see through blouses and ruffled hair,
like migrating birds returning too early
finding the nest occupied by squatters.
A new set of lungs, heart or liver will not
help winter much now, it can choose to
scream angry words to an uncaring god
or walk off stage with dignity
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
a walk in the park
A Walk in the park.
At the poets reading, at a local hall that
reeked of tobacco, sweaty hands and AA
meetings, they served sausage rolls and
tiny pies, when no one looked and no one
paid my for my stuff, I filled my pockets
full food, lunch next day.
It was there I met the widow, she liked poets
and with her I spent the night with wine, roses
and the rest of the pies.
She gave me her dead husbands blue suit,
shoes and tie, alone I walked to the park to feed
the ducks yesterdays pastry crumbs.
The shoes sourly chafed and the tie tried to
strangle me, undressed, the weather was nice,
swam with the birds till the law showed up,
they had brought a wooly blanket and two
frogmen along
At the poets reading, at a local hall that
reeked of tobacco, sweaty hands and AA
meetings, they served sausage rolls and
tiny pies, when no one looked and no one
paid my for my stuff, I filled my pockets
full food, lunch next day.
It was there I met the widow, she liked poets
and with her I spent the night with wine, roses
and the rest of the pies.
She gave me her dead husbands blue suit,
shoes and tie, alone I walked to the park to feed
the ducks yesterdays pastry crumbs.
The shoes sourly chafed and the tie tried to
strangle me, undressed, the weather was nice,
swam with the birds till the law showed up,
they had brought a wooly blanket and two
frogmen along
Park Music
Yesterday, in the municipal park, I saw an escaped
elephant, shyly hiding behind an oak, not blowing
It own trumpet; I gave it peanuts and it was glad.
I wasn’t really very interested in the animal, got
a ladder climbed up the tree to contemplate my lack
of future and drink a bottle of beer unseen; to no
avail, a guard came told me to get down.
My silence contemptible silence was telling, after
some time blue uniforms came they brought guns
and musical instruments, saxophone, guitar and
clarinet, their New Orleans jazz brought many
people to the scene, I got down from the tree, not
because I had too, but worried; in case the fugitive
proboscidean mammal joined in and blew its cover
Yesterday, in the municipal park, I saw an escaped
elephant, shyly hiding behind an oak, not blowing
It own trumpet; I gave it peanuts and it was glad.
I wasn’t really very interested in the animal, got
a ladder climbed up the tree to contemplate my lack
of future and drink a bottle of beer unseen; to no
avail, a guard came told me to get down.
My silence contemptible silence was telling, after
some time blue uniforms came they brought guns
and musical instruments, saxophone, guitar and
clarinet, their New Orleans jazz brought many
people to the scene, I got down from the tree, not
because I had too, but worried; in case the fugitive
proboscidean mammal joined in and blew its cover
a terrorist confesses
A Terrorist Confesses.
A Guantanamo prisoner confesses. What was?
he thinking off letting them wearing him down
after four years of isolation and interrogation;
now he will be a resentful loser…unforgiven.
Had he confessed at once, played along told
them what they wanted to know, he would be
the winner, sit in the prison yard getting sun in
his face. Truth! I hear you mutter, this has
nothing to do with that, it’s about a court case
that needs to be concluded, documented, eagle
stamped, and signed; a copy for everyone,
the convict too. It’s a game, play it right and
you’ll survive, sleep in a clean bed, watch TV,
and play ping pong with the other inmates.
A Guantanamo prisoner confesses. What was?
he thinking off letting them wearing him down
after four years of isolation and interrogation;
now he will be a resentful loser…unforgiven.
Had he confessed at once, played along told
them what they wanted to know, he would be
the winner, sit in the prison yard getting sun in
his face. Truth! I hear you mutter, this has
nothing to do with that, it’s about a court case
that needs to be concluded, documented, eagle
stamped, and signed; a copy for everyone,
the convict too. It’s a game, play it right and
you’ll survive, sleep in a clean bed, watch TV,
and play ping pong with the other inmates.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Tanka (morning)
Tanka
Aurora’s glow
Drips through the curtain’s tear
Keeping me awake
When I really want to sleep
Till the dawn grows into noon.
Aurora’s glow
Drips through the curtain’s tear
Keeping me awake
When I really want to sleep
Till the dawn grows into noon.
Tanka (volcanic island )
Tanka. (Volcanic Island)
Emerald hilltops
White coves and sky forever blue
Transient Eden
But when sea and lava meet
Clouds of steam and nothing more
Emerald hilltops
White coves and sky forever blue
Transient Eden
But when sea and lava meet
Clouds of steam and nothing more
Haiku/Zen
Haiku
Unconceivable
That rain will fall, sun shine
With you not around
Zen
Spun wishes
Make
The new day
A cock that crews
Too early
Loses its head
Unconceivable
That rain will fall, sun shine
With you not around
Zen
Spun wishes
Make
The new day
A cock that crews
Too early
Loses its head
haiku
Haiku
When Yesterday goes
A galactic star gives birth
To the morrow
Lost hopes
Recuperate in moonlight
Sparkling at daybreak
Melancholy too
When in aurora’s bosom
Smiles at destiny
When rain falls at night
Parched soil is grateful
The sun is a thief
The hushed moonlight
That shines on a forest tarn
Is a false dawn
When Yesterday goes
A galactic star gives birth
To the morrow
Lost hopes
Recuperate in moonlight
Sparkling at daybreak
Melancholy too
When in aurora’s bosom
Smiles at destiny
When rain falls at night
Parched soil is grateful
The sun is a thief
The hushed moonlight
That shines on a forest tarn
Is a false dawn
Friday, March 23, 2007
the film star
The Film Star.
Archie Leech was an usher at the Odeon cinema,
had a flashlight and showed latecomers to their
seats. He saw every movie and knew the lines
of both female and male actors, his dream was
to be up there, on screen, himself one day; had
the looks, the feature of a matinee idol, women
liked him…men too, then the Odeon caught fire,
burnt down to the last black& white reel, Archie
cried as whispering ashes flew in winter air.
“This is your chance get out now your destiny is
to be a film star” voices seemed to say. He gave
gave the flashlight to a friend and left for USA;
the name Archie Leech was never heard of again,
but a star was born and it shone for many years
Archie Leech was an usher at the Odeon cinema,
had a flashlight and showed latecomers to their
seats. He saw every movie and knew the lines
of both female and male actors, his dream was
to be up there, on screen, himself one day; had
the looks, the feature of a matinee idol, women
liked him…men too, then the Odeon caught fire,
burnt down to the last black& white reel, Archie
cried as whispering ashes flew in winter air.
“This is your chance get out now your destiny is
to be a film star” voices seemed to say. He gave
gave the flashlight to a friend and left for USA;
the name Archie Leech was never heard of again,
but a star was born and it shone for many years
Benjamin, the rat
Benjamin, the Rat
New Year’s Eve jolly rockets in the air
champagne and cigar for the rich and
meths for the man lurking in the park
A rat, with prize boxer ears, came out
of the water drain by the kerb, such
devilish racket and it was its feeding
time; usually the town is dead at twelve
except for the man in the park trying to
find something to eat in the cafés bins,
like an outsized rodent. The rat looked
up and saw me seeing it, shrugged as to
say: “Humanity!”
New Year’s Eve jolly rockets in the air
champagne and cigar for the rich and
meths for the man lurking in the park
A rat, with prize boxer ears, came out
of the water drain by the kerb, such
devilish racket and it was its feeding
time; usually the town is dead at twelve
except for the man in the park trying to
find something to eat in the cafés bins,
like an outsized rodent. The rat looked
up and saw me seeing it, shrugged as to
say: “Humanity!”
Thursday, March 22, 2007
the educated
The Educated.
Salient and Iconic are academic brothers,
appear often in a
“Literary Supplement Magazine,”
lately they have been investigating
whether the wife of a famous writer
had syphilis or not.
Drew no firm conclusion,
only innuendos, which is a pity
if not very scholarly.
Wouldn’t it be erudite, when at
a dinner party, to say:”
Did you know that Henrietta died of VD?”
Salient and Iconic are academic brothers,
appear often in a
“Literary Supplement Magazine,”
lately they have been investigating
whether the wife of a famous writer
had syphilis or not.
Drew no firm conclusion,
only innuendos, which is a pity
if not very scholarly.
Wouldn’t it be erudite, when at
a dinner party, to say:”
Did you know that Henrietta died of VD?”
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
bikini
Bikini.
Nice to know Britain’s upgrading
Trident, to be nuclear armed will
protect us against those who hasn’t
built the bomb yet, that’s ok then?
The world is a different from yore
the Chinese drive Ferraris, I have
scooter made outside Beijing (turn
left, on the main road to India.)
Used to take girls granted before;
critical, couldn’t make up my mind,
now, are oblivious of my charms,
they are beautiful and I’m alone.
As time knocks on my window,
dreams are meek, nothing about
climbing mountains, but still hope
to inherit brother’s Armani suit
Nice to know Britain’s upgrading
Trident, to be nuclear armed will
protect us against those who hasn’t
built the bomb yet, that’s ok then?
The world is a different from yore
the Chinese drive Ferraris, I have
scooter made outside Beijing (turn
left, on the main road to India.)
Used to take girls granted before;
critical, couldn’t make up my mind,
now, are oblivious of my charms,
they are beautiful and I’m alone.
As time knocks on my window,
dreams are meek, nothing about
climbing mountains, but still hope
to inherit brother’s Armani suit
haiku
Haiku
First day of spring
Frozen wind wants to enter
And sit by the fire.
Haiku
Pallid sun on blue
Casts insignificant light
Needs an orange tan
First day of spring
Frozen wind wants to enter
And sit by the fire.
Haiku
Pallid sun on blue
Casts insignificant light
Needs an orange tan
housewife 1810
Housewife. Ca. 1810. Or today?
Mend my socks, by the sunny wall,
I love to see when your thimble, of
silver, shines as brilliant as the sun.
Sew buttons on my trousers´ fly, in
the midnight cove, I love to see when
your thimble outshines the new moon
But leave the thimble at home when
we go to the ball; people might get
the wrong idea, think you’re my maid.
Mend my socks, by the sunny wall,
I love to see when your thimble, of
silver, shines as brilliant as the sun.
Sew buttons on my trousers´ fly, in
the midnight cove, I love to see when
your thimble outshines the new moon
But leave the thimble at home when
we go to the ball; people might get
the wrong idea, think you’re my maid.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
tanka and haiku
Tanka
Last Friday afternoon
Time slowed to a trickle,
Icy wind and rain
Tried to stop it entirely
But got very short of breath
Disharmony
Nearly drowned once
In azure coloured tint
And soggy wet notes
Last Friday afternoon
Time slowed to a trickle,
Icy wind and rain
Tried to stop it entirely
But got very short of breath
Disharmony
Nearly drowned once
In azure coloured tint
And soggy wet notes
Local News.
It was falsely reported that a yellow
submarine had surfaced in the village’s
pond, and its three crewmembers sat on
deck, forever blowing bubbles.
Nor was it a fluffy duckling, too young
to contemplate suicide, and too buoyant
to sink; no, it was a xanthous butterfly
washing pollen of its feet.
It was falsely reported that a yellow
submarine had surfaced in the village’s
pond, and its three crewmembers sat on
deck, forever blowing bubbles.
Nor was it a fluffy duckling, too young
to contemplate suicide, and too buoyant
to sink; no, it was a xanthous butterfly
washing pollen of its feet.
Algarve
Loulé. Algarve.
A long avenue; flanked by purple
flowering trees, sunlight and statues
of dead heroes
Many café’s, up and down, but
only one has wood tables and chairs,
the rest use plastic furniture.
The local elite go there, drink strong
coffee, in the forenoon, and behave
with commendable demureness
A long avenue; flanked by purple
flowering trees, sunlight and statues
of dead heroes
Many café’s, up and down, but
only one has wood tables and chairs,
the rest use plastic furniture.
The local elite go there, drink strong
coffee, in the forenoon, and behave
with commendable demureness
mission accomplished
“Mission Accomplished”
the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”
the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”
mission accomplished
“Mission Accomplished”
the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”
the president said, striding
on the deck of a floating war
machine.
How I raged that day,
then came to my senses and
despaired.
We knew, us who have lived a little,
that the war was just beginning;
now four years later and
many needless deaths
I feel no need to open a window
and shout: “I told you so!”
Monday, March 19, 2007
loss of language
Loss of Language
I looked up and many years had gone
a span of time unbridgeable; a new
world and to it I was a perfect stranger.
The verbs I had tried to make sense
and harmony of, were obsolete; a new
language based on text messages has
made me a reading analphabet, and
special jargons, based on the internet,
has made me into a fossil laughed at
by technocrats and small children.
My work pine in a drawer marked
poetry, written on sepia paper, pale
words forever unread, still, they will
make a beautiful bonfire come May.
I looked up and many years had gone
a span of time unbridgeable; a new
world and to it I was a perfect stranger.
The verbs I had tried to make sense
and harmony of, were obsolete; a new
language based on text messages has
made me a reading analphabet, and
special jargons, based on the internet,
has made me into a fossil laughed at
by technocrats and small children.
My work pine in a drawer marked
poetry, written on sepia paper, pale
words forever unread, still, they will
make a beautiful bonfire come May.
boyhood friend
Boyhood Friend
He used to be my friend, fifty years lapsed;
when seeing him again I saw the boy in
an aged face. Back then he was awkward child
now he was snug in his elderliness, race over,
he had made it no more silly dreams, mild eyes,
quiet smile, fond of giving advice to the young,
and… me. He spoke of years I had forgotten,
of a silvery childhood, removed from mundane
reality or perhaps it was me who remembered
wrongly, or maybe I hadn’t yet picked out my
nuggets of gold illusions from the cold soil of
fear that was the infancy we had in common.
As the world despairs over these endless wars,
my friend is happily cocooned in holy senility.
He used to be my friend, fifty years lapsed;
when seeing him again I saw the boy in
an aged face. Back then he was awkward child
now he was snug in his elderliness, race over,
he had made it no more silly dreams, mild eyes,
quiet smile, fond of giving advice to the young,
and… me. He spoke of years I had forgotten,
of a silvery childhood, removed from mundane
reality or perhaps it was me who remembered
wrongly, or maybe I hadn’t yet picked out my
nuggets of gold illusions from the cold soil of
fear that was the infancy we had in common.
As the world despairs over these endless wars,
my friend is happily cocooned in holy senility.
tanka
Tanka
Torrential rain falls
From majestic black clouds
A massive army
Marching across the heaves
Armed with golden sabers
Torrential rain falls
From majestic black clouds
A massive army
Marching across the heaves
Armed with golden sabers
haiku
Haiku
Deliciously
With her I pass silky nights
Till aurora smiles
In obscure light
Flowers open their petals
Collect fecundity.
Deliciously
With her I pass silky nights
Till aurora smiles
In obscure light
Flowers open their petals
Collect fecundity.
the wine
The Wine (Andalusia inspired)
If you are offered this fruity,
wine from Spain, don’t dally;
for it makes you eyes shine
and you’ll see female beauty
in the most mundane of faces.
While lesser wine, from land
of colder climes, only makes
your feet exceedingly heavy.
If you are offered this fruity,
wine from Spain, don’t dally;
for it makes you eyes shine
and you’ll see female beauty
in the most mundane of faces.
While lesser wine, from land
of colder climes, only makes
your feet exceedingly heavy.
the great escape
The Great Escape
When the police, at the market, arrested a pair
of robbers, a mad cow came scampering, chaos
the robbers legged it. One was quickly caught,
the other ran into a zoo; where the police shot
an elephant and wounded a giraffe, (being big
when bullets fly is a draw back). The bad guy,
was trapped when he fled into an art gallery.
He collided with a landscape painting, destined
for the local jail’s reading room, a sandy road
coast line and an elm forest it had. The painting
parted, as the red sea; inside he hastily ran to
the nearby woods, whence he couldn’t escape;
and had plenty of time to ponder what God was
thinking of when he created the tiny house ant.
When the police, at the market, arrested a pair
of robbers, a mad cow came scampering, chaos
the robbers legged it. One was quickly caught,
the other ran into a zoo; where the police shot
an elephant and wounded a giraffe, (being big
when bullets fly is a draw back). The bad guy,
was trapped when he fled into an art gallery.
He collided with a landscape painting, destined
for the local jail’s reading room, a sandy road
coast line and an elm forest it had. The painting
parted, as the red sea; inside he hastily ran to
the nearby woods, whence he couldn’t escape;
and had plenty of time to ponder what God was
thinking of when he created the tiny house ant.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
tanka
Tanka
The poem I read
Was as a face coming out of mist,
Clear for a second
Then dreamily hidden again
Leaving me wondering why?
The poem I read
Was as a face coming out of mist,
Clear for a second
Then dreamily hidden again
Leaving me wondering why?
new system
Changing Ways
The white gloved hand of progress
is killing small bakery in the land
where I live; Dona Francesca’s shop
has closed and no more fresh bread
and cakes on a try for all to see and
inhale, she couldn’t meet the demand
of shiny machinery and pure hygiene.
Her bakery has sot black walls and
stone floor. A big van comes to our
village now, sells long lasting sliced
bread, safely wrapped in plastic, cakes
ditto, full of additive and artificial
aroma too. No surprises here, such as
a cockroach trying to look like a prune.
The white gloved hand of progress
is killing small bakery in the land
where I live; Dona Francesca’s shop
has closed and no more fresh bread
and cakes on a try for all to see and
inhale, she couldn’t meet the demand
of shiny machinery and pure hygiene.
Her bakery has sot black walls and
stone floor. A big van comes to our
village now, sells long lasting sliced
bread, safely wrapped in plastic, cakes
ditto, full of additive and artificial
aroma too. No surprises here, such as
a cockroach trying to look like a prune.
tanka
Tanka
Mothers straw-hat
On a hook in the hallway
Twenty years gone now
Covered in spider’s web
Yet I can see her kind smile
Mothers straw-hat
On a hook in the hallway
Twenty years gone now
Covered in spider’s web
Yet I can see her kind smile
water haiku
Haiku (Water Related.)
On the village’s pond
Silvery on sunless days
Float golden leaves
The mountain lake
When kissed by the breeze
Trembled thrilled.
Only the black swans
In the mystic forest tarn.
Knows where my car is.
Tropical lagoon
Clear as Portuguese vino verde
Is soberly calm.
Sleepy Finnish mere
Is covered by blue ice
Wakes up in April.
On the village’s pond
Silvery on sunless days
Float golden leaves
The mountain lake
When kissed by the breeze
Trembled thrilled.
Only the black swans
In the mystic forest tarn.
Knows where my car is.
Tropical lagoon
Clear as Portuguese vino verde
Is soberly calm.
Sleepy Finnish mere
Is covered by blue ice
Wakes up in April.
the inlet
The Inlet.
Ships in the bay tug at anchor
chains, bows point to the sea,
time now to leave, a busy ship
is meant for the big ocean and
adventures; tranquil bays are
for mast-less sail boats, dingy
and blue rowing boats, as terns
cry, wait for the cook to throw
left over food into green water.
Ships in the bay tug at anchor
chains, bows point to the sea,
time now to leave, a busy ship
is meant for the big ocean and
adventures; tranquil bays are
for mast-less sail boats, dingy
and blue rowing boats, as terns
cry, wait for the cook to throw
left over food into green water.
mars 2007
Mars 2007
By the sunny wall they sit,
the six black clad widows,
used to be eight, but winter
is damp and often cold in
the upper Algarve.
Knitting pins and darning
needles, glint in the light,
they pass the time talking
of the two that didn’t make
it…and patiently wait
By the sunny wall they sit,
the six black clad widows,
used to be eight, but winter
is damp and often cold in
the upper Algarve.
Knitting pins and darning
needles, glint in the light,
they pass the time talking
of the two that didn’t make
it…and patiently wait
a picture 1950
A Picture 1950
In sepia light a thin man,
dressed in a generous gray suit,
stands reading titles outside
a bookshop, in a London street.
A woman, in a long black dress,
white blues and flat sensible
shoes, walks up an taps him on
his shoulder.
They briefly kiss walk off
I wondered if they were long
time married or wise English
lovers on their lunch break.
In sepia light a thin man,
dressed in a generous gray suit,
stands reading titles outside
a bookshop, in a London street.
A woman, in a long black dress,
white blues and flat sensible
shoes, walks up an taps him on
his shoulder.
They briefly kiss walk off
I wondered if they were long
time married or wise English
lovers on their lunch break.
haiku
Haiku
Does spring offensive
Mean procreation and birdsong
Or war?
Morning zephyr
Flapping kitchen curtains
Aroma of coffee
Field ploughing tractors
Red soil and shrieking gulls
Horse empty landscape.
A grizzled donkey
Under a big carob tree
Makes it pretty.
So many flowers
Flamboyant aroma of death
Too late now for love
The good farmer
Has planted an almond tree
On my dog’s grave.
In a dead rabbit’s eyes
I saw the vast empty sky
Unmoved and godless
Does spring offensive
Mean procreation and birdsong
Or war?
Morning zephyr
Flapping kitchen curtains
Aroma of coffee
Field ploughing tractors
Red soil and shrieking gulls
Horse empty landscape.
A grizzled donkey
Under a big carob tree
Makes it pretty.
So many flowers
Flamboyant aroma of death
Too late now for love
The good farmer
Has planted an almond tree
On my dog’s grave.
In a dead rabbit’s eyes
I saw the vast empty sky
Unmoved and godless
charity
Charity.
When the old lady who sat alone at
a table near mine had finished eating,
the waiter cleared the table and brought
her, a cup of coffee. From an enormous
bag she took up some knitting and, yes,
knitted. She looked up, smiled, she had
lovely eyes, clear as a doll’s, and said,
to no one specific that she was making
wooly socks for the children of Angola
which, was very nice of her even if a bit
eccentric, we the other guests smiled too
I would have thought the socks more apt
for poor Eskimos in, say, Greenland; and
wondered if the others thought as I.
When the old lady who sat alone at
a table near mine had finished eating,
the waiter cleared the table and brought
her, a cup of coffee. From an enormous
bag she took up some knitting and, yes,
knitted. She looked up, smiled, she had
lovely eyes, clear as a doll’s, and said,
to no one specific that she was making
wooly socks for the children of Angola
which, was very nice of her even if a bit
eccentric, we the other guests smiled too
I would have thought the socks more apt
for poor Eskimos in, say, Greenland; and
wondered if the others thought as I.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
a poet's morning
A Poet’s Morning
I like to sleep late, almost till eight, my skeptical
duvet doesn’t like to blow its cover, so I pass
my time making up anagrams of famous names,
only I can’t spell and end up with words that make
no sense; I have tried for years to be a novelist but
after a page of reluctant words, I end up going back
to bed. It is said gorillas are bright because they are
able to fold a few leaves together and make a bed,
big deal, the sparrows on my roof make intricate
nests of feather, tiny twigs and digested worms,
and they get babies that try to push each other out;
nature is murder, mayhem and desperate survival.
So perhaps we should be more understanding; when
a flaming bush sets fire to a forest.
I like to sleep late, almost till eight, my skeptical
duvet doesn’t like to blow its cover, so I pass
my time making up anagrams of famous names,
only I can’t spell and end up with words that make
no sense; I have tried for years to be a novelist but
after a page of reluctant words, I end up going back
to bed. It is said gorillas are bright because they are
able to fold a few leaves together and make a bed,
big deal, the sparrows on my roof make intricate
nests of feather, tiny twigs and digested worms,
and they get babies that try to push each other out;
nature is murder, mayhem and desperate survival.
So perhaps we should be more understanding; when
a flaming bush sets fire to a forest.
Friday, March 09, 2007
the great democracy
The Great Democracy
It was a moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant, became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke, but
a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages, the price of
heating homes, electricity and food; the only true
issue in our civilized world. So should one be
shocked, isn’t that what we have worked towards
too? A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you
with any political philosophy, any ism of this and
that, only leaves you to worry about the ordinary
things like the ice cream parlour in Parkgate that
sells 21 flavours of ice cream, now isn’t that nice
to know and to giggle about.
It was a moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant, became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke, but
a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages, the price of
heating homes, electricity and food; the only true
issue in our civilized world. So should one be
shocked, isn’t that what we have worked towards
too? A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you
with any political philosophy, any ism of this and
that, only leaves you to worry about the ordinary
things like the ice cream parlour in Parkgate that
sells 21 flavours of ice cream, now isn’t that nice
to know and to giggle about.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
palavers
Palavers
If, I possessed the last word on earth,
and if the written language was obliterated
by a giant computer; and if I was able to
make anagrams of that word that would
amuse the multitude, if not academics,
who tend to be word blind anyway, would
they compare me to the greatest living
author in the world, a man called Amiss,
famous son of another Amiss? Or would
they say: do not for a moment think you’re
better than us, we know who you are, saw
you falling out of a bar a Thursday only
fortnight ago and non of the anagrams you
spoke getting up were the least funny
If, I possessed the last word on earth,
and if the written language was obliterated
by a giant computer; and if I was able to
make anagrams of that word that would
amuse the multitude, if not academics,
who tend to be word blind anyway, would
they compare me to the greatest living
author in the world, a man called Amiss,
famous son of another Amiss? Or would
they say: do not for a moment think you’re
better than us, we know who you are, saw
you falling out of a bar a Thursday only
fortnight ago and non of the anagrams you
spoke getting up were the least funny
senryu
Senryu
Murmur from the East
We ignored to our peril
Now it’s a scream
The thunder afar
Is not inclement weather
But exploding mines
Body parts drizzle
When eager children pick up
Toys dropped from planes
Man born to evil
Isn’t it a miracle then?
That there is goodness
Murmur from the East
We ignored to our peril
Now it’s a scream
The thunder afar
Is not inclement weather
But exploding mines
Body parts drizzle
When eager children pick up
Toys dropped from planes
Man born to evil
Isn’t it a miracle then?
That there is goodness
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
the good life
The Good Life
After the sandy beach, the fenland with birds,
foxes, rabbits, woods and ponds, un-spoilt by
developers; no more, real estate, condos, have
turned over the land like rancid butter, rolling
green field, juicy grass, but not a cow in sight,
here golf balls fall and they really are inedible.
Come buy an apartment good investment for
you and the family, you can’t lose, why have
one home when you can have four.
Thousands of empty homes only used a few
days a year watched over buy security guards;
poverty is unseen here it has been eradicated,
there is no need for you to seek places where
people live in shacks and under dirty plastic.
After the sandy beach, the fenland with birds,
foxes, rabbits, woods and ponds, un-spoilt by
developers; no more, real estate, condos, have
turned over the land like rancid butter, rolling
green field, juicy grass, but not a cow in sight,
here golf balls fall and they really are inedible.
Come buy an apartment good investment for
you and the family, you can’t lose, why have
one home when you can have four.
Thousands of empty homes only used a few
days a year watched over buy security guards;
poverty is unseen here it has been eradicated,
there is no need for you to seek places where
people live in shacks and under dirty plastic.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The Lonesome
Sunday evening only a few cafes are open catering
to the lonely; the old lady, sat at a table near mine,
ordered the dish of the day and red wine, quarter
past nine, she always comes at that time it coincides
with the arrival of a black man who wears ridicules
earrings, a man who is showing a defiant, gay face
to the world, yet vulnerable, you know, if he could,
he would take up your burden. There are no happy
endings to stories told we end up alone and nothing
matters much. Your questions will not be answered,
she knows that and when the café is empty pays him
a beer and drink another glass of wine.
Sunday evening only a few cafes are open catering
to the lonely; the old lady, sat at a table near mine,
ordered the dish of the day and red wine, quarter
past nine, she always comes at that time it coincides
with the arrival of a black man who wears ridicules
earrings, a man who is showing a defiant, gay face
to the world, yet vulnerable, you know, if he could,
he would take up your burden. There are no happy
endings to stories told we end up alone and nothing
matters much. Your questions will not be answered,
she knows that and when the café is empty pays him
a beer and drink another glass of wine.
A Portuguese Graveyard...
The ship, riding swells, is anchored in the bay,
pilot’s late, yet time in shipping is essential; or
perhaps, I’m mistaken; it’s all a game, seascape
as seen from a cemetery. Visiting her mother’s
vault; a hole in a wall, glass-door, a grim coffin,
a sepia photo of the deceased, in a rust striped
frame; dry bones and peaceful silence
She opened the chamber’s door, began dusting,
the photo and the coffin while humming softly
as to a child. So much light here and colourful
plastic flowers, it would be nice to sleep here,
if not today, to have a dutiful daughter coming
every spring came, tickling my old bones, while
telling me about ships anchored in the bay
The ship, riding swells, is anchored in the bay,
pilot’s late, yet time in shipping is essential; or
perhaps, I’m mistaken; it’s all a game, seascape
as seen from a cemetery. Visiting her mother’s
vault; a hole in a wall, glass-door, a grim coffin,
a sepia photo of the deceased, in a rust striped
frame; dry bones and peaceful silence
She opened the chamber’s door, began dusting,
the photo and the coffin while humming softly
as to a child. So much light here and colourful
plastic flowers, it would be nice to sleep here,
if not today, to have a dutiful daughter coming
every spring came, tickling my old bones, while
telling me about ships anchored in the bay
Friday, March 02, 2007
the legacy
The Legacy.
“I can’t live here in this flat; the hall is an ice-box
generations of ill will, trying to get into the kitchen
through the keyhole, these walls layers of cooking
vapour, cabbage and cat-piss hide family abuse and
tears can’t you hear the echo of screams, it’s Eve
the window in the living room is broken, blood in
vomit on the floor, someone in the bedroom is in
agony, I can’t stay here.” This is your heritage, you
have nowhere else to go.” ”Yes I have, got a house
in Spain, it’s in a vale by a river, my dog is waiting
it has waited long.” “You go to Spain every day but
always return” ” That’s because I have been going
on the wrong bus, tomorrow I’ll get it right, you can
keep my birthright, I’m not coming back.”
“I can’t live here in this flat; the hall is an ice-box
generations of ill will, trying to get into the kitchen
through the keyhole, these walls layers of cooking
vapour, cabbage and cat-piss hide family abuse and
tears can’t you hear the echo of screams, it’s Eve
the window in the living room is broken, blood in
vomit on the floor, someone in the bedroom is in
agony, I can’t stay here.” This is your heritage, you
have nowhere else to go.” ”Yes I have, got a house
in Spain, it’s in a vale by a river, my dog is waiting
it has waited long.” “You go to Spain every day but
always return” ” That’s because I have been going
on the wrong bus, tomorrow I’ll get it right, you can
keep my birthright, I’m not coming back.”
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Street hero
Street Hero
My brother was famous in our town, the biggest Saturday
brawler of them all:” Why don’t you write poetry about him,”
his admirers said, yes, why not! Walked tall through town,
no one dared looking at him in a funny way, it was all about
respect, that strange word, not to be loved, but to be feared.
He didn’t have to pay for his drinks, even the police said:
“How do you do.” But of course he didn’t work didn’t like
being told what to do, spent days at the gym, “my body is
a weapon”, he once said... Didn’t help him much, though,
shot in the head coming out of a bar, a puddle of blood on
a dirty pavement. His mates were proud of the way he died,
maudlin outpouring of grief, mountains of flowers; now
a talked about legend; a street hero’s dead, welcome a new
one. But the only one who really loved him was his mother.
My brother was famous in our town, the biggest Saturday
brawler of them all:” Why don’t you write poetry about him,”
his admirers said, yes, why not! Walked tall through town,
no one dared looking at him in a funny way, it was all about
respect, that strange word, not to be loved, but to be feared.
He didn’t have to pay for his drinks, even the police said:
“How do you do.” But of course he didn’t work didn’t like
being told what to do, spent days at the gym, “my body is
a weapon”, he once said... Didn’t help him much, though,
shot in the head coming out of a bar, a puddle of blood on
a dirty pavement. His mates were proud of the way he died,
maudlin outpouring of grief, mountains of flowers; now
a talked about legend; a street hero’s dead, welcome a new
one. But the only one who really loved him was his mother.
Jonas, the Cook.
Met a man in a bar in Kingston, he told me of Jonas
the merchant navy cook’s, demise. Late at night leaning
on the railing, looking at the stars Jonas’ ship lurched
and he fell into the sea. A good swimmer he floated on
his back and continued to watch the stars, thought they
were really close, to dawn and found he was so close to
a tiny island that he could wade ashore. Looked up and
saw a vapour trail and was hit on the head by a block of
ice released from the plane. The man in the bar, who had
come to the island to live alone, buried Jonas, a cross,
of driftwood on top, which reminded the loner, life was
to be lived elsewhere, so he sailed back to the mainland;
only knew it was Jonas when reading about the missing
cook; never told anyone though, thought it best that way.
Met a man in a bar in Kingston, he told me of Jonas
the merchant navy cook’s, demise. Late at night leaning
on the railing, looking at the stars Jonas’ ship lurched
and he fell into the sea. A good swimmer he floated on
his back and continued to watch the stars, thought they
were really close, to dawn and found he was so close to
a tiny island that he could wade ashore. Looked up and
saw a vapour trail and was hit on the head by a block of
ice released from the plane. The man in the bar, who had
come to the island to live alone, buried Jonas, a cross,
of driftwood on top, which reminded the loner, life was
to be lived elsewhere, so he sailed back to the mainland;
only knew it was Jonas when reading about the missing
cook; never told anyone though, thought it best that way.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Redondo 2004
Redondo 2004.
The little black man is buying wine, so
am I, gives me a conspiratorial smile.
Our hands a fluttering bird wings, waits
to take flight at night, dreams and music
only we can hear no need for a radio.
This nocturnal practice, we speak to no
one of, then it’s morning as we wait for
twilight time and a new solitary journey
through our many yesterdays begins.
The little black man is buying wine, so
am I, gives me a conspiratorial smile.
Our hands a fluttering bird wings, waits
to take flight at night, dreams and music
only we can hear no need for a radio.
This nocturnal practice, we speak to no
one of, then it’s morning as we wait for
twilight time and a new solitary journey
through our many yesterdays begins.
obstacles
Obstacles.
I have moved the great berg in front of my
House, it took years, but I had to do this to
See; now there is a big black hole that waits
To be filled by candour, if you stumble and
Fall into it, look up and see an honest coin,
Don’t fault me, blame obstinate poetry that
Refuses to play games of fame with mirrors
And holy smoke.
I have moved the great berg in front of my
House, it took years, but I had to do this to
See; now there is a big black hole that waits
To be filled by candour, if you stumble and
Fall into it, look up and see an honest coin,
Don’t fault me, blame obstinate poetry that
Refuses to play games of fame with mirrors
And holy smoke.
In your face...mate
In Your Face…mate.
Moonlight becomes me,
guided by it pianissimo
I find my way home from
the den of illusions,
and hurt laughter.
In a rain puddle, where
the road is uneven,
see my aged face, looking
young as a Greek god’s,
on my head I wear
a shiny helmet;
till a car comes along and
splashes the picture of
self delusion into drops of mud
Moonlight becomes me,
guided by it pianissimo
I find my way home from
the den of illusions,
and hurt laughter.
In a rain puddle, where
the road is uneven,
see my aged face, looking
young as a Greek god’s,
on my head I wear
a shiny helmet;
till a car comes along and
splashes the picture of
self delusion into drops of mud
another dawn
Another Dawn
Restless night, Agent Orange, plums of fire
and burning bushes, silent dawn a flock of
tired birds flew past looking for trees, to sit
and rest a little before flying up north.
The field of almond trees, planted long ago,
without the precision of economy, was now
a battlefield of death, men with chainsaws
walked around looking for signs of life.
A scream of agony flew upwards from
pained soul, exploded into a kaleidoscopic
cacophony, fading against a sky clouded
by white sorrow and spent wrath.
Why cannot things stay the same? A face in
a crowd, everything I loved going, going
gone, the ever changing world, now sky blue
warming sun; afar, a dog barks.
They are planting orange trees in my field
insipid fruit machines, citrus twice a year;
for cash crops my trees had been slain; on
combat zone there is no mercy.
Restless night, Agent Orange, plums of fire
and burning bushes, silent dawn a flock of
tired birds flew past looking for trees, to sit
and rest a little before flying up north.
The field of almond trees, planted long ago,
without the precision of economy, was now
a battlefield of death, men with chainsaws
walked around looking for signs of life.
A scream of agony flew upwards from
pained soul, exploded into a kaleidoscopic
cacophony, fading against a sky clouded
by white sorrow and spent wrath.
Why cannot things stay the same? A face in
a crowd, everything I loved going, going
gone, the ever changing world, now sky blue
warming sun; afar, a dog barks.
They are planting orange trees in my field
insipid fruit machines, citrus twice a year;
for cash crops my trees had been slain; on
combat zone there is no mercy.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
racew relation 1950
Race Relation (1950)
All we knew was what our teacher told
black people where big but very nice and
lived in bamboo huts, so when we saw
one coming off a ship we took him home
to my aunt, mother had said she was a tart,
the black man also had a bottle of rum and
cigarettes which was in great demand in
those days. She threw us kids out, locked
the door and drew the curtains (she lived
in a basement flat) disappointed we went
back to the docks to find another one to
show around.
All we knew was what our teacher told
black people where big but very nice and
lived in bamboo huts, so when we saw
one coming off a ship we took him home
to my aunt, mother had said she was a tart,
the black man also had a bottle of rum and
cigarettes which was in great demand in
those days. She threw us kids out, locked
the door and drew the curtains (she lived
in a basement flat) disappointed we went
back to the docks to find another one to
show around.
the warrior child
The Warrior Child
Little Johanna and I sat under a bridge I was going
to marry her when grown up, she fretted, said no,
so I bit her chubby, summer brown arm, she cried
ran home, her mother too said I was a bad boy.
Fed up with women and their tears, I ran off and
joined the German army, they had a barracks nearby
and a cannon pointing upwards in case a bomber
should come our way; I sat on it and pretend
shooting down enemy planes, had a rifle too made
of wood, the real thing was too heavy, loved being
a soldier till I ate some sweet smelling snuff, threw
up and was carried home, but my dreams where often
plagued by white, still faces in the snow, the dark
realities of war no child should have to witness.
Little Johanna and I sat under a bridge I was going
to marry her when grown up, she fretted, said no,
so I bit her chubby, summer brown arm, she cried
ran home, her mother too said I was a bad boy.
Fed up with women and their tears, I ran off and
joined the German army, they had a barracks nearby
and a cannon pointing upwards in case a bomber
should come our way; I sat on it and pretend
shooting down enemy planes, had a rifle too made
of wood, the real thing was too heavy, loved being
a soldier till I ate some sweet smelling snuff, threw
up and was carried home, but my dreams where often
plagued by white, still faces in the snow, the dark
realities of war no child should have to witness.
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