Poetry Carrousel
In Norway poets are well educated
they go to university and get a diploma
to stick on the wall in their studies.
They are respected throughout land
and in all school children learn dead
poets, name by heart
They don’t get paid as no one publish
their work, but get invited to the best
literary parties and poetry festivals.
Poets, who have been accepted by
the literati, are revered and can get,
if needed a writer’s stipend.
But the best thing for a poet is to
have a private income, say, from
his grandfather, the shipping tycoon.
The man who founded his dynasty
by sending over-insured ships to sea
hoping they would hit a horn mine.
If you are not an accepted poet you
can still be published by, say, sending
your work over the internet.
And if lucky you can have your work
assessed by the grandson of the mogul
who killed your own grandfather.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
bleak coast
Bleak Coast
On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?
A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slap the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.
On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?
A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slap the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
a night to remember
A Night to Remember.
It is cold here in this room that has wall paper
With faded roses on, which absorb the light.
From a 40 watt bulb stuck naked and hanging
On a thin rubber encased electric wire.
Too dark to read too early for a bed that doesn’t
Look inviting, I wonder who many losers
Have been trying to find sleep looking up to
Silence and asking the same question: “how
Could it come to this?” I sit on a chair and look
Out of the window, dark shadows move some
With haste in the hope of getting away from,
Here, but they have yet to formulate, to where?
On a ship of dreams I sail, at dawn ice crystals
Glitters on the window pane and tell of hope.
It is cold here in this room that has wall paper
With faded roses on, which absorb the light.
From a 40 watt bulb stuck naked and hanging
On a thin rubber encased electric wire.
Too dark to read too early for a bed that doesn’t
Look inviting, I wonder who many losers
Have been trying to find sleep looking up to
Silence and asking the same question: “how
Could it come to this?” I sit on a chair and look
Out of the window, dark shadows move some
With haste in the hope of getting away from,
Here, but they have yet to formulate, to where?
On a ship of dreams I sail, at dawn ice crystals
Glitters on the window pane and tell of hope.
Monday, December 15, 2008
a christmas tale
Meat is Meat (a christmas tale)
Santa came running up the road his coat was open
exposing a hairy belly, arms full of parcels, asked
me if I was a vet, because Rudolf had broken its leg.
Told him I was a destroyer of Christmas, took delight
telling children that Santa was their own uncle Ted)
every child got an uncle Ted) but was willing this once
to help him out. I called a Lapland friend, who has
a herd of reindeer lives in a tent and is dressed for
year long winters, he gave us a reindeer for free as
he too was a sentimental fool and had eight children.
Problem solved, but what about Rudolf? We sent him
to an abattoir where he was humanly slaughtered,
(humanly, means he was shot in the temple when
was carrots) as a reindeer is too cute to eat its flesh
was sold as veal, which is meat of doe eyed calves.
Santa came running up the road his coat was open
exposing a hairy belly, arms full of parcels, asked
me if I was a vet, because Rudolf had broken its leg.
Told him I was a destroyer of Christmas, took delight
telling children that Santa was their own uncle Ted)
every child got an uncle Ted) but was willing this once
to help him out. I called a Lapland friend, who has
a herd of reindeer lives in a tent and is dressed for
year long winters, he gave us a reindeer for free as
he too was a sentimental fool and had eight children.
Problem solved, but what about Rudolf? We sent him
to an abattoir where he was humanly slaughtered,
(humanly, means he was shot in the temple when
was carrots) as a reindeer is too cute to eat its flesh
was sold as veal, which is meat of doe eyed calves.
the comedy
The Comedy
When the sun sets he flies through the night to
far away enclaves, looks around and declare
that he sees an improvement from eight years
ago, then he takes off, flies through the night
and in his own dreams and lands unheralded
on his own, sacred soil. The mishap on his way,
a reporter’s loose boots, has reduced his tenure
to farce, we should have laughed only it wasn’t
funny just sad; end of a failed system.
To build a tower, higher then the slain towers,
of scraped gas guzzlers, lit a fire and let it burn
itself out: end of story. The historians can pick
the skeleton clean and tell us what went wrong.
The new century has been eight years delayed
it begins in January 2009 and it will be a painful
birth; but if the elite tinkers with the old system
Athens will burn for no gain; blood will flow in
rat infested sewers as nihilism reigns supreme.
When the sun sets he flies through the night to
far away enclaves, looks around and declare
that he sees an improvement from eight years
ago, then he takes off, flies through the night
and in his own dreams and lands unheralded
on his own, sacred soil. The mishap on his way,
a reporter’s loose boots, has reduced his tenure
to farce, we should have laughed only it wasn’t
funny just sad; end of a failed system.
To build a tower, higher then the slain towers,
of scraped gas guzzlers, lit a fire and let it burn
itself out: end of story. The historians can pick
the skeleton clean and tell us what went wrong.
The new century has been eight years delayed
it begins in January 2009 and it will be a painful
birth; but if the elite tinkers with the old system
Athens will burn for no gain; blood will flow in
rat infested sewers as nihilism reigns supreme.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
cloud nine
Cloud Nine
I see people’s faces on TV filled with rapture when
hearing rousing political or religious speeches, feel
a certain sense of envy. As an observer, ecstasy is
a mystery to me. I don’t care for its second face
though, the insistence of being right and willing to
commit act of violence in the name of an abstraction.
It’s been said:” it is better to believe in something
than in nothing.” The more I think of that sentence
the less sense it makes. Ok, I believe in equality and
justice, there is little of it, but I’m, no not so sure of
western type fairness anymore, as it is mostly given
those with money. I’d love to like to be able to jump
up and down- no, not in a bed, but in a town’s square,
amongst the people and hear a moving, soon to be
USA’s president, Hussein Obama kind of discourse.
I see people’s faces on TV filled with rapture when
hearing rousing political or religious speeches, feel
a certain sense of envy. As an observer, ecstasy is
a mystery to me. I don’t care for its second face
though, the insistence of being right and willing to
commit act of violence in the name of an abstraction.
It’s been said:” it is better to believe in something
than in nothing.” The more I think of that sentence
the less sense it makes. Ok, I believe in equality and
justice, there is little of it, but I’m, no not so sure of
western type fairness anymore, as it is mostly given
those with money. I’d love to like to be able to jump
up and down- no, not in a bed, but in a town’s square,
amongst the people and hear a moving, soon to be
USA’s president, Hussein Obama kind of discourse.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
a belly full
A Belly Full
Christmas Eve, festive shop windows
cast glee on sleet, huddled in a doorway
as seeking the fading warmth of people
in a hurry to get home, an old man sits,
looks a window display of phony happy
Santa Clauses.
Tomorrow they’ll be brought down to
a dank crypt, oddly smile in darkness
with rats nesting in their vacant bellies,
while he- the real one- will carry on as
the town’s longest living drunk for one
more year.
Christmas Eve, festive shop windows
cast glee on sleet, huddled in a doorway
as seeking the fading warmth of people
in a hurry to get home, an old man sits,
looks a window display of phony happy
Santa Clauses.
Tomorrow they’ll be brought down to
a dank crypt, oddly smile in darkness
with rats nesting in their vacant bellies,
while he- the real one- will carry on as
the town’s longest living drunk for one
more year.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
accident
Accident
Yellow dog, looks like damp winter straw,
crosses the road in front of me, big beast
been away from for days in pursuit of brief
happiness following the scent of love, or
is it just an instinct you unthinkingly must
obey? Tired now lost weight too it will be
good to come home eat and flop down by
the fire, wag your tail and lick your master’s
hand he will think you love him and give
you an extra bone; you will fiercely growl,
bark madly especially against other dogs.
Thud! Yellow beast, bundle of bloody fur,
sorry dog, abstruse night, I forgot to brake.
Yellow dog, looks like damp winter straw,
crosses the road in front of me, big beast
been away from for days in pursuit of brief
happiness following the scent of love, or
is it just an instinct you unthinkingly must
obey? Tired now lost weight too it will be
good to come home eat and flop down by
the fire, wag your tail and lick your master’s
hand he will think you love him and give
you an extra bone; you will fiercely growl,
bark madly especially against other dogs.
Thud! Yellow beast, bundle of bloody fur,
sorry dog, abstruse night, I forgot to brake.
Lusitania
Lusitania
From the highroad I look down on
a town made of stones, deep down in
the valley where a wide river flows.
There are no trees so high up only
undulating blue/gray grass that looks
as the sea near the coast of Labrador.
It has been raining, clouds break up
and sunlight swipes the town and
I see an ancient fairytale of granite
Church bells toll I’ve forgotten it is
“the day of the dead” as a procession
snails its way through narrow streets.
The pageant crosses a bridge walks to
a marble necropolis where ancestors
rest; and the breeze sighs me a dream.
From the highroad I look down on
a town made of stones, deep down in
the valley where a wide river flows.
There are no trees so high up only
undulating blue/gray grass that looks
as the sea near the coast of Labrador.
It has been raining, clouds break up
and sunlight swipes the town and
I see an ancient fairytale of granite
Church bells toll I’ve forgotten it is
“the day of the dead” as a procession
snails its way through narrow streets.
The pageant crosses a bridge walks to
a marble necropolis where ancestors
rest; and the breeze sighs me a dream.
haiku
Haiku (dance)
Accordions play
In the land of thousand tarns
She and summer dance
In blue suits and tie
They are elegant and polite
The Ballroom dancers
Nihilistic
The Latin dance of rumba
Passion ends in death
PS. Finland is often called
“The thousand lakes land.”
Accordions play
In the land of thousand tarns
She and summer dance
In blue suits and tie
They are elegant and polite
The Ballroom dancers
Nihilistic
The Latin dance of rumba
Passion ends in death
PS. Finland is often called
“The thousand lakes land.”
festive time
Festive Time for Some
Pale little bodies wrapped in plastic
in the open freezer at the supermarket,
tiny eyebrows, closed eyes; they are
called suckling pigs I think they look
like babies…and, of course, they are.
A woman with two children in tow
bought one, forty two Euros she paid.
” Look mum,” said one, the baby pig
has eyebrows just like us, are you
sure it is dead and not just sleeping?”
Pale little bodies wrapped in plastic
in the open freezer at the supermarket,
tiny eyebrows, closed eyes; they are
called suckling pigs I think they look
like babies…and, of course, they are.
A woman with two children in tow
bought one, forty two Euros she paid.
” Look mum,” said one, the baby pig
has eyebrows just like us, are you
sure it is dead and not just sleeping?”
broken window
Broken Window
“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.
Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can’t be choosers” I was silent.
The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.
“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.
Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can’t be choosers” I was silent.
The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Portuguese Blues
Portuguese Blues.
The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and then put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered bosom, sings
Fado, dark eyes fill the screen with sadness;
yeah she has been around the block ok; I put
my jacket on and walk to the nearest bar.
The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and then put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered bosom, sings
Fado, dark eyes fill the screen with sadness;
yeah she has been around the block ok; I put
my jacket on and walk to the nearest bar.
broken window
Broken Window
“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.
Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can be choosers” I was silent.
The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.
“Stand aside, the shop keeper impolitely said,
paying customer first.” Mother and I stood aside
and waited it took long busy now before Yule,
she had a card from the social to purchase boots
and jumpers and I was getting fidgety and upset.
Finally we got our stuff in a brown paper bag,
time was hard fancy papers was for those who
had money. I was seven but the humiliation was
gnawing a big hole in my guts, mother said:
“Beggars can be choosers” I was silent.
The local paper reported about a broken shop
window, oddly nothing was stolen, I smiled
proud of my mother, she had a job nearby
cleaning the office of a tropical fruit importer,
in a good mood now she smoked a cigarette.
winter afternoon
Winter Afternoon
The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and after put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered chest sings Fado,
dark eyes fill the screen with sadness; yeah
she has been around the block ok; put my jacket
on and walk to the nearest bar.
The kitchen is in perfect order nothing out
of place as winter light seeps through clean
windows and the fridge hums:” open me.”
I do and find cheese and tomatoes wrapped
in plastic, butter in a dish. No, too much work
making a sandwich and after put everything
neatly back in place. Coffee? Nah, it means
boiling water finding a mug and rinsing it
after use. The kitchen is full of gloomy light
I have to push my way out. On TV a big lady,
with dyed hair and powdered chest sings Fado,
dark eyes fill the screen with sadness; yeah
she has been around the block ok; put my jacket
on and walk to the nearest bar.
tanka
Tanka.
Chefs are “in” right now
And isn’t that nice to know
They used to be
Unshaven men in the back
Grumpy and reeking of booze
Chefs are “in” right now
And isn’t that nice to know
They used to be
Unshaven men in the back
Grumpy and reeking of booze
the Unspoken
The Unspoken
On the top of the Welsh dresser in the kitchen coffee, tea and
milk jugs made of tin stand in an unemployed group, reminds
me of a set of middle aged people, not the kind who do work
outs, are ambitious, talk fast and laugh loudly while sizing
each other up with jealous eyes. No, just regular gray people
at a shopping entre near a housing estate that hasn’t drowned
in graffiti and populated by the unlucky who are losers before
they are teenagers; I think they are gentiles with dust on and
too polite to speak badly of anyone, lost in thought waiting for
a bus no one has told them will not arrive to take them back
whence they came; to a fabled place were summer lasted long,
winters had proper snow to ski on and frozen lakes to skate on.
Utensils made of tin, not quite silver, tell of a time that never
was, when they were polished and shone in gentle candle light.
On the top of the Welsh dresser in the kitchen coffee, tea and
milk jugs made of tin stand in an unemployed group, reminds
me of a set of middle aged people, not the kind who do work
outs, are ambitious, talk fast and laugh loudly while sizing
each other up with jealous eyes. No, just regular gray people
at a shopping entre near a housing estate that hasn’t drowned
in graffiti and populated by the unlucky who are losers before
they are teenagers; I think they are gentiles with dust on and
too polite to speak badly of anyone, lost in thought waiting for
a bus no one has told them will not arrive to take them back
whence they came; to a fabled place were summer lasted long,
winters had proper snow to ski on and frozen lakes to skate on.
Utensils made of tin, not quite silver, tell of a time that never
was, when they were polished and shone in gentle candle light.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
epigram
Epigram
Lone mothers with infants have to go
out and find work, the government
only help corporations and big banks.
Lone mothers with infants have to go
out and find work, the government
only help corporations and big banks.
the importance of newspaper
The Importance of Newspapers
“I know nothing I don’t read newspapers anymore, so
whatever people are up to it isn’t any of my business.
I live in peace with myself and as far as I’m concerned
the Palestinians can get lost, they must learn, as I have,
to keep their head down and accept their situation is as
fated, for now. If they learn to live by this simple rule
they will find happiness, I know for I have been a sober
member of AA for than twenty years and I’m superbly
contented. I just bought a newish car, something I could
never have afforded when drinking; I’m certain that
the Palestinians, if they keep their heads down, accept
facts, can by cars and washing machines too.” Thus
he spoke my old friend who used to be very funny before
he stopped reading newspapers”
“I know nothing I don’t read newspapers anymore, so
whatever people are up to it isn’t any of my business.
I live in peace with myself and as far as I’m concerned
the Palestinians can get lost, they must learn, as I have,
to keep their head down and accept their situation is as
fated, for now. If they learn to live by this simple rule
they will find happiness, I know for I have been a sober
member of AA for than twenty years and I’m superbly
contented. I just bought a newish car, something I could
never have afforded when drinking; I’m certain that
the Palestinians, if they keep their heads down, accept
facts, can by cars and washing machines too.” Thus
he spoke my old friend who used to be very funny before
he stopped reading newspapers”
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
epigram
Epigram
Lone mothers with infants must work,
they can’t hang about doing nothing;
receive handouts from the state like
they should be banks, or corporations.
Lone mothers with infants must work,
they can’t hang about doing nothing;
receive handouts from the state like
they should be banks, or corporations.
The fisherman/poem-story
Every Saturday morning he went fishing in
his little rowing boat and in the afternoon
he came back with a bucket of sea riches,
already gutted and cleaned for his wife and
friends; Monday morning she washed his
“fishing” jeans, hung them on the balcony.
One Saturday he didn’t return, they looked
for him everywhere on and under the water,
his boat was found floating nice and clean
on the mirror silent sea; and there was great
lamentation, greatly missed by wife, friends
and fishmongers.
Time heals grief and sorrow his widow,
still young, and one day another pair of
jeans hung on her balcony, bluer, longer
and perhaps wider around the waist, and
the aroma of fresh food of the sea wafted
through the house just as before.
The disappeared man had gone to Spain
with his mistress, there they lived happily
for a month or so till his saving was gone
and he had to take a job on a building site
12 hours a day six days a week, as a low
paid illegal worker without valid papers.
This ill suited his mistress who liked to
go out at night, dance and talk to friends
he was too tired and went to bed at nine
in the evening… This was no good, even
worse, when he came home and found
furniture gone, soap and toilet paper too.
In despair he took the bus home, and in
vanishing light walked through his old
street looked up and saw the jeans hung
there to dry, knew all was lost, found his
boat neatly docked, rowed and rowed to
land had gone and he vanished for good.
On the mirror silent sea a boat was seen,
in it a few dead mackerels and a pair of
Spanish made boots; there was gossip,
mad rumour spread by an old man who
said he had seen the ghost of the missing
walk through the street at twilight time.
The boots fitted the new “fish winner,”
since little troubled him, he wore them
with ease, but kept them in the boat as
the widow didn’t want to be reminded of
her vanished husband and the soft voiced
murmur that whispered of infidelity.
joh
Every Saturday morning he went fishing in
his little rowing boat and in the afternoon
he came back with a bucket of sea riches,
already gutted and cleaned for his wife and
friends; Monday morning she washed his
“fishing” jeans, hung them on the balcony.
One Saturday he didn’t return, they looked
for him everywhere on and under the water,
his boat was found floating nice and clean
on the mirror silent sea; and there was great
lamentation, greatly missed by wife, friends
and fishmongers.
Time heals grief and sorrow his widow,
still young, and one day another pair of
jeans hung on her balcony, bluer, longer
and perhaps wider around the waist, and
the aroma of fresh food of the sea wafted
through the house just as before.
The disappeared man had gone to Spain
with his mistress, there they lived happily
for a month or so till his saving was gone
and he had to take a job on a building site
12 hours a day six days a week, as a low
paid illegal worker without valid papers.
This ill suited his mistress who liked to
go out at night, dance and talk to friends
he was too tired and went to bed at nine
in the evening… This was no good, even
worse, when he came home and found
furniture gone, soap and toilet paper too.
In despair he took the bus home, and in
vanishing light walked through his old
street looked up and saw the jeans hung
there to dry, knew all was lost, found his
boat neatly docked, rowed and rowed to
land had gone and he vanished for good.
On the mirror silent sea a boat was seen,
in it a few dead mackerels and a pair of
Spanish made boots; there was gossip,
mad rumour spread by an old man who
said he had seen the ghost of the missing
walk through the street at twilight time.
The boots fitted the new “fish winner,”
since little troubled him, he wore them
with ease, but kept them in the boat as
the widow didn’t want to be reminded of
her vanished husband and the soft voiced
murmur that whispered of infidelity.
joh
the hope
The Hope
The jet black cloud that hangs over the village
is a malevolent pillow held by arms of awesome
power ready to press down and strangle us.
Serves us right we have been smug thinking we
had the keys to peace, shaking our heads
lecturing others how to, and then it all collapses.
Our democratic system that makes it possible
for the rich to steal from the poor, or our system
of law, where justice is given to those who can
afford it. It is no longer safe to live here, but how
to leave? Car-lights cannot penetrate through
the miasma of night on a road that has lost its
purpose and ends in a vale of nihilistic laughter
where the victims are told to live in peace with
their tormentors. Yet there is a beacon of light
a still flame of hope, the heart of humanity is not
yet defeated.
The jet black cloud that hangs over the village
is a malevolent pillow held by arms of awesome
power ready to press down and strangle us.
Serves us right we have been smug thinking we
had the keys to peace, shaking our heads
lecturing others how to, and then it all collapses.
Our democratic system that makes it possible
for the rich to steal from the poor, or our system
of law, where justice is given to those who can
afford it. It is no longer safe to live here, but how
to leave? Car-lights cannot penetrate through
the miasma of night on a road that has lost its
purpose and ends in a vale of nihilistic laughter
where the victims are told to live in peace with
their tormentors. Yet there is a beacon of light
a still flame of hope, the heart of humanity is not
yet defeated.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
my web page
My web Page
I’m telling you this because the experts
say I can have my own page, so at last
I can tell you that my father was a swine.
My words of complaint came too late,
driving on the dirt roads of Idaho with
my drunken dad is not a story to tell.
There are so many stories on the net
of children abused that reading them
all causes compassion fatigue.
I kissed her sex, her delight shone on
my face. She kissed me too, said I was
her lover but left me for her husband
I have exposed, myself to a world
indifferent to my woes, but would
eagerly drink my tale were I famous
Safe in obscurity you can scour every
web page in the world, the answer
is: “ we don’t know that name.”
My father’s son could do no wrong;
he’s got diabetes, the sanctimonious,
old crock, yet he is loved by women.
I’m, an advocate of innocent reality,
my client is not guilty, come spring
we’re going on a holiday to Greece.
I’m telling you this because the experts
say I can have my own page, so at last
I can tell you that my father was a swine.
My words of complaint came too late,
driving on the dirt roads of Idaho with
my drunken dad is not a story to tell.
There are so many stories on the net
of children abused that reading them
all causes compassion fatigue.
I kissed her sex, her delight shone on
my face. She kissed me too, said I was
her lover but left me for her husband
I have exposed, myself to a world
indifferent to my woes, but would
eagerly drink my tale were I famous
Safe in obscurity you can scour every
web page in the world, the answer
is: “ we don’t know that name.”
My father’s son could do no wrong;
he’s got diabetes, the sanctimonious,
old crock, yet he is loved by women.
I’m, an advocate of innocent reality,
my client is not guilty, come spring
we’re going on a holiday to Greece.
how can i forget
How can I forget
August eight nineteen sixty two was the day Marilyn died,
overdose they said but why was her lovely face so blue?
Once she wore a green jumper a chilly February day, aware
of the impression she had on men, still she wanted to be taken
seriously. Alas, she was not, men could not see that the object
of their desire had brains too. Her talent was disregarded they
tried to keep her in a cocoon of a child/ woman, the more
she kicked and screamed the more men of power found her
desirable a woman to be conquered. Despair, she couldn’t
win, she had to escape, but how? A blue face on the slap
in the morgue. They said Marilyn had tried to ring someone.
What can I say I loved her, she was an artist. Some day a new
generation will see her as a great actress who had laughter in
her heart and sexuality based on true love, and I whispered:
“Darling Marilyn you’re free.” Ok, this is all very well, but
today it is the Eve. In my heart it is always August eight and
I hate turkey, funny hats, drunken uncles, aunts and children.
August eight nineteen sixty two was the day Marilyn died,
overdose they said but why was her lovely face so blue?
Once she wore a green jumper a chilly February day, aware
of the impression she had on men, still she wanted to be taken
seriously. Alas, she was not, men could not see that the object
of their desire had brains too. Her talent was disregarded they
tried to keep her in a cocoon of a child/ woman, the more
she kicked and screamed the more men of power found her
desirable a woman to be conquered. Despair, she couldn’t
win, she had to escape, but how? A blue face on the slap
in the morgue. They said Marilyn had tried to ring someone.
What can I say I loved her, she was an artist. Some day a new
generation will see her as a great actress who had laughter in
her heart and sexuality based on true love, and I whispered:
“Darling Marilyn you’re free.” Ok, this is all very well, but
today it is the Eve. In my heart it is always August eight and
I hate turkey, funny hats, drunken uncles, aunts and children.
even here in my valley
Even here in my valley
After seeing the horror of Mumbai
how peaceful my vale is, rain falls
gently on the roof; earlier today as
as sun and rain shambled about
I saw, in the old olive grove where
the rainbow had landed, forest gods
danced lustily around an angel sat
on a throne of glitzy stones.
As I came nearer they saw me and
disappeared in a mist of aromatic
rose’s scent. It was not a dream, for
I saw marks of elegant, narrow feet,
but, alas, one had a hoofed foot,
bigger then a sheep’s, about the size
of a mule’s that lacks the want to
dance in a ring of reproductive desire.
After seeing the horror of Mumbai
how peaceful my vale is, rain falls
gently on the roof; earlier today as
as sun and rain shambled about
I saw, in the old olive grove where
the rainbow had landed, forest gods
danced lustily around an angel sat
on a throne of glitzy stones.
As I came nearer they saw me and
disappeared in a mist of aromatic
rose’s scent. It was not a dream, for
I saw marks of elegant, narrow feet,
but, alas, one had a hoofed foot,
bigger then a sheep’s, about the size
of a mule’s that lacks the want to
dance in a ring of reproductive desire.
terror in Mumbay rewritten
Terror in Mumbai
The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, flushed look and his eyes shine
with the ecstasy of total power, the one
who decides who’s to live or die.
This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.
Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute supremacy.
The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, flushed look and his eyes shine
with the ecstasy of total power, the one
who decides who’s to live or die.
This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.
Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute supremacy.
Friday, November 28, 2008
terror in Mumbay
Terror in Mumbai
The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, his face is flushed and his eyes
shine with the ecstasy of total power,
the one who decides who’s to live or die.
This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.
Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute power once again
The face of a young terrorist caught on
camera, his face is flushed and his eyes
shine with the ecstasy of total power,
the one who decides who’s to live or die.
This is his moment what he has been
dreaming of so long, the cause for his
war means nothing now that life surges
through every sinew of his body.
Should he survive, his days will be flat
and endlessly grey till he gets a change
again to easily kill and feel the ecstasy
of absolute power once again
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
the awareness
The Awareness
As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.
An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one
No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now
As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.
As the days of light draw in I’m pulled
back to a mythical past, and I remember
a perfect moment, when time stood still
and we’re a contented family.
An alarm clock rang, a shift worker had
to get up, do his job, a summer evening
that would never return when nature
and humanity were as one
No one remember them now, traceless
but for a box of old photos in the drawer,
bones that rattle in the night; the expanse
between us is unbridgeable now
As the memory fades into a shadow
and faces are hidden in a miasma of time,
there is in the vanishing light a beacon
that still shines till my journeying ends.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
the aide
The Aide
The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.
The swimming pool’s wall was decked out with Swiss
flags making the scene solemn and legal, Charles, his
real name Herbert, but he thought Charles have him
an royal air, was leading an alabaster skinned, thin
woman into the pool, she was naked save from a pair
of heavy, leaded boots. They waded to the deep till
submerged, he had instructed her not to hold her
breath, but just let it happen it would be quicker that
way. But she held her breath till bubbles came out of
her mouth and nostrils and her struggle to reach to
the surface ended and she looked like a rare sea plant
swaying gently in the flow. Charles got out of
the pool his job done, elderly now, but with a body
that would make a suit or uniform look good, he had
the contented air of a man who had found his proper
vocation in life.
Friday, November 21, 2008
blank decency
Blank Decency
The capital of Norway, Oslo, has well lit
clean streets swept clear of humanity;
you’ll see clusters of people here and there
sat inside plastic tents- pavement cafes-
smoking tobacco. And now that it’s illegal
to buy sex too, streets will be cleaner then
before. If a consumer of bought of sex
thinks he can go abroad and buy it he will,
if found out, be prosecuted.
There are still cars driving around these
empty streets, to get rid of them it might
be an idea to ban the purchase of petrol;
a car free city, something to boast about,
tourists come and puff virtuous Oslo air.
Those who miss driving can when in, say,
Bangkok on vacation, rent a coupé for
the duration, but remember credit card
purchases can be traced.
The capital of Norway, Oslo, has well lit
clean streets swept clear of humanity;
you’ll see clusters of people here and there
sat inside plastic tents- pavement cafes-
smoking tobacco. And now that it’s illegal
to buy sex too, streets will be cleaner then
before. If a consumer of bought of sex
thinks he can go abroad and buy it he will,
if found out, be prosecuted.
There are still cars driving around these
empty streets, to get rid of them it might
be an idea to ban the purchase of petrol;
a car free city, something to boast about,
tourists come and puff virtuous Oslo air.
Those who miss driving can when in, say,
Bangkok on vacation, rent a coupé for
the duration, but remember credit card
purchases can be traced.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
the whiteness within me.
The whiteness within…me
Yesterday I saw an albino raven
it had just killed a sparrow and
had drops of blood on its chest.
Having had the privilege to be
white you would think it would
desist from killing sparrows.
But I must be wrong perhaps it
was an angel dressed as cardinal
they wear red and eat meat.
Or was it was a dove of peace
wearing a ruby necklace, or had
it been hurt by an Israeli sniper?
Perhaps it was a white cloud
I saw drifting along on blue
being lit up by a red eyed sun.
A white feather, cowardice is
pale as cold snow, so why does
a peace dove has to be white?
Yesterday I saw an albino raven
it had just killed a sparrow and
had drops of blood on its chest.
Having had the privilege to be
white you would think it would
desist from killing sparrows.
But I must be wrong perhaps it
was an angel dressed as cardinal
they wear red and eat meat.
Or was it was a dove of peace
wearing a ruby necklace, or had
it been hurt by an Israeli sniper?
Perhaps it was a white cloud
I saw drifting along on blue
being lit up by a red eyed sun.
A white feather, cowardice is
pale as cold snow, so why does
a peace dove has to be white?
haiku
Modern Life.
Flat-pack furniture
It’s a green sofa this time.
Am I a handyman?
“The world is yours.”
A swiping promise I made.
She wants IKEA.
Fittings in flat packs,
A bathroom cupboard, she said
I made it a chair.
Flat-pack furniture
It’s a green sofa this time.
Am I a handyman?
“The world is yours.”
A swiping promise I made.
She wants IKEA.
Fittings in flat packs,
A bathroom cupboard, she said
I made it a chair.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
haiku
Haiku
Compass pointing south,
I migrate, follow the sun,
But my heart looks north.
Haiku
Chopping winter wood
The eye of a fire is blue
The colour of yours
Haiku
At twilight,
I shot a blackbird
Night fell down.
Compass pointing south,
I migrate, follow the sun,
But my heart looks north.
Haiku
Chopping winter wood
The eye of a fire is blue
The colour of yours
Haiku
At twilight,
I shot a blackbird
Night fell down.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
the transplant
The Transplant
You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?
My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.
I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?
Irate the heart cries and skip a beat
worryingly, been threatened by
the man it gave itself too. Why can’t
he, get off his backside and take his
wife to the ball.
You throb slowly and evenly today,
does it mean you have accepted your
fate that you at only thirty shall live
with an old man like me? Faithful, but
could you have done other wise?
My fear is having done this sacrifice
at such a tender age you might, when
reaching middle age, revolt, feel you
have wasted your time with me,
become bitter and self destructive.
I must warn, because I do love you,
(I even stopped smoking for you)
if you let me down you will be cast
into the wilderness of no life only
because you can’t dance anymore?
Irate the heart cries and skip a beat
worryingly, been threatened by
the man it gave itself too. Why can’t
he, get off his backside and take his
wife to the ball.
Monday, November 17, 2008
A byway
A Byway
The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.
The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.
The orange grove was like a forest, trees full
of fruit standing close together I couldn’t gaze
through, look west to see the winter ocean.
Further on I came to an olive grove, more space
amongst trees that looked serious like elderly,
sagacious men contemplating a vanishing future,
while terracotta wooly sheep grazed on fresh
green grass; and I could see a sliver of the sea,
glittering as a pearl-necklace thrown away by
an intemperate wife of a Russian oligarch.
Timeless she is teasing me with her shimmer,
I thought of racing down to the coast join a ship
and sense the heave of the seas under my feet
once more Ah, but not today, if ever.
The sheep stopped grazing looked my way,
chewed slowly, it was getting colder and they
had flecks of sunlight in their eyes.
wishes and reality
Wishes and Reality
Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.
Let me dance to this Latin rhythm till my feet
are tired and I’m wonderfully beat, and I sail
on a cloud filled with youthful dreams, say,
brilliantly winning a medal for something or
other. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it is
of gold and the king of Siam pins it on my
chest, or on the lapel of my suit, (less painful
that way) with people running in the street
stuffing confetti into cannons and jubilantly
calling my name. When horses on the pampas
of Argentina, the Texas panhandle too, will
neigh, and fill the landscape with an aroma
of clover and elegant beauty. If not a cup, of
cocoa before bed will do nicely…thank you.
friday night blues
Friday Night Blues.
The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.
Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.
The stab of a stiletto pierces my heart,
stop now remember to walk slowly,
do not dance to the music of your mind
it fools you to think that the fat man
you see in the shop window aren’t you,
but an old dupe bad on his feet.
Quick step and tango, no big deal I do
dance at home when alone, close my
eyes and sway, yeah, baby I’ve got
rhythm, in the night when they have all
gone to bed; a bottle of wine and dreams,
you wouldn’t know I was old.
a letter partly read
A Letter Partly Read
“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.
I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.
“We thank you for sending your work to us.”
This is a beautiful line for any writers to
hear, I read this line but not its continuations
as I was eating lunch at the time, it is of no
interest what I was eating in our slim obsessed
time but, wasn’t burger and chips or a carrot,
and yes I did have a glass of red wine.
I folded the letter together and put it in my
breast pocket, from where it murmured about
yet another failure, I had another glass and
didn’t hear. Wait for some good news so
I can dismiss the second line of the letter
and don’t feel hurt, it may a long wait, perhaps
years, but as a poet I can wait forever.
haiku
Haiku
Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice
Haiku
On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye
Haiku
November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow
Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice
Haiku
On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye
Haiku
November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow
Thursday, November 13, 2008
not an idle moment
Not an Idle Moment
A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.
A fly sits on top of the computer screen
cleaning its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
it trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.
I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leeks?
The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.
the hunter
The Hunter
The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.
Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.
Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.
I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.
The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.
Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.
Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.
I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
great war
The Great World War.
It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.
The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die
I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.
It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.
The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die
I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.
an ordinary painting
An Ordinary Painting
A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.
But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.
A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.
But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.
hauku
Haiku
Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love
The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams
Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified
Torn old diary
Thrown hotly into the bin
Tells of broken love
The old diary
Modest amongst bigger books
Keeps my many dreams
Brown old diary
Coldly exposes my sappiness
Leaves me mortified
past heroics
Past Heroics
They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.
Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics
They are wheeling out old singers on the TV.,
in their seventies and famous around the time
Paris had a street party called 1968. Those
who partook are now conservative men who
smile when remind of their folly; but that’s
life. It is scary to see how smart and young
they looked and now; face- lifts and fake hair
cannot hide the march of time.
Once I sang their songs, dressed like them,
thought I was up to date. I know looking at
their old faces that I too am old and a relic
on the shores of modernity. That’s way I
do not tell stories of old days, people listen
with a patronizing smile waits for me to go
away, the past is only of interest to the old
and eccentric academics
the dance of life
The Dance of Life
When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;
As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;
Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension
Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory
When a child my freedom
Was restricted by adults
In a world of fear;
As an adult my freedom was
Restricted by the need to
Make a living;
Now as old, my freedom
Is restricted by bad health
And a small pension
Death promises freedom,
But since it lacks
Consciousness it is illusory
The flowering Shrub
The Flowering Shrub
The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge
Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;
Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.
The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge
Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;
Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.
Friday, November 07, 2008
the lost president
The Lost President
Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.
Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
the rat catcher
The Rat Catcher
When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.
They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.
To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.
I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.
When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud seeping towards the dock, while
eating half consumed hamburgers and chips.
They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.
To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.
I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.
the tarn of life
The Tarn of Life.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
the tarn of life
The Tarn of Life.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.
I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.
In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.
It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
a street in Paris
A Street in Paris
September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was
There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.
September morning rue Amsterdam, Paris,
on top of the street a small park, with trees
that has falling auburn leaves, Romanians
sleep in the park, they have nowhere else
to go, they look tidy and keep small dogs;
it’s nice to have a dog to stroke in a callous
world. The city is waking up, people haste
to gar St. Salazar, to take the tube to their
place of work, and there is nothing chic
about Parisian women early in the morning.
Ambling along I came to a sign that read:
gar de Stalin, people who live around there
now, mostly first generation Arabs, have no
idea who Stalin was
There are many Arabs about to day, in
a way, this morning has Algerian feel to it
as the sun warms there is a distinct smell
of African tobacco in the air; I’m going to
a posh wedding, on a barge sailing down
the Seine, it’s a very French affair so there
will not be many semitics around, unless
they are waiters. Lunch time is democratic,
full are hamburger joints and small cafes
selling baguette with cheese, while posh
restaurants are as empty as old churches.
It’s a pity really Paris is not as French as
I had imagined it to be; poor Edith Piaf
has been dead for a long time.
Monday, November 03, 2008
A quiet word
A Quiet Word
Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.
Poetry ought to be of beauty love and summers,
I listen under my lemon it bears such a yellow
fruit, but I hear nothing but cannons thunder and
voices that speaks of revenge, and the voices of
those who demand a home-land their own;
I do understand, but do they have to kill their
neighbour to achieve their goal? To my distress
I must admit that without fighting for your right,
defending your home, no one will give it to you
freely. So Palestinians, sullen Greenlanders and
other homeless people, diplomacy will get you
nowhere. I need not, tell you what to do, but
remember what the use of violence is for freedom
and not for suppression of the truth.
the silent song
The Silent Songs
Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.
Grave diggers now have not horny hands
with soil under nails, they have cute little
mechanical diggers that nimbly moves
between head stones. Flowers on a fresh
mound lose their colour, the funeral was
yesterday, death moves fast there are
other holes to be filled with soil and
fertilized with tears, and green grass will
grow. My generation loses its shine
the music fades and uncomplaining is
the silence, I wish they wouldn’t leave
so oddly like they have never existed,
after all they used to be my friends and
I have heard them sing their poetry.
mirror image
The Mirror Image
I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.
Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.
I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.
I knew as soon as he came into the supermarket
That he was famous, it take long training to walk
That nonchalant, also the way people looked and
Whispered was telling. I called it a Harvey walk
And had practiced it for years, just in case fame
And the crowd’s esteem should smile to me.
Alas- a vain smile- I was a waste of time, all this
Striding past places where famous movie people
Hung out; sometimes I even walked into one of
Those restaurant and had an expensive cup of tea
Trying to look famous, but you can’t fool a trained
Waiter…and now it is too late.
I bought a loaf and four tomato and asked who
The famous one was, they looked at me and laughed.
the egg
The Egg.
A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.
Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.
Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.
Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.
A tray of eggs, I was making an omelet,
empty shells, no embryos today, called
the dog it was at the garden, had dug itself,
into a hole, there was nothing I could do.
Snow began falling didn’t stop till landscape
was eternally white; a red fox looked cute
but didn’t see the hare till it stirred, drops
of ruby shone warmly on glittering crystals.
Thawing snow on the Russian steppe, there
had been a battle, arms pointing up, like
twigs of dead trees, in need to tell an untold
story of war and eternal suffering.
Under a lone tree, shot many times but still
standing, a red fox sat sniffing the air for
hares, a single shot rolled over landscape
springtime now and man was back in action.
Friday, October 31, 2008
a cigarette
A Cigarette
Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.
Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
haiku
Haiku
Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall
Haiku
Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost
Haiku
It was a mistake
The sun shone and it was warm Haiku
Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.
Haiku
Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.
Haiku
Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.
Indian summer
Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall
Haiku
Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost
Haiku
It was a mistake
The sun shone and it was warm Haiku
Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.
Haiku
Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.
Haiku
Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.
Indian summer
the girl who loved me
The Girl Who Loved Me.
At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.
Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.
When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .
At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.
Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.
When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .
The US Election
The US Election
Behind Obama, president almost elect, there is
Another black man, his body, who sharpens his
pencil and lick stamps. There is a whisper that
the body might be a Moslem, alas, he is a true
blue blooded American black born in a ghetto
and we are now seeing the roots of thing, as we
all started from a humble beginning- those who
didn’t have to fake one- and it’s quite right too.
Sarah too came from unassuming background,
she bravely rose above it and there isn’t a trace
of modesty in her throbbing, attractive veins.
So all is well then? We have a president, who
will rule the world kindly, make the bald eagle
a symbol of respect again. There aren’t many
eagles left in the wild, the zoo bred ones do not
know how to soar, we must me careful so this bird
doesn’t end up like the Tasmanian tiger
Behind Obama, president almost elect, there is
Another black man, his body, who sharpens his
pencil and lick stamps. There is a whisper that
the body might be a Moslem, alas, he is a true
blue blooded American black born in a ghetto
and we are now seeing the roots of thing, as we
all started from a humble beginning- those who
didn’t have to fake one- and it’s quite right too.
Sarah too came from unassuming background,
she bravely rose above it and there isn’t a trace
of modesty in her throbbing, attractive veins.
So all is well then? We have a president, who
will rule the world kindly, make the bald eagle
a symbol of respect again. There aren’t many
eagles left in the wild, the zoo bred ones do not
know how to soar, we must me careful so this bird
doesn’t end up like the Tasmanian tiger
Nazism and the Belgian chef
Nazism and the Belgian Chef
In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.
In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.
Monday, October 27, 2008
the notion
The Notion
A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.
The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.
Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream
I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem
A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.
The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.
Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream
I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem
heat
Heat.
Summer light fades.
long shadows
weave a carpet across
the scenery,
meet and unite,
only on slopes
skeletal light
disappears;
an August day is over,
but heat lingers
domineering and violent
waits to be ignited.
Raised voices spilling
over and into the street.
Towards dawn
a slight breeze stirs,
sooths and cools brows;
for a moment bliss,
until a new August
day begins.
Summer light fades.
long shadows
weave a carpet across
the scenery,
meet and unite,
only on slopes
skeletal light
disappears;
an August day is over,
but heat lingers
domineering and violent
waits to be ignited.
Raised voices spilling
over and into the street.
Towards dawn
a slight breeze stirs,
sooths and cools brows;
for a moment bliss,
until a new August
day begins.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
birthday greetings
Birthday Greeting
The darkness gives way for light, joins
Up quickly behind me, I drive home,
When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.
I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver
Handles and flowers too, my grief is
Immense nothing much to celebrate
I sail close to shore carful now under-
Water reefs, seek shelter from old age
While contemplating my sunset.
The darkness gives way for light, joins
Up quickly behind me, I drive home,
When morning breaks I’ll be seventy.
I think of a black, shiny coffin; silver
Handles and flowers too, my grief is
Immense nothing much to celebrate
I sail close to shore carful now under-
Water reefs, seek shelter from old age
While contemplating my sunset.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
jackpot
The Jackpot
I stood where the rainbow landed, close up its light too sharp,
almost vulgar, had to close my eyes. When it vanished
the ground was soft and warm, began digging when a middle
aged man appeared, as from nowhere, thought it was god
because he looked dignified like the pianist in Alfred’s bar;
to be a pianist in bars knowing you are not going to play in
Carnegie Hall you have to look revered to survive. He asked
me what I wanted to do with all that gold. I thought of cars,
long legged blond birds, my own aircraft, a yacht and a loo
with a gold seat; got so bored with my infantile wishes that
I gave God my spade and walked home. Saw him on the TV,
a week ago, on the deck of his enormous boat, surrounded by
giggling birds; dyed his hair and goatee black and - I’m sure –
he, in his bathroom, had a loo seat made gold.
I stood where the rainbow landed, close up its light too sharp,
almost vulgar, had to close my eyes. When it vanished
the ground was soft and warm, began digging when a middle
aged man appeared, as from nowhere, thought it was god
because he looked dignified like the pianist in Alfred’s bar;
to be a pianist in bars knowing you are not going to play in
Carnegie Hall you have to look revered to survive. He asked
me what I wanted to do with all that gold. I thought of cars,
long legged blond birds, my own aircraft, a yacht and a loo
with a gold seat; got so bored with my infantile wishes that
I gave God my spade and walked home. Saw him on the TV,
a week ago, on the deck of his enormous boat, surrounded by
giggling birds; dyed his hair and goatee black and - I’m sure –
he, in his bathroom, had a loo seat made gold.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
flag days
Flag Days
In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.
Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.
In the village people are not keen of waving their
national flag about (Portuguese) it’s regarded as
rude boasting. An American, who once lived here,
hoisted the Stars & Stripes every morning and, at
times, tied yellow ribbons on almond trees.
Politely we didn’t mention this banner madness it
was as it never happen; then he suddenly died no
one took the flag down till it was in tatters and
blew off in a winter storm; as for yellow ribbons
the almond tree bears beautiful flowers in spring.
Monday, October 20, 2008
the sea
The Sea
Silent sea dark and deep, on your surface I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights, mountainous
waves when my only defence was luck; romantically
thought that you had secrets to divulge when hearing
whispers in the tropical night. Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be, endlessly
wet you are Saragossa weed, fog and terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced pollution
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing, late in
the night, I wish I were skimming your surface again.
Silent sea dark and deep, on your surface I skimmed
for years, feared you too sleepless nights, mountainous
waves when my only defence was luck; romantically
thought that you had secrets to divulge when hearing
whispers in the tropical night. Now I know it isn’t so
and that makes life sadder than it ought to be, endlessly
wet you are Saragossa weed, fog and terrifying sharks;
like everything else, you suffer from advanced pollution
but when I hear the melancholic fog horn sing, late in
the night, I wish I were skimming your surface again.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
african justice
African Justice
On the porcelain plate the residue
of a burnt down
candle light so all life and
sorrow must end,
yet the cur barks in the night
and the bakery
opens at five.
And morning bustles began
in Ruanda a the machete welding
thugs began
their senseless slaughter
blood on loaves and on hands
of the killers;
sated they begged
forgiveness,
yet didn’t return the rings and
money they had stolen;
as so many were guilty
a truth and reconsolidation
was formed, no one really cared
Ruanda is a backward land
it is even difficult to
find the cursed, fly infested place
on the map.
On the porcelain plate the residue
of a burnt down
candle light so all life and
sorrow must end,
yet the cur barks in the night
and the bakery
opens at five.
And morning bustles began
in Ruanda a the machete welding
thugs began
their senseless slaughter
blood on loaves and on hands
of the killers;
sated they begged
forgiveness,
yet didn’t return the rings and
money they had stolen;
as so many were guilty
a truth and reconsolidation
was formed, no one really cared
Ruanda is a backward land
it is even difficult to
find the cursed, fly infested place
on the map.
the birthday party
The Birthday Party
It was mother’s ninetieth birthday and I had arranged
the party at a nice rural hotel, plenty of food, wine
and cakes. Many people came there were wishes
flowers and the press was there, they all waited for my
twin brother Jurgen to show up he was a famous
right wing politician, he and mother were both
right winged wishing the good old days when there was
order and discipline to return.
A police officer came to see me, an been an accident
on the motorway, brother was involved and he wasn’t
coming to the party or any others. All that food and
flowers I rang the local old people’s home for them to
come and get it, worst of all it was left to me inform
my mother. She is blaming me now, if I had arranged
the bash in the town where Jurgen lived, he would
have been alive now
It was mother’s ninetieth birthday and I had arranged
the party at a nice rural hotel, plenty of food, wine
and cakes. Many people came there were wishes
flowers and the press was there, they all waited for my
twin brother Jurgen to show up he was a famous
right wing politician, he and mother were both
right winged wishing the good old days when there was
order and discipline to return.
A police officer came to see me, an been an accident
on the motorway, brother was involved and he wasn’t
coming to the party or any others. All that food and
flowers I rang the local old people’s home for them to
come and get it, worst of all it was left to me inform
my mother. She is blaming me now, if I had arranged
the bash in the town where Jurgen lived, he would
have been alive now
rendzvous
The Rendezvous
Saw her sitting by the window at the railway station’s
restaurant talking to an older man, I didn’t stop had
she looked out it would have been awkward since we
had broken up. I walked to the other side of the street
and stood looking at her in deep the shadow of
an oak tree, I loved her and felt emotionally raw and
tearful. She got up kissed the man lightly and left.
So she was going on a train journey, I got on to
the terminal and at a distance watch her take her seat
and leafing through a magazine, as the train started she
looked up and out saw me, looked pleased knocked on
the window and mouthed something, ran towards
the train but it gathered speed so I waved and waved
till long after the train had left
Walked back into the restaurant to ask her friend for
her address, an empty beer glass, he had gone and
I never saw my beloved again.
Saw her sitting by the window at the railway station’s
restaurant talking to an older man, I didn’t stop had
she looked out it would have been awkward since we
had broken up. I walked to the other side of the street
and stood looking at her in deep the shadow of
an oak tree, I loved her and felt emotionally raw and
tearful. She got up kissed the man lightly and left.
So she was going on a train journey, I got on to
the terminal and at a distance watch her take her seat
and leafing through a magazine, as the train started she
looked up and out saw me, looked pleased knocked on
the window and mouthed something, ran towards
the train but it gathered speed so I waved and waved
till long after the train had left
Walked back into the restaurant to ask her friend for
her address, an empty beer glass, he had gone and
I never saw my beloved again.
the forgotten one
The forgotten One
She was the wife of a famous prisoner, the world
Looked her way and expected greatness; a burden
She tried to bear, but was ill equipped for.
She was a vibrant woman of blood and emotion,
Not some tragic virgin wife waiting patiently for
Her man to come home. The world turned against
Her, scandals and gossip followed, she was found
Guilty for being true to herself.
The great man was released from prison and became
The president of his jailers; now he is a living saint,
No one asks:” What happened to Winnie Mandela?”
She was the wife of a famous prisoner, the world
Looked her way and expected greatness; a burden
She tried to bear, but was ill equipped for.
She was a vibrant woman of blood and emotion,
Not some tragic virgin wife waiting patiently for
Her man to come home. The world turned against
Her, scandals and gossip followed, she was found
Guilty for being true to herself.
The great man was released from prison and became
The president of his jailers; now he is a living saint,
No one asks:” What happened to Winnie Mandela?”
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Heroism
Heroism
Days with winter rain were endless, little snow
mother wasn’t coming home from the sanatorium,
I had read a book about cowboys, they were tough
and hanged cattle thieves. A thin rope, a thread
used to wrap parcels I threw over a bough tied it
around my neck and thought of all the people who
would be sorry when hearing of my demise; thought
of that brought tears to my eyes. Stood on a chair
jumped off immense pain, struggled to get hold on
something, the rope broke and I was reborn.
Told the kids at school, showed them red marks on
my neck, but they didn’t believe me; which taught
me that a daring deed is nothing if performed alone
and not recorded,
Days with winter rain were endless, little snow
mother wasn’t coming home from the sanatorium,
I had read a book about cowboys, they were tough
and hanged cattle thieves. A thin rope, a thread
used to wrap parcels I threw over a bough tied it
around my neck and thought of all the people who
would be sorry when hearing of my demise; thought
of that brought tears to my eyes. Stood on a chair
jumped off immense pain, struggled to get hold on
something, the rope broke and I was reborn.
Told the kids at school, showed them red marks on
my neck, but they didn’t believe me; which taught
me that a daring deed is nothing if performed alone
and not recorded,
the competition
The Competition
In the fallow where the land dipped
autumn rain collected formed a lake
that had no name but in the winter
it froze and I had an ice rink.
After school I skated for hours around
and around till I got quite giddy, but I
did win every race against the winter
sports hero of the day.
There wasn’t any witnesses to my
many sporting achievement except
the wild ducks that didn’t flew south
but used my lake as a landing pad.
I skated so fast that I took lift, flew
and saw the flat landscape from above
every pond, house and trees; but when
landing I usually fell flat on my face.
…And when I tired sat on frozen straw
and the ducks took over, I felt tired and
good as I listened to silence and the sky
was big and I was declared a winner.
In the fallow where the land dipped
autumn rain collected formed a lake
that had no name but in the winter
it froze and I had an ice rink.
After school I skated for hours around
and around till I got quite giddy, but I
did win every race against the winter
sports hero of the day.
There wasn’t any witnesses to my
many sporting achievement except
the wild ducks that didn’t flew south
but used my lake as a landing pad.
I skated so fast that I took lift, flew
and saw the flat landscape from above
every pond, house and trees; but when
landing I usually fell flat on my face.
…And when I tired sat on frozen straw
and the ducks took over, I felt tired and
good as I listened to silence and the sky
was big and I was declared a winner.
Child's Play
Child’s Play
The brook, which ran across the field, was knee
deep and slow running, I often put two pieces of
wood adrift at one end, pretended they were boats,
then running downstream to see which one came
first. My boat won; I cheated, but acted as I didn’t
know. The farms were few and far between and
no children around, except for a little girl but she
was busy playing with dolls.
At times I stood in the stream, very still, was
fascinated the way the water ran around my
legs and I was an island. When I began school
I didn’t know how to play with children, told
them how I played at home, when they laughed,
I hit one of them over the head with a wooden
clog. I was good to come home from school go
down to the brook and be an island again.
The brook, which ran across the field, was knee
deep and slow running, I often put two pieces of
wood adrift at one end, pretended they were boats,
then running downstream to see which one came
first. My boat won; I cheated, but acted as I didn’t
know. The farms were few and far between and
no children around, except for a little girl but she
was busy playing with dolls.
At times I stood in the stream, very still, was
fascinated the way the water ran around my
legs and I was an island. When I began school
I didn’t know how to play with children, told
them how I played at home, when they laughed,
I hit one of them over the head with a wooden
clog. I was good to come home from school go
down to the brook and be an island again.
deadly sex
Deadly sex
I knew she was seeing other men but pretended
I didn’t know didn’t risk confront her,
It pleased her ego to have sex with many men.
She wanted me to know about her infidelity it
made her lusty. She hinted she teased, bloody
games she played and our love got more intense,
anger was involved, left scars on our mind and
our bodies. It was love that kills, I didn’t play
that game, her next lover strangulated her… how
easily it could have been me. Desperate to win
her love I nearly killed her twice
I knew she was seeing other men but pretended
I didn’t know didn’t risk confront her,
It pleased her ego to have sex with many men.
She wanted me to know about her infidelity it
made her lusty. She hinted she teased, bloody
games she played and our love got more intense,
anger was involved, left scars on our mind and
our bodies. It was love that kills, I didn’t play
that game, her next lover strangulated her… how
easily it could have been me. Desperate to win
her love I nearly killed her twice
senryu
Senryu
Red plastic roses
Faded sepia by neglect
Melancholic bouquet
Senryu
Red plastic noses
For us to look at and laugh
Sad is the joker
Senryu
The gloomy guy
At the traveling circus
Is its funny clown
Red plastic roses
Faded sepia by neglect
Melancholic bouquet
Senryu
Red plastic noses
For us to look at and laugh
Sad is the joker
Senryu
The gloomy guy
At the traveling circus
Is its funny clown
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
dog years
Dog Years.
It’s been two years gone, but I sill
find strands of dog hair in corners,
(doesn’t say much for my cleanliness)
twelve years we had together she even
came on holiday with me; and when
a new woman came into my life she
didn’t make a fuzz sure as she was of
my love for her.
I lift a strand of her hair up to the lamp
light and remember the cruel day when
she got in the path of a car, when I sense
a movement behind me, the swishing of
a tail dare not turn around, but when I do
I see a shadow fading. Goose pimple on
my arms:” you dreaming fool, go brew
yourself a nice cup of tea.”
It’s been two years gone, but I sill
find strands of dog hair in corners,
(doesn’t say much for my cleanliness)
twelve years we had together she even
came on holiday with me; and when
a new woman came into my life she
didn’t make a fuzz sure as she was of
my love for her.
I lift a strand of her hair up to the lamp
light and remember the cruel day when
she got in the path of a car, when I sense
a movement behind me, the swishing of
a tail dare not turn around, but when I do
I see a shadow fading. Goose pimple on
my arms:” you dreaming fool, go brew
yourself a nice cup of tea.”
winter storm (tanka style)
Winter Storm
North Atlantic winter,
shafts of sunlight race across
glass green mountains
deep fear inducing valleys,
in the mess, talk is subdued;
forecast is stormy.
New York is suddenly afar
but will we get there?
A bow down a watery vale
and not coming up again.
Smoke a cigarette,
she takes the sea like a duck.
Try getting some sleep
storm is always worst at night
daylight somehow calms the seas.
North Atlantic winter,
shafts of sunlight race across
glass green mountains
deep fear inducing valleys,
in the mess, talk is subdued;
forecast is stormy.
New York is suddenly afar
but will we get there?
A bow down a watery vale
and not coming up again.
Smoke a cigarette,
she takes the sea like a duck.
Try getting some sleep
storm is always worst at night
daylight somehow calms the seas.
poetry reading in Oslo
Poetry Reading in Oslo September 2008
These cold massive buildings, housing
national art and treasures, cold, frosty
clean window shining like Himmler’s
glasses; ice blue eyes keeping an eye on
you; making sure you’re not trespassing
with unbecoming laughter and silencing
you into submission. Fear full we left
a day early and flew towards the sun.
These cold massive buildings, housing
national art and treasures, cold, frosty
clean window shining like Himmler’s
glasses; ice blue eyes keeping an eye on
you; making sure you’re not trespassing
with unbecoming laughter and silencing
you into submission. Fear full we left
a day early and flew towards the sun.
senryu and tanka
Senryu
In the night
All flowers are colourless
Give me the day
Tanka
Last night, wonderful!
Sang beneath a street lamp
Supreme confidence
Today I sit in darkness
And is my old fearful self.
Senryu
In obscurity
The moon caresses graveyards
Give me the sun
In the night
All flowers are colourless
Give me the day
Tanka
Last night, wonderful!
Sang beneath a street lamp
Supreme confidence
Today I sit in darkness
And is my old fearful self.
Senryu
In obscurity
The moon caresses graveyards
Give me the sun
inventiveness
The Inventiveness
The flour swept
up from the floor
She took home,
enough to make
four loaves;
the black bits and
pieces in them
she said was
grounded nuts
and raisins,
the bent thumb tack
My sister found
she called good
a good luck charm.
The flour swept
up from the floor
She took home,
enough to make
four loaves;
the black bits and
pieces in them
she said was
grounded nuts
and raisins,
the bent thumb tack
My sister found
she called good
a good luck charm.
short summer
Short Summer (Tanka)
Lamb on blue I saw
Went indoors drank a few beers
Came back out again
The lamb were now grazing sheep
Darksome as the winter sky
Lamb on blue I saw
Went indoors drank a few beers
Came back out again
The lamb were now grazing sheep
Darksome as the winter sky
intermezzo
Intermezzo
From my third floor flat I looked down
and saw two men sat under a tree sharing
a bottle of wine, went down and joined
them with my bottle of best red.
I sat under a tree with two men we were
sharing a bottles of wine, looked up and
saw my shadow lurk behind the curtain,
I smiled and waved, free at last.
From my third floor flat I looked down
and saw two men sat under a tree sharing
a bottle of wine, went down and joined
them with my bottle of best red.
I sat under a tree with two men we were
sharing a bottles of wine, looked up and
saw my shadow lurk behind the curtain,
I smiled and waved, free at last.
Aliens
The Aliens
The still warm sun and the zephyr is keep
winter at bay, there is sadness in the air, as
a farewell that can’t be delayed and the boy
has run to the outer fields, sits on a stone
pats his dog and learns about the unavoidable.
Dark clouds from the north where nature is
solemn and there’s not a hint of frivolities
in their cities architecture, winter in hearts,
will disperse heartless protestant culture that
does not allow for lofty dreams and passion.
The zephyr is now a chilly wind, new rules
people must work harder, the leaders say,
and the almond tree must stop flowering in
mid winter spreading unseemly thoughts of
May, love and nights of passion.
The still warm sun and the zephyr is keep
winter at bay, there is sadness in the air, as
a farewell that can’t be delayed and the boy
has run to the outer fields, sits on a stone
pats his dog and learns about the unavoidable.
Dark clouds from the north where nature is
solemn and there’s not a hint of frivolities
in their cities architecture, winter in hearts,
will disperse heartless protestant culture that
does not allow for lofty dreams and passion.
The zephyr is now a chilly wind, new rules
people must work harder, the leaders say,
and the almond tree must stop flowering in
mid winter spreading unseemly thoughts of
May, love and nights of passion.
whirlpool
Whirlpool
When I opened my eyes in the dark bedroom
I saw a universe with myriads of coloured
Lights like an rainbow that had exploded and
Fragmented into millions of pieces
Vail of mists sailed by, once they had been
Mighty clouds full of thunder and lightning
Now they were a mere whisper of a memory,
Yet their silence overwhelmed me.
There is no human voice here, in this realm
Of oblivion, I strain to hear even the faintest
Noise be it of animal or man, as the stillness
Drags me under in a vortex of nothingness.
When I opened my eyes in the dark bedroom
I saw a universe with myriads of coloured
Lights like an rainbow that had exploded and
Fragmented into millions of pieces
Vail of mists sailed by, once they had been
Mighty clouds full of thunder and lightning
Now they were a mere whisper of a memory,
Yet their silence overwhelmed me.
There is no human voice here, in this realm
Of oblivion, I strain to hear even the faintest
Noise be it of animal or man, as the stillness
Drags me under in a vortex of nothingness.
Friday, October 03, 2008
the good time
The Good Times
I used to be a seafarer, sailors meet and part
just like ships, nick name is used to avoid
friendship, so when one leaves the ship he is
easily forgotten; what was his name again?
I never worked in an office and knew not
of the scheming going on but I disliked,
when I worked in one, the false smiles and
the hidden knives and gossip
I knew nothing of networking and to whom
to have a drink with in a pub and since
I wasn’t interested in promotion, those who
failed cried on my shoulder
When I left, I did quickly and was saved
bland words; “come back and visit us
anytime.” My god, I left because I couldn’t
stand to hear about their tiny problems
I’m glad I have been spared retirement, to
sit on a chair by the sunny wall and talk
about the past; like the old day should be
anything to hanker for
Time marched on life is easier now than
before, but sadly people stay the same
and that’s a shame; it is as we feel guilty
for having it all and to struggle a bit more.
Yes, you are right I’m a right old prick
lives frugally and take the bus into town
believe in eternal peace and bicycles,
it’s a wonder I haven’t died of boredom.
I used to be a seafarer, sailors meet and part
just like ships, nick name is used to avoid
friendship, so when one leaves the ship he is
easily forgotten; what was his name again?
I never worked in an office and knew not
of the scheming going on but I disliked,
when I worked in one, the false smiles and
the hidden knives and gossip
I knew nothing of networking and to whom
to have a drink with in a pub and since
I wasn’t interested in promotion, those who
failed cried on my shoulder
When I left, I did quickly and was saved
bland words; “come back and visit us
anytime.” My god, I left because I couldn’t
stand to hear about their tiny problems
I’m glad I have been spared retirement, to
sit on a chair by the sunny wall and talk
about the past; like the old day should be
anything to hanker for
Time marched on life is easier now than
before, but sadly people stay the same
and that’s a shame; it is as we feel guilty
for having it all and to struggle a bit more.
Yes, you are right I’m a right old prick
lives frugally and take the bus into town
believe in eternal peace and bicycles,
it’s a wonder I haven’t died of boredom.
poetry festival in Oslo
Poetry Festival in Oslo
Poetry bash in Oslo Norway I was invited,
should I be pleased? I was skeptical from
the outset, so I paid for my own journey
just as well what I found was that we all had been
had there was a hidden agenda here, I sensed
its murkiness it was not poetry from the likes
of me this was about, but it was about the promotion
“o gay literature.” Ok, nothing wrong with that
but at least they could have been honest about it,
perhaps the people from the department were
fooled too
Poetry bash in Oslo Norway I was invited,
should I be pleased? I was skeptical from
the outset, so I paid for my own journey
just as well what I found was that we all had been
had there was a hidden agenda here, I sensed
its murkiness it was not poetry from the likes
of me this was about, but it was about the promotion
“o gay literature.” Ok, nothing wrong with that
but at least they could have been honest about it,
perhaps the people from the department were
fooled too
Thursday, October 02, 2008
tanka and double tanka
Tanka
Ashes on the sea
A showy and mean gesture
From earth to earth
Let me fertilize a tree,
Say, a flowering almond tree
Tanka (double)
It was so sudden
I had just parked the car
Outside the big mall
Flashing pain and deep silence
Wait now in a dark morgue
For you to claim me
If not a paupers grave waits
Not that it matters
It’s all such bloody vanity The need to be remembered
Ashes on the sea
A showy and mean gesture
From earth to earth
Let me fertilize a tree,
Say, a flowering almond tree
Tanka (double)
It was so sudden
I had just parked the car
Outside the big mall
Flashing pain and deep silence
Wait now in a dark morgue
For you to claim me
If not a paupers grave waits
Not that it matters
It’s all such bloody vanity The need to be remembered
tanka
Tanka
The seashell I found
On the people empty beach
I can’t listen to
If the siren’s calls my name
I will drown in her embrace
The seashell I found
On the people empty beach
I can’t listen to
If the siren’s calls my name
I will drown in her embrace
Rainbow coalition
Rainbow Coalition
On a fence in that part Chile from Argentina
there is a long barbed wire fence full of plastic
bags, some from posh shops in Paris, London
and New York, There are Japanese bags too
and some with Arabic letters, you can say it is
international garbage fence, but not quite, it is
eerily beautiful like a pale sad rainbow.
There used to be skeletons here too they all had
broken bones as dropped from planes, but
they have been removed now if you are lucky
or ghoulish you might find a collar bone or two
or a skull cleans by the wind; indestructibly sacks
flap, so deafening that you can’t hear the song of
the condors.
On a fence in that part Chile from Argentina
there is a long barbed wire fence full of plastic
bags, some from posh shops in Paris, London
and New York, There are Japanese bags too
and some with Arabic letters, you can say it is
international garbage fence, but not quite, it is
eerily beautiful like a pale sad rainbow.
There used to be skeletons here too they all had
broken bones as dropped from planes, but
they have been removed now if you are lucky
or ghoulish you might find a collar bone or two
or a skull cleans by the wind; indestructibly sacks
flap, so deafening that you can’t hear the song of
the condors.
suddenly one day
Suddenly one Day…
Warm day
hot wind blows
makes it
difficult to breath
inhale dust
I can’t see
a layer or red
on the car
inside too
Pain in chest
I curl up on
the back seat
sleep
When I awake
I’m not dead
wind has calmed
I feel fine
up my nostrils,
I can smell
Africa
Warm day
hot wind blows
makes it
difficult to breath
inhale dust
I can’t see
a layer or red
on the car
inside too
Pain in chest
I curl up on
the back seat
sleep
When I awake
I’m not dead
wind has calmed
I feel fine
up my nostrils,
I can smell
Africa
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
A Landscape
A Landscape
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with dead grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortal.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
into nothingness. Yet I fear not this landscape as it
is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled
trees, silence speaks of the final peace.
Grotesque dead trees, daylight ghosts, stand there
with dead grey boughs stretching upward appealing
to a fairytale god, “give us today a new life” but
no, there is only one god he is almighty, and hears
not your fearful whispered wishes, those who do
not understand are doomed to a life of an empty
pursuit for pleasures, crowding nightclubs and
casinos trying to avoid being alone with the night
and facing the truth: we are mortal and heaven is
to be remembered for a while by other mortal.
Faces in a black frame seeing you seeing through
into nothingness. Yet I fear not this landscape as it
is shunned by man and no harm can happen to me
here except the inevitable
The Long Delusion
The Long Delusion
I sat in a café when she came in, hadn’t seen her
for ten years, she had aged badly, used to be slim
now she was scrawny, and her glorious red hair
had lost its lustre. Her eyes grey and bland, they
used to light up and shine as diamonds in the heat
of the night, perhaps they still did. She sat down
we had coffee talking about harmless things
Then she said: “Why did you always give in and
agree with me when we had an argument?”
I was going to say: “I wasn’t interested enough in
the cause to argue about it” but said: You know
me dear, everything for a bit of peace in the house.”
I thought it was because you didn’t love me,” she
said and for a moment looking lost.
I was an island in a stream of people, but hear and
saw nothing, what a fool, how deluded, I had been
all those years, of course I didn’t love her, it was her
warm embrace I had yarned for and still did.
When I looked up to agree with her for the last time
She had gone she had gone, her scent lingered in
The air, then dissipated as all things must.
I sat in a café when she came in, hadn’t seen her
for ten years, she had aged badly, used to be slim
now she was scrawny, and her glorious red hair
had lost its lustre. Her eyes grey and bland, they
used to light up and shine as diamonds in the heat
of the night, perhaps they still did. She sat down
we had coffee talking about harmless things
Then she said: “Why did you always give in and
agree with me when we had an argument?”
I was going to say: “I wasn’t interested enough in
the cause to argue about it” but said: You know
me dear, everything for a bit of peace in the house.”
I thought it was because you didn’t love me,” she
said and for a moment looking lost.
I was an island in a stream of people, but hear and
saw nothing, what a fool, how deluded, I had been
all those years, of course I didn’t love her, it was her
warm embrace I had yarned for and still did.
When I looked up to agree with her for the last time
She had gone she had gone, her scent lingered in
The air, then dissipated as all things must.
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