Winter Art (Fimbulvinter)
1947, mother of
all winters...
our oak dinner table ended up as firewood...
kept us warm for days.
A deep frozen feline stood on the top of the bin,
a clawed outstretched paw,
staving off a frost attack—for
days it stood there—
an epic symbol of
valiant, if hopeless struggle—
brutal art- admired,
but also pelted
with snowballs by impish children.
A thaw—winter
lost its grim grip,
the moggy crumbled—fell
off its pedestal.
The bin lid opened and nature’s glory ended up
among potato peels and other things
discarded without a second thought.
Troll or Frogs
It has been raining
for days, fine gentle precipitation and
the sun ravaged ground, where I walk among olive trees,
has turned deep green hiding gray stones in a verdant
blanket of love. It is like a second spring minus a hot sun,
a respite before the real winter sets in. A few big frogs
cross my path—it
appears they wear black woolly coats,
but perhaps I’m mistaken, they could be tiny trolls only seen
by a privileged few. They live under the stones and since
they do not read or have computers, I wonder how they
spend time. What did I do before computers and the lure
of the internet? I did read hundreds of novels, but I have
little patience for long books now. But I do read poetry,
mainly written by the not so famous. The landscape smells
new and fragrant like it has had a bath and is half asleep.
The ground is soft as a carpet in a luxury hotel, so I have to
try walking lightly and not upset new plants. Deep silence
except from a silky murmour, I think it is stones talking.
The light is fading; time to go home, light the fire, switch on
the computer and read to see how the world is getting along.
The frogs, or trolls, can jolly well look after themselves, but
I remember eating frog legs in Alabama... tasted like chicken.
The Absence of
Mind
There is an elephant
in the room—it’s
in the corner
eating my straw mattress—the
one I have had since childhood
and could not bear to get rid of, because all my dreams
are hidden in the stalks of cereal plants; white now
as an old man’s beard, yet soft as the fleece of a spring born
lamb.
Ah, memory of a good life lived; sing for me—
let me write down what happened a long time ago when time was
forever and forgetfulness was a youthful distraction on a
jubilant day.
Poor memory is more sinister now—what
is forgotten
will not be remembered, so I need my dreams.
It is true that once upon a time I was a seafarer,
but since I do not recall well, I have to invent my tales,
yet I have seen and feared the irate sea. I must write all this
down—
if the elephant eats the last straw my dreams will be blank
screen.
Hibernation
Occupy falling snow;
claim it—make
a snowman with coal eyes
and carrot nose before winter is over and your task runs through
your
fingers as water into the soft soil and is privatized when it
flows into
a deep lake and you must pay if you want a drink or take a
shower.
A carrot—not
enough to make soup;
the pieces of coal—not
enough to warm your cold hands.
The barons of money have bought streams, forests and mountains,
fenced it in and there are gates—you
must pay
if you want to walk and see nature at her most enthralling
liberty.
And you will think: where is our emancipation to express
ourselves?
Nothing is free, why should it be? This is democracy: the right
to buy
and sell the world’s resources and charge whatever the market
says.
And you pay for what is rightfully yours. If you do not occupy
it now
it will be too late! Spring is the name of misery and it is your
fault
for sleeping when snow fell in your garden.
Tango in
Argentina
It was eons ago, in
Buenos Aires—many
of us around a table
at a cafe...I can’t remember why I was there...
I think it was something to do with buying race horses.
A woman asked me up to dance...I first declined—
shyness is my bane...after prodding I trotted up on the dance
floor.
The band played a tango, not that I hadn’t dance before,
mother was a dance teacher...something happened,
I forgot about my timidity...just danced floating on a cloud of
pleasure. We were alone on the floor...when the music stopped,
applause.
Back at our table dad gave me a glass of wine...
the dream continued. I wanted to marry Dona Juanita,
my dancing partner; dad said no, she was married and too old for
me.
But I have never since been able to emulate the magic of the
moment.
When I see a colt galloping across the pampas I know
of the physical pleasure it feels, once it was me
feeling exuberant and timeless in a world of everlasting youth.
A Cook’s Battle
The ship -cook was
tired—it
had been a long day,
the ship was old... full of cockroaches;
one had found its way into his bread dough
and when the captain cut a slice of bread it was there,
a brown raisin; the old man had been very angry.
The cook’s trouble was roaches... they were everywhere.
He had asked to have the galley fumigated when the ship
was in dry dock, but no...it was far too expensive.
Every week he boiled a big pan of water and squirted into
corners...
it helped a bit and he had buckets full, but soon they were back
encroaching his galley. Then there were mites in the flour
which he had to sift before baking bread,
not his faul, yet he had to take the flack.
He often worked until late evening to keep the galley clean...
he had even painted it so on the surface it looked bright and
nice.
He was losing the battle against insects...
he often felt he was losing his mind as well...
they appeared in his dreams strangulating him.
Time was hard...it's not easy to get a job...
still when his ship docked in Bombay he was off
and the crew could get someone else to insult.
December Paris
Winter Paris—pavement
cafés, vacant chairs, and poor sparrows
look for baguette crumbs. Artists gone to their loft
conversions,
in bed with their models and plates of goose liver pate,
wait for a better time. I come across a posh bistro—
people inside wear silk suits...the doors locked;
invitation only. A famous philosopher comes out,
says something deep about peace- in broken English-
then asks where the camera is.
When he sees I am not a journalist he says: "Merde",
and walks back in. At the Shakespeare Bookshop,
academic tourists have assembled; they look through books
of famous writers. I think of saying that two of my poetry
collections
are here, but they look so educated, wearing capes of
superiority
and poetry workshop shoes—
I loose my nerve...rain...
I find a bistro at a side street and have coffee with an
Armagnac;
I think of the days when Ernest Hemingway scribbled away here,
other writers too, when Paris was not so haughtily
conscious of her artistic status.
