the death of an author

The Death of an Author

 

John Updike is dead, can’t say I know much about him

I may have read one or two of his books but he didn’t

leave a lasting impression as Hemingway did.

 

One of my neighbours has died too, I saw him every

day walking past my house with his old dog and a basket

in his left arm, with wine and a bit to eat.

 

He was going to his little field, doing some weeding but

mostly just drinking looking at the way birds flew, patting

his dog’s head and snoring gently under of a tree.

 

There was something about his eyes, like some inner

suffering had made him look holy, say, as an idealized

picture of Jesus on the cross.

 

I’m going to his funeral tomorrow morning, at 67 he was

bit young for death I thought, a new face will come and

take his place; but who is going to look after his old dog?  

 

 

transformation (Tanka)

Transformation (Tanka)

It can’t be denied
the almond tree is ugly
weak looking branches
its bark is grey and scabby
not a future beauty queen.


it can’t be denied
the almond tree is pretty
when covered in pink flowers
its bark is brown and healthy
a favoured bride of spring.

the lovely couple

The Lovely Couple

In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.

thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

My aunt gave me a turkey to give to my brother who
lived in the neighbouring town, I cooked the fowl first
to stop it going bad and put it in a bag, went down to
the post office to send it, but the place had closed for
the day. Took the bus to my brother’s town, but when
arriving I had forgotten his address, asked the doorman
at a hotel, who new my brother, to show me the way,
only to find when we got there that I had left the bag
on the bus. Got lost trying to find the bus terminal,
I didn’t know brother’s phone number I also resented
the fact that aunt had given him the bird because he
was the oldest, leaving me with all the work, so I got
fed up and left; but I couldn’t get home as no bus was
going my way. Down at the docks there was a steamer
ready to sail for Djibouti, with a cargo of frozen turkey
for the presidential army, she needed a cook, so I sign
on, but did sent brother a cable telling him where his
turkey was. Too late, the bus driver, since no one had
claimed it, took the bird home and had a feast.

COLLECTIVE PUNISHMENT

Collective Punishment

A bird farmer had a stroke, paralyzed saw
himself being watched by a Plymouth hen,
it sat on the sill moving its head sideways
as birds tend to do. When satisfied that
the man was lame it jumped on to his bed,
pecked and slurped up his eyes like they
should be soft boiled eggs, then left.

The farmer lived, but since he could not
see or find the eye eater, he ordered all
birds and their eggs destroyed, and hen
houses bulldozed; alas, a few birds escaped.
The farmer planted sunflower on his land,
the survivors thrive at the edge of it, one
of them is a big, red Plymouth hen.

winter algarve

Winter Algarve.


The hills in the vale are stony and grey except where
they have made a road up to a new house that looks
shiny and bright for now, but will in time when paint
fades look as it belongs. “That old house you see up
there was built in 2009,” a tourist guide will say.

The Northerly flies low and cold today olive trees
look silvery as big gorillas standing still contemplating
a sky that has white, billowing clouds sailing across;
a regatta were no one drowns and the winner turns
into a miasma and never seen again

The stones on the old wall look like grey skulls with
holes in like another war mass grave found in Poland.
Everything dies and lives, the grass is green and tiny
Flowers grow out of weed, paradise for wooly backs,
but not for those- the human ones- from St. Helens.

The vines in black soil look like dead soldiers held up
by wire, not a hint of jollity to come. My wintery vale,
winds gets cold my face is as frozen as a newscaster’s
botoxed face, but since I need not look young I hurry
home to thaw it into familiar wrinkles.

tango for two

Tango for Two.

On internet I looked up dancing in Algarve, got ballet
dance and dance schools, those were out, and lap
dancing which is even more embarrassing, a girl on
your lap jumping up and if you don’t get an erection
due to your knees hurting the girl will feel offended
and tell the audience that you are impotent; and it
beats me why she should want to humiliate the poor
punter who has paid. Maybe it has to do with pride,
professional honour, the woman might feel that she
has failed not getting you exited, so why do I care?
I just want to go to a place and sway to the music,
remember a hot night in Buenos Aires, 1961 and at
the same time get some exercise, is that too much
to ask a Saturday night?

siblings

The Siblings

Twin, one strong, the other naïve and pale, nature
is merciless the strong threw the weak out of
the nest that fell to the brushwood and had to seek
shelter where it could a temporary shelter, but it
learned how to survive and trust no one, frail yes,
but sensitively strong it had time on it side watching
how fear and hate consumed its brother how, with
its phosphorous bombs, had lost the plot and could
not kill a wish the losers’ absurd idea of equality.
So it came to pass when the strong saw it could not
win and subjugate its twin to its whim it choose to
destroy itself and its insignificant brother. Toxic sand
more lethal than Wall Street’s bad debt, cover land,
yet in caves survivors still dream of nationhood.

hail to the chief

Hail to the Chief

Saw his shadow walk across
the river I heard the roar, as
the people called his name;

I also heard cracks as ice split,
saw his shadow drown alone
in floes of driftwood rhetoric;

Saw the disappointed masses,
turned their back on a leader
they said could walk on water.

the strenght

The Strength

I awoke as green, frothy sea angrily washed over
The terrace robbing it of four white plastic chairs
And ditto table. When a new bottle green and
White topped wave came I grabbed it by its waist
Squeezed and kissed hard on its wet lips.

Shocked the wave surged back to sea and threw
Back my garden furniture, the sea now tamed and
Mediterranean blue retreated, as the sun broke
Through a steel band of resentment sent friendly
Rays upon us and the morning sailed to noon.

the harvesting

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1074649230181







The Harvesting.

The sons of holocaust
use white phosphorous
against Palestinians,
their parents’ calamity
have made them monstrous.

The sons of Gaza
seeing their parents heartbreak
will be gruesome too.
hungry for settling scores
and erase their catastrophe.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the spirits of the woods

The spirit of the woods

The ash in the wood burner is still warm,
white and esoteric as an unborn dream;
a sin to shovel it into a sink bucket when
it looks holy and ought to have been
strewn upon the calm sea together with
wreaths and individual red roses.

With the first drops of rain on the ash, in
the bucket, dust clouds arise and disperse
like souls of the forest, but as the shower
increases in strength the ash drowns and
becomes silt; when rain stops and sun
warms crops the grieving has past.

the prophecy

The Prophecy


The horses that drink water in the shallow river
on the grassland look up spooked by a low flying
plane its enormous wingspan is a shadow of ill
omen, frightened the horses gallop till they are
are tired then begin grazing again.

The far mountain is Canadian blue and hazy, like
there should be a forest fire or another war on its
other side. A lotus swarm of helicopter gunships
appear, cross the flatland and jolt the horses into
gallop again; and the sky darkens.

Then on the far mountain appears a new sun, it
shines bright for a while then dies like a comet,
a storm blows the grass withers and when silence
comes the river is empty, the horses are dead;
and the mountain top is a cold diamond.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia

The rock I used to climb was my mountain,
I had an unlimited view of fields, hedges,
trees and grazing animals;

Mice moved my mountain, too dangerous
for children, the field is full of little houses
and back yards with swimming pools;

Blue uniforms drive slowly around to see
If all is well, in nice streets cars are parked
but where are the kids on bikes?

This is twaddle, I give a shit where they
are as long as they keep off my lawn and
don’t steal my car.

summer concert

Summer Concert.


Early June that year had turned very hot
the evening concert at the old church was
packed with moist humanity, perspiration
from the public and musicians ran with
equal pace, a river ankle deep, seeped
down cracks in the stone floor down to
the crypt where bones of bishops rested.

Dormant souls awoke, arose and floated up
amongst us as an unseen miasma, a sharp
observer, say, a cat would have sensed them
and alarmed run off. When Handel’s Messiah
last note hung over us, the air stirred candle
lights blew themselves out, a breeze from
the open door? Mystified and silent we left.

Their souls had woken too early from slumber
and loath returning to the crypt where they
were supposed to stay for ten generations,
before taken abode in a newborn child. Lost
now they drifted about but found a maternity
hospital. That year more unsmiling babies than
normal was born in our town.

officious Ethics

Officious Ethics

It was a cold winter day with persistent rain
I was broke and walked past cafés where
people smoked and drank beer; warm indoor
faces and eyes that sparkled with hilarity.
The door of the town’s cathedral was open
I went in there found a secluded place and
a church circular from a corner table sat and
pretended to read about churchly affairs.

On the floor, by my feet, a folded green fifty
Kroner’s note, enough for four pints of beer
and a packet of cigarettes. Despondency over
I could now join the happy society again, but
inborn integrity reared its head; “You have no
right to the money put it in the collection-box.”
It was cold I had no sense of moral victory as
I walked past cafes, cursing my Achilles' heel.

poets tree

The Poet’s Tree

 

On the plateau, at a distance, I saw a large tree

with multi coloured leaves, on each one was

printed a commercial poem, a verse for every

occasion and written as not to hurt any one’s

feelings.  I asked for a poem about unjust wars

in the Middle East, the tree had none but I was

offered a few about World War One. All wars

are just and the winner gets to write the rules.

 

The tree, stood inside rolls of barbed wire, no

copy pens allowed within a radius of fifty yards.

A storm came, blew the wire around like tumble

weed, leaves- torn from the tree- flew in the air

and transformed into grooming tropical birds

cooing about love. I did find a pale green leaf,

almost transparent, on it was written in blood;

“Gaza is my name let me not die in vain”       

 

the travel

The travel

 

Where the road curves there might be

an inn, a bit to eat and a drink, or just

a water-well. After the curve the road

might continue in a straight line till it

ends in a void.

 

No point to speculate about it before

I get past the curve (and then it is too

late) as I can only see what is in front

of me; a road exist in itself whether

I travel on it or not.

  

senryu

Senryu

 

A plane going north

Left a vapour trail of tears

On lucid blue sky

 

 

 

 

winter storm

Winter Storm 

 

 

The north-westerly wind that blows

arctic down to Portugal and around

corners and deposit waste papers and

yesteryears, leaves in my yard, is no

good for my bones;

 

I feel no enmity though, because it

also carries the faint aroma of Nordic

summer evenings when darkness

is but a passing frown on the face

of the golden sun.

 

 

 

 

The Street

 

 

The street I walked was very long,

had shops on both sides, but it was

empty of people.

 

A hearse drove past stopped outside

a florist, driver picked up a couple of

wreaths, drove off.

 

Across the sky a lone plane flew

the echo of its motor sounded mute

and full of melancholy.

 

I turned around a woman stared at

me, eyes, blue as a day in May; then

she was erased by mist from the sea.

 

The street too had vanished, the world

had no colours, but I heard cowed feet

walk reluctantly eastward. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

senryu

Senryu  

 

Can a frosty road

Lit by lustrous moonlight

Be a lovers’ lane? 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

On arctic shore

A flamingo fell from sky

Hungry wolves cried

 

 

 

 

 

Senryu

 

Clear ice on pond

The disappeared child

Could see the sky

 

winter dream

Winter Dream

 

 

The evening has a pale moon that shines

on a cold landscape, on the western sky

there is a shimmer of erasing red; the sun

was glad to leave and reappear in Rio de

Janeiro where palm trees and female hips

sway languidly

 

Frosty blue with rimfrost on ground, that’s 

what the moon get to watch over, for stars,

the whole lot on the milky- way, have gone

to Rio too, to see the young, sometimes

the old as well, dance and make love on

the Copacabana beach.  

 

saying

Saying

 

Alzheimer is a disease

that causes sufferers

to outlive themselves   

the hope eternal

The Hope Eternal

 

Today I saw the moon on ashen sky

it was incredible white like a ghost

haunted by its, own death.

eyes gone, dark sockets that could

no longer cry.

 

The real moon will not light up my

path as uniformed snipers lurk behind

old olive trees ready to reclaim

an ancient promise steeped in blood

by the dispossessed.       

 

Today I also saw the first flower on

the almond tree that get the first

and the last sunlight of the day,

a mere bud shivering in the breeze;

I gave it to my heart and walked on. 

 

 

winter of discontent

Winter of Discontent

 

The air over Europe is clear and cold

on my terrace the parasol is down flaps

slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.

 

The pond near, the houses, is frozen solid,

the sun has no power, but makes nature

look like a pretty postcard

 

As the pond compassion is hard packed 

too, the ground I walk on is unyielding;

this is the face of bitter unhappiness.

 

Amongst the voiceless olive trees a bird

shrieks a warning and in the stillness

that follows I hear drums of war.   

 

 

 

 

 

heehaw

Heehaw.

 

The steep incline up to the village is too hilly

Today, the north westerly blows cold, I must

Stop turn and admire the valley for a while.

 

I used to run up hear with my father’s elderly

Dog, prince, past shocked sheep grazing on

The verge, proud I was of winning every race.

 

Back then the villagers kept chicken, pigs,

Sheep and mules that wandered about, cosy

You may say, but very muddy when it rained.

 

Every house is painted white, roads asphalted,

A rural museum tourist buses, dogs on lead

Not a heehawing beast to be seen or heard.

 

Couldn’t wait to take the bus to a bigger town,

A large world and the endless ocean, it was

Only when looking back I saw my happiness.          

 

My childhood has become a picture Post-card,

An old face amongst new ones, like the donkey

Unseen and I have ceased braying long ago. 

 

human condition

The Human Condition

 

 

The paleness of the screen ogles me waits

to be written on like woman waiting for me

to make the first move, but I’m too timid fear

her rejection, shall I murmur a little jovial, say

she has lovely hair? Or is that too forward?

 

Can’t very well mention the massacre in Gaza,

and that it is the victims of Israel’s foul act

who get blamed? Or shall I say, the display of

fireworks on the night and buildings on fire

has its own awe-inspiring beauty?      

 

In 1959 I sat in a park, New Year’s Eve, holding

hands with a gipsy girl in Huelva, Spain, but for

Maria was a boring town, she had brown legs,

dark eyes and dusty feet, her grim father came

took my lighter and chased me away. 

 

Now isn’t that a better story to tell, than tales

of the tediousness, the human tragedy named

Gaza, where the sky rains fire and children are

covered in the dust of war, unable to escape,

but will she listen to such a sad story? 

   

pretender

Great Pretender

 

I now they were laughing behind my back

and mother was ashamed of me when

I tried to speak like a book, I took evening

classes to be able to speak as the fine

people did, I was an imposter and laughed

 at in the street. But poverty of birth clings

to me like dirt under finger nails and I will

always be damned for denying my class.

At last I speak as we did in our street, had

they heard me now they would have been

proud of me, nodded sagely and said:

“the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

 

 

nordic april

Nordic April  

 

A sigh as unseen wings, flew

thro the room, a mild breeze,

a flutter; sign, perhaps that

he has been here too long,

 

Go home? No one left, only

cold head-stones in a land

that has long winters; but

he can still remember April. 

 

When nature jubilantly sings,

free of winter’s shackles as

fields greens, bird nests and

night is forever expelled. 

 

 

senryu

Senryu

 

Hot air over Gaza

Makes roses bloom early

Or is it blood I see?

 

 

Senryu

 

This tragic struggle 

Semite Murders Semite

While we sing Carols     

 

 

the wolf

The Wolf.

 

 

We sat on a boulder high up on a plateau

the soul of the slain wolf and I, we saw

mountains and deep dales as far as our eyes

could reach and since it was winter there

were spirals of smoke coming from hunting

lodges; we didn’t see any towns as they

were in the deepest gorges, but could hear

the distant clamour of industrious humanity.

 

I stroked the wolves head slightly, it had

not succumbed, like its cousin to, mans whims

and craved no approval. A heavy mist came

from the sea filled the valleys with a white

blanket of silence. Slowly the mist dissipated

and I sensed the wolf’s soul had gone, but

could hear the bay of wolves far away where

my eyes could not reach.           

NEw year eve 2009

New Year Eve 2009

 

Midnight, New Year, fireworks explodes on

velvety sky. Gaza has fireworks too every day,

but they aren’t enjoying it the way we do,

standing here on the terrace of a five star hotel,

perhaps it is only three stars, drinks in hand

and idle chat. I feel wretched, wish I was drunk

but this place only severs wine and that is not

enough to drown my lack of shame.

Palestine, Europe doesn’t cry for you tonight.

 

winter in the vale

Winter in the Vale

 

Rain had lasted for days now it was clearing

up and the road leading to the village, where

I buy food, was drying under a mild winter

sun; the nature breathed with an ease as

coming to an end of a long, vigorous sorrow.

 

By the roadside a big grey wolf, it had been

run over by a fast car only a few minutes ago

half of its body flattened, but over it the air

stirred, a shimmer I thought it was it soul that

was now homeless and at a loss what to do.

 

I blessed the dog opened the car-door and let

in the soul, it sat beside me till we came to

a plateau on top of mountain, I spoke softly

and let it out, saw it fly up and up, a shimmer

in the air that become a fluffy lamb on blue.

 

the occupiers

The Occupiers


They came, the huddled masses, victims
of a war and pogrom far from our shores;
we gave them room at the inn, and on
our common land they could graze sheep.

They have now taken over the inn, stolen
our common land, bulldozed our villages
and uprooted olive trees to build roads we
cannot use, erected walls to keep us out.

They want us to leave to roam the world
as they did; we will not, we shall stay here
near our ancestors and the land and wait,
yes, wait till they uproot again and leave.

here we go again

Here we go again

One of the world biggest army has attacked Gaza, the world
biggest prison, how many killed? Who cares? I’m fed up of
this war now, we have been ringing around trying to book
a table at restaurant, everything is full in the neighbourhood.
The Gaza people have brought this on themselves, agreed
to a democratic election and elected Hamas, Israel wasn’t
standing for that having leaders who think Israel is a crown
of thorns carried by every Arab in the region; and as we know
by now (we have been told it often enough) that plucky little
Israel has the right to defend herself no matter what, they
have had their holocaust someone else can carry the can this
time. And then there is bloody Iraq, luckily not on the front
news anymore, but bombs are going off all the time killing
scores of people, at Christmas I ask you, as we sit down to eat
we get blood and mangled bodies in dusty streets, with our
turkey and two veg. why can’t Sunnis and Shiites live in peace
like us. Then there is Afghanistan those crazy Taliban and opium
smugglers like murdering people, so what we are doing there
beats me dropping bombs on wrong targets killing children and
guests at a wedding, it is their own fault, this habit of shooting
bullets up in the air confusing helicopter pilots. So who care?
It is Christmas give us a break and, anyway, without us, those
people would be riding around in donkeys. Wife rang she has
been to book a restaurant table, it is a long drive by taxi, but
what’s the heck it’s only New Year once a year…get it?

Harold Pinter RIP

Harold Pinter RIP.

Harold Pinter is dead, we had one
thing in common; he protested
against NATO’s bombing of Belgrade,
I did too. He disputed the invasion
of Iraq, so did I.

He called Bush and Blair criminals,
so did I. His voice was heard, no one
heard mine, but in the end we’re
both ignored; and that’s what we
have in common.

good to know

Good to Know

I know the famous cardiologist Cohen
he has got his surgery on the fifth floor
of a building without a lift. Those who
make it up are declared healthy enough
to work, those who don’t get a bypass
operation. No waiting list. The building
also has a florist on the first floor.

Yule tide

Yule Tide

There are no children in this house no eager
Voices full of new life or shining eyes finding
In coloured light an enchanting fairytale.

There is no laughter in this house only tired
Old people slumped in chairs watching old
Repeats of Christmases past old movies.

There are no presents under this plastic tree
No parcels to feel if they are soft or hard,
Only a blinking light howling silent despair.

This is an old peoples’ home, made for two
Who cannot escape their common boredom;
compassion is a word that carries emotion.

the path

The Path

Just off a ship I was going to meet friends
at a hotel, no one there and the staff had
gone; all rooms locked, I sat in the foyer
and waited. In the late afternoon, getting
dark, my sister came, I told her the rooms
were locked, she went upstairs anyway
but didn’t return.

Light from came from the street, I sat by
the window looked out, a party going on,
lot of actions, and coloured lanterns, but
windows, double glazed, I couldn’t hear
a thing. Tired, but didn’t dare sleep in
case lights disappeared and the street got
as dark as the night behind me.

I did fall asleep, when I awoke the street
was white and covered in pristine snow,
strolled outside, the snow was like dust.
I began walking, came to a plateau where
memory said my home town used to be:
nothing of it remained except the railway
tracks darkly going yonder

the prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

miracles

Miracle



The Dakota plane should have been scrapped years ago,
eight soldiers and me, they took off my handcuffs laughed
and said I was free to go. Looking down I could see glitzy
Pacific Ocean; they opened the door and threw me out.
I fell and fell, air rush sounded as an express train, terror
froze my brain, but I remember thinking: “this is not a day
for enjoying the view.”Miracle! A mist bank crossed my
path so thick it broke my fall to a gentle descent and put
me softly on top of a tree that had many branches, it was
like going down a ladder which I had done often,(I used
to be a house painter.) People came running, I had landed
on a tiny island, they gave me coconut milk to drink and
told of a military plane that had crashed on a mountain
slope. I didn’t, gloat knew what they must have suffered,
drank more sweet milk, climbed up a hut on stilts and went
to sleep on a fragrant mat of palm leaves.

the tidy bachelor

The Tidy Bachelor

I have been made destitute, workers in my house,
no water or heating, chalk dust and dirty footsteps.
Stay in a hotel that has institutional white sheets
can’t sleep; think of hospitals infirmity and death.

Workers gone, women arrive, in a van, to clean;
fill my little house with never ending natter, I sit
on the terrace try to read, can’t concentrate, they
laugh a lot, so what’s hilarious about my cottage.

I pay them and they leave with their buckets and
brooms, I make the bed, green sheets with large
flowers on, fresh from the laundry too, will go to
bed early; my home sighs and sinks back to itself.

The child Prodigy

The Child Prodigy


Once I was famous, we kids had street theatre
I played all the leading roles, I could act any ones
shoes off. I could play girls too, like the poor girl
who was selling matches; she hadn’t sold any
sat in a shop-opening a winter evening warming
her hands by striking the matches one by one till
none was left. Icy night, she fell into the longest
sleep. Adults cried. I could also play a charmer,
sing love songs and kiss girls smack on the lips.

When fourteen, I got self conscious, put on a fed
up look, left acting and was fast forgotten; mum
said that as a child I was cheeky. No, I had been
a child actor I now know hadn’t I gone shy I could
have been a contender, famous and interviewed
by “Hello magazine.” She would have been proud
of me. No longer ill at ease, but who wants to see
an aged man prancing about on the stage, singing
ancient songs? And mum ain’t around anymore.

the clairvoyant

The Clairvoyant

Over a cold Nordic coast a seagull flies and sees
the bay between the island and the coastal town.
40 minutes each way by ferry. It’s an old gull and
has a blind eye and one leg; yes, you are right,
a real pirate I used to know years ago, it knew me
too when I was a cook on that a ferry boat, sat on
the mast and waited for me to throw scraps of
food into the sea shrieking harshly, it is the gulls
way of wishing me well.

This year has no ice in the bay, there was a time
when the ferry was icebound islander folk had to
walk on ice across to get to the shops, as they do
now, there is a bridge now, ferry been sold and
is plying its trade on the delta of Bangladesh.

The day is clear I’m a seagull and can see the past
lucid as the day it is lucky that I can’t see the future,
but there is a name that warms my heart: Falluja.
The down trodden, the raped, took up arms and
fought the mightiest army the world has seen and
won a moral victory that one day will bring peace,
to Iraq. I’m not a seer, but the old pirate is, flies
beside me now and harshly shrieks, it is the way we
seagulls greet each other.

poetry carrousel

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

epigram

Epigram

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”

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.

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

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.