Sonnet to a
Boulder
This big boulder in
the middle of the field
puzzles me; why is it there on its own
and
not with its brother further down the vale?
It must be a sandstone, has many holes,
yet
no mice live there. I thought it would make
a perfect home for furry things, but crossing
the field see it too fraught, beady eyes and
wings everywhere, not missing a movement.
Guess time isn’t important to a boulder,
it’s
summer now and it is hot to the touch
but
there will be no rain before October;
a few
months is no longer than waiting for a train
that’s five minutes late. It has nothing to say,
but it does whistle when the wind blows.
Aphorisms
Fear not the dead
They are a dreaded copy
Of your future self
Those who work long hours
Feel holy and virtuous
But get arthritis
It is fairly ok
To be old in November—
In May it is hell.
On The Sunny
Side Of Life
An almond tree and
an olive tree stand close together
touching leaves—the olive is a reluctant groom
waiting for things to get
normal so he can go out with his mates again; the almond is
a blushing bride and she has got other plans for him.
I do not care about them today. There is an electric line
over
this domestic forest—it goes all the way to Spain
which is
suffering from recession.
In my valley, life is the same as
before—
farmers till the soil and prune trees and eat.
On a felled tree a shepherd sits smoking a cigarette,
by his feet three obedient
dogs wait for their orders
to bring the sheep home;
miles from his
mind is the Spanish recession.
In a field of yellow flowers a lone red poppy stands,
begs me
to pick it so it can get away from this foreign soil,
to be put
in
a vase and admired for a day or two,
which is as far as a flower
can see into the future.
I can smell the redolence of horse manure—
if they could bottle this scent as an after shave
lotion
I would gladly splash it on my face and
people would think
I was a cowboy. I always wanted to be one,
but I
never got to Texas. Mind I wanted to be a general too,
but hate wars—I think it was the uniform that pulled me.
I became a short
order
cook 'till someone shot me
and robbed the till. When my wounds
were healed
I got a job as a taxi driver and saw people
doing
unspeakable things in the back of my cab.
Work and I never got along—it
ended in a bitter divorce—
so I’m back in my valley again
and will not get involved
with work again.
The Indemnity
I had bought a plot
of land years ago and forgotten about it
and I
went to have a look.
It was smaller than I thought.
A carpenter came
and built me a coffin with two floors,
and as I sat on the top
floor watching TV the echo of an Italian earthquake struck and I
fell down a hole.
I felt wretched. I had done everything
right in life—
always paid my bills but now I had forgotten to
insure my coffin.
I came to the rescue centre and met a friend—
he wore a gold chain around his neck and the inscription read:
“One Day At a Time”. He had been sober for twenty years,
paid
all bills, but never laughed—
so I gave him a bottle of whisky in
return for his chain...
and he laughed and laughed, collapsed and died.
I felt desolate and cried, but a doctor came
who was
trained to help people who grieved.
He told me it wasn’t my fault
and that my friend
was responsible for his own demise.
Relieved and absolved for my sin by a man from the medical
profession, (priests are so yesterday), I sold the gold chain and
built
a small log cabin in a forest but near a lake in case of
fire.
Meeting Equals
White haired, the
queen's skin is like beeswax—
she
has a honeyed smile when shaking hands
with
the President and his wife.
How far they have
come she had said to her husband
only this
morning. The President's family
is the most powerful in the world—I wonder
if the children are
aware of that?
and The First Lady, from a street wise
lawyer,
to a wife whose job is to look pretty.
There is a great glow in the air—
new times
meet old times
and the past is hidden behind
a smile;
however, there is a question rumbling
in The First Lady’s mind, but she pushes it back
for now: “Why, she asks, are all the white folks
so
exceedingly nice to us?"
Girl in the
Park
In the park I saw my
dog Bambi—she was playing
with
another dog that belonged to a girl who sat in the grass.
Bambi didn’t see me—she had a glossy coat,
and looked
beautiful, so I waited for her to see me and come over.
The girl was of no interest—she looked
like a black & white
photo taken with a box camera in 1950. I didn’t see her face.
She got up and walked into a café.
Its door was open but the entrance had a curtain of fake pearls
that sounded like water in a stream when it moved.
The park was empty
and there were no ducks in the dark pond.
I walked into the café too—it was empty;
the owner was reading
a paper.
I asked if he had seen a girl with two dogs.
He
said dogs were not allowed in his café,
and he continued to read.
Then for no reason at all I sat down and cried.
It’s in the Showing
In poetry one is
not to tell but to show, so I’m not going to say
anything, not tell I live in Van Gogh nature and I know of a
field
where a million burgundy poppies vie for attention as a beauty
show, where every girl looks the same and you hope a girl will
come
with thunderous thighs and a generous bum just to break
the ennui of perfect plastic beauty; why should I tell you that
when you can come and see by yourself. I also know,
but will
not tell you, by the end of May it will all be gone,
the straw will be
pale and dry and shriek in pain when trod on.
That is why I have
a cistern and collect every drop of water
that falls on my roof.
You can come and see for yourself,
lift up the cistern lid
and
look
down—the tiny fishes
that swim there will think you are
angels. I’m their God,
I have told them so—sometimes I shout
down and flick a lighter,
just to make their faith unfaltering. I’m
not
sure if it works anymore—
last year, when the cistern was full,
I bent down to test the water,
fell in and screamed for help.
A wise silver bellied fish said:
“If he’s God, why did
he scream for help? Anyway he needs us more than we need
him; we are the ones who keep the water clean."
You see, I have
told you nothing—only shown you a world
where fledglings jump
out of their nests to test their flying skills
and never make
it back home again.
…And It Was Her Summer
“Go back to the children’s home", she
said,
"I have no work and
can’t afford to keep you”.
One late June afternoon she sat on a
bench
with a man I didn’t know.
The man smiled—I
didn’t like him, but
took the coins he gave me
to buy an ice–cream for I was still
hanging about—
so mother got up and slapped me across the face.
”Get lost you stupid boy!” My face was burning—I threw the
coins
into the lake and ran away. When I stopped running it was night
and I could see sheep in a field; I was tired and cold and thought
of
seeking shelter in a little wooden church,
but it smelt of fear and
I thought of ghosts—
so I walked on 'till I came to a workman’s
hut
near the road.
It was easy to get in; here the
smell was of coffee
and kind men in overalls, perhaps one of them was my father?
It was morning in warm sunlight when they came—
they were not
angry, but gave me milk and bread
and showed me the quickest
way to get home.
The sky that day was enormous and from a hill
I looked down to the town. I could see the school building.
It
must
have been early—no children
were in the yard;
but I just sat there and
could not understand
why my mother didn’t want to see me.
Daybreak Song
Soon it will be morning and I can’t
have a drink—
only rummies drink in the morning.
But I have a fear inside me that will not go away
and I know all the smart people will say something
like “face the truth,” but not saying what that
truth is.
And if you are impolite and ask them
they waffle about their childhood
and you can see
they are not being honest.
Now I have a watch
on my arm,
I never had a wrist watch before
but
the woman I live with bought me one
because it would be
good for my self respect,
like I should go around
hating myself.
On the terrace I can see a new day is
about to break—
I do not like the idea of that, but
will not worry about it.
I will simply postpone my dreams and
sleep till sunlight hits my face. Then
I know it will be ten in the morning
and I can´t have
a drink unless I’m a rummy.
Assassination?
The country lane I walked on twisted
and turned—
I didn’t
know what I would see next after a new bend.
I do not like the road to be straight—one I
can see
until it disappears into blue yonder, is scary
and I
fear I will not reach its end.
People came walking up behind
me—
I stood aside and took my cap off.
It was the lady, I had
seen jogging on this road,
strolling along with a tall, dark man—
in his shadow she looked timid and insignificant,
with a smile
glued firmly on her red lips.
This gave a hint of deep sadness—that of one
who had lost the highest office in modern times.
A step or so behind them, ambled another man,
with a fun sign
on his back that read:
”We have suffered—now it is our turn to
dish it out,
kick me if you dare.”
I heard the cough of a colt forty-five,
and the tall shadow fell to the ground—the fixed
smile
stood motionless in the baffling glare of the midday sun,
the man, with the amusing sign, had run into the bushes;
smoke spiraled from his hand—a cigar?
The sky darkened—thousands of
war planes
loaded with smart, cluster, bunker busting, stupid
and sweet, bombs
looking for any surviving children of
the catastrophe
that was about to befall their
country.
The Chair
Person
The woman, who was chairing
the meeting,
wore a flowered
dress of an expensive material.
She wore much gold and
with
her tan
she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less
elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge,
too red
and octopus greedy—
and her fingers, when resting on the
table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, the blood still
dripping
and
when lesser charges were read,
it looked as though she mentally
hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something
insincere about her,
maybe she didn’t
have a problem,
but this was the only place people
tolerated her.
Through the open windows on a beautiful summer evening,
I heard bird song—the
sun was setting into an azure sea.
At home I had a cold
bottle
of white wine waiting.
I must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room.
I looked up—the
woman was glaring at me,
waiting for me to share something.
I looked up to the roof counting the beams
and thus the meeting ended.
The Flick
The blond girl had turned
her back to the beach,
her
head in hand, her guitar flung aside.
I think she
was crying. A man walked his dog—
another
one
jogged; birds in a V shape
flew towards the eye of
the twilight;
and no scientist saw the weeping girl.
It was night, on a strand of sand that faced
the mighty
Pacific Ocean I so often had crossed
on my way
to the land of the setting sun.
A girl alone and me
on a beach of forget us not.
I walked over to tell
her to go home;
the girl was a heap of golden sand,
her fine guitar was flotsam of a blue fishing boat
and her bikini a tattered plastic shopping bag.
Observed
when buying Onions
The massive
grey cloud in the sky looked like a tiger shark,
open jaw ready to strike; it had one shiny eye,
and tore
off
a piece of heaven’s floor.
I saw shocked angels running
about—
one lost his harp; it fell like a comet down to earth,
and
landed
with a thunder on the frozen wasteland of Siberia.
The shark had tried to eat more then it could possible
swallow;
it fragmented with a limp bang and fell to the ground
as lumps
of
rain. When I looked up again the hole
on heaven’s floor,
had
been filled in with fluffy clouds,
but the angels evening
choir
had to do without
the harp’s sweet and lyrical tunes.
The Drum
Beat of War
Smoke came
from the mountain pass—
troops
marched to the border,
general mobilization was declared—
the old spoke about wars of yore—
the
young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy.
Ministers and
king wore uniforms,
laws were passed against a fifth
columnists
and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm;
although
many were arrested no one was tried.
The war cry had brought
order
from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer.
A good time for
marching and
military parades;
women wore flowers in their hair
ready
to kiss loved
ones goodbye.
In the Fall came the rain,
the north-westerly blew cold and
war didn’t
happen;
leaders congratulated themselves for winning the
peace,
and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realization
that we
open eyed had
marched into an open prison
and could no longer travel
anywhere,
in
our country, without a passport.
The Odium
Dead roses in
a vase on my desk—I
moved
them away and remembered seeing
my
brother, through a door ajar,
getting up from
his chair,
opening the drawer where my pipe
collections were,
and breaking them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips,
and
I said nothing—
I didn’t
know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends;
he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense
while I sought
the corners.
When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends—
they
spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed.
All I could think of
was my bloody meerschaum pipes.
The
Vanishing Future
The lake we
swam in, as children,
is now
a sea of knee high thistles.
On summer
evenings that had no night,
we fished for
trout—now
I see empty tins
of sardines
blinking in fading sunlight
I had traveled long to get here—
fifty
years
or so. My old home was an oblong square
on ugly ground,
but I did find a rusty
spade to dig
my tiny space while smoking
a last cigarette or two.
The
African Bee
Yellow flowers
in a ring protected by olive trees—
no one knows their name.
I have to ask a botanist
for their Latin name.
The dale side here has many
stone walls,
tiny if seen from the moon—
overgrown,
now those small plots of land
yield nothing but
poverty and deep seated resentment.
The flowers
are not lilies—I can see that.
It will soon be Easter
and the little church
will be full of women, while
most men
will hang about outside, near the bar.
White and yellow butterfly flies unsteadily
around
in the wind, and bumblebees
drink from deep
red poppies.
A swarm of killer bees fly by—
do not
speak or move till they are gone.
My brother-in-law,
Nené, who lives in Kinshasa, Congo,
tells me that
the bees there live, exclusively,
on orchid dew and
they are big as sparrows
and can sting an elephant 'till it dreams of yesterday.
Maybe it isn’t true but
I would not like to be stung by them.
Now that the ice
on the poles melts
will we see a fauna of rare flowers?
If so, there must be bees there too
and the friendly
bumblebee.
Blowing
in the Wind
Wild oats and
thistles covered the track swiping at my legs
as a punishment for old sins I thought safely forgotten
in a misty dale making wars look like romantic
adventures
that separate men from boys, where trespasses are buried
under flowers and are never referred to
unless you are a soppy fool who betrays old soldiers’ secrets.
The cottage was still there but trees around it had grown
so
big it could not be seen from the road;
the door was easy to
open—
windows had layers of spiders’ webs as curtains
making
the room shady in the noon heat.
In intense silence the
past
came thundering alive—
so many graves not visited and
tears
of those betrayed
ran down my cheeks, a lake of clarity,
a mirror I couldn’t run away from—
I punched the stone wall—
bloody knuckles—I had spilt much blood,
but never my own.
I savoured the pain.
I stood on an ancient table and threw a
rope
over a beam, when my dog barked wanting
to come in from
the noon heat…
At ease now I walked back to the road
and
behind me a hangman’s noose gently swayed.
Prose
Poem
The Nap
It’s time you
wake up. I have slept long dreaming.
Yes, you have been sleeping too long—
most of your
life has passed by
and you know little of this world, or
how it works,
not like your talk of equality which
cannot exist
other than as cosmetics,
the icing on
the cake called democracy.
You must wake up now—
I don’t want you to go
to your grave
a fool who thinks animal rights
is a big
deal—
yet eating beef.
These obsessions
with rights
belong to the well off middle class
who can afford
to eat expensive no meat food,
and are to dense to know
that if you are poor,
you eat cheap burgers.
Wake up sentimental dreams—
do become a man
your age—
your mother has died and so has your dog;
tears are misplaced in the cold light of truth,
so come
now, you are not a boy,
life is not fake poetry
made
to turn you maudlin
and forgiving;
I want to die
bravely like Saddam Hussein died.
Wake up now,
do not pretend to be asleep to avoid
the final truth
which is what you long have known to be true.
Your mother knew that and on her death
bed
refused to play the conventional
game of tearful
farewells;
they thought she was cold,
but she had
nothing to regret,
she lived life her way. So can you.
No, no. No for you who read this—
I want a beautiful
death with candlelight on my side,
not for me
the truth of sobriety.
What's so wrong with a little show,
flowers and moist eyes.
A mahogany coffin is much
classier
than one made of cardboard.
Style means
a lot to me;
I was never an emotionally sober man.
