No
time
to do
everything
let alone
the time
to do absolutely nothing
On top, the freshest snow; beneath, hard ice;
And under that, unseen, the water trickles.
The Creator wanted to make a Copy of the World.
No big deal for a Creator, you'd think, but
The copy of the world was in the world,
So that inside the copy there had to be a copy,
And inside THAT copy [yes, you've guessed it] a copy.
Creators don't have the tiniest of hands -
But this one thought it through, and wrote two notes
Before things went too far. The first was written
In finest cursive calligraphy and said:
This exhibit is in course of arrangement.
The second was crudely printed and said: GONE TO LUNCH
They ask about my stories, are they true?
I tell them, they are like a chicken kiev:
The outside crumb, the meat totally chicken,
Hydrated and re-formed, but totally chicken;
And in the middle lurks the garlic butter
(Which has nothing to do with chicken at all).
He always came at things from the wrong angle:
His allusions were too oblique;
His observations too acute.
Diseases can turn phrases into truth:
What's eating you? I'm sweet enough already.
This wine has a certain - je ne sais quoi.
Where will it all
end? I'm dying to know.
What's the use of getting drunk,
If you're going to be sober?
What's the use of going on holiday,
If you come home when it's over?
What's the use of
doing good,
If everyone else does bad?
What's the use of being happy,
If one day you'll be sad?
What's the use of getting up,
If you're gonna go back to bed?
What's the use of life at all,
If you only wind up - ?
Even this
Is a metaphor
But I find I have been there every day
And already know the language.
The Progress of Love
Delight Despair |
Yesterday, I paid my first visit to
The Shop of Second-Hand Words.
Black plastic bags, bursting with and the of,
Blocked the pavement, waiting for recycling.
Across the street, a whole warehouse full of love,
Still very popular, the man assured me,
Who seemed to know me, although I was certain
I'd never been there before.
Where's my present?
Where's my future?
Where's my past?
REMEMBRANCEThe only death that's glorious, [whatever you've been told] is the death of leaves in autumn, in red, and brown, and gold. |
What's the matter?
Is something wrong?
Is someone else
Singing your song?
Would you like to refrain
From your refrain?
Are you tired of just singing it
All over again?
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to join in the chorus -
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to join in the chorus,
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to sing it all over again.
Would you like to
start
Another verse?
Are you afraid it
May just get worse?
Would you like to refrain
From your refrain?
Are you tired of just singing it
All over again?
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to join in the chorus -
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to join in the chorus,
Oh, there is nothing for us
But to sing it all over again.
MIDDLE 12
When first I started
singing,
I dreamt of finding a song
That would take my heart and soul and drag
The rest of me along,
It would make me soar up high,
It would make me dive down low,
It would take me where birds fly
And where the angler-fishes glow,
It would move quite unpredictably
Through fourths and fifths and thirds,
Its keys would open up strange flats,
Its sharps would stab the words.
But then I found the truth
That lies behind the name:
They give you a sheet with the changes,
But the changes stay the same.
Something IS the
matter,
Something IS wrong.
Someone else IS
Singing my song.
I'd love to refrain
From my refrain,
I'm sick and tired of singing it
All over again,
Because there's nothing for us
Except to be the chorus,
All we have left before us
Is joining in the chorus,
That's right, there's nothing for us
But to sing it all over again.
If I described you as
old Shakespeare did,
Producing all the props that one expects,
Sun, moon and stars, the flash of an eyelid
Trembling the earth – that you, in all respects,
Were cataclysmic, cosmic, all the rest,
If I descanted on your thrilling voice,
Compared all beauties, rating you the best,
League tables, prizes, cups, rosettes, the choice
Of all the phone-lines, all the people’s votes
Selecting you, you, you, beyond all reach,
The face that launched a thousand paper boats
Your name and mobile written down on each –
If I did that: then say, where would you be?
The writing’s mine. Who’s great? It’s me, me, me!
I wrote this
while another teacher was teaching a Year 7 class about Shakespeare's
sonnets. At the end of the lesson, I read it out, and the class gave
me a round of applause.
That history rhymes with mystery’s no chance.
Examining the past’s like checking poo
To see what has been eaten. We advance –
But some of us prefer the backward view.
Searching for reason
in our excrement,
Exploring the effects of what we ate,
May give insight into some element,
But will, unfortunately, come rather late.
Post-event wisdom,
hindsight’s piercing gaze,
They penetrate, reveal and clarify –
But what? Just the detritus of dead days,
The rust and dust that scholars mummify.
As I investigate Time after time,
I wish that judgement could prevent the crime.
Examination:
etymology
Suggests that something’s being taken out,
Or else it’s slipped in the chronology:
It was, it’s ‘ex-’, it’s “former” – but I doubt
If all these
explanations can explain
The nature, purpose, function of this rite
Of passage, or a ‘brief account’ make plain
The role it plays, or cast the slightest light
On why, because I did it, you must, too,
To prove yourself inferior to me,
To prove myself superior to you,
Me examiner, you examinee.
“Knowledge is power” – a line full of suggestions.
Don’t forget: I’m the one asking the questions!
Outside the window, I
can see the birds
Picking up sandwiches the kids have dropped
(Or thrown – food as a missile!) like the words
I gathered from the books I never stopped
Reading when ill – or well – I wonder if
The birds are nourished better by these chances
Than they would be if well-fed out of stiff
Wire cages (squirrel-proof!) And then my glance is
Caught by kids in classrooms, bent over tasks
Meaningless in themselves, but forming part,
No doubt, of some great whole (though no one asks
If it’s a hole instead, or when they’ll start
To understand just what it is they’ve done.)
Colour the blanks. Eat crumbs. Shut up. Get on.
29.i.2008 History
Lesson
Summer deludes us that there are no limits.
Speed disappears in leaves and time in light.
Only the cold astronomers acknowledge
That longest day brings nearer longest night.
Ars et VitaWhen I was young, I wrote my poems long. Now I am old |
I want my work to read like a translation
From one of those languages philosophers talk about
In which it is grammatically impossible to lie
What are my genes
Compared to my ideas?
Would I rather spread blue eyes
Or good sound sense?
Sitting at his computer he'd been aware
Of cold intruding inexplicably,
So he was glad to find the back door open,
What, or who, ever might have come or gone.
Boys and GirlsThe World's Divided into Boys and Girls - Like Dark and Light, Wet/Dry, Silence and Noise: One's pleasant, while the other just annoys. Maturer Ladies, in twinset and pearls, Nose wrinkling with disgust while their lip curls, Aren't necessarily life's greatest joys, But nor are Bearded Men with Smelly Toys Like Cars and Bikes that churn the mud in swirls. The rule is: Boys Want Sex, while Girls Need Love, But both are ready to stick out their necks To get the one thing they desire above All else, not noticing that this one wrecks That one, not thinking that too hard a shove THAT way will tilt you THIS: Life's more Complex. [When Light's too Bright, you can't tell Hawk from Dove.]
Poem for GoetheWhat can you write on A summerhouse wall You could bear to read Sixty years later?
What Goethe wrote was “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh... ”
|
When I was adolescent, I wrote sonnets,
Shakespearean, the rhymes tucked into place,
Enjambements, the lot, each one ten minutes.
It only takes me five now, but the pace
Of life has quickened, which explains the speed
- Unless I've just become more superficial,
And agonising's vanished with the need
To give tradition's stiffening to the wishful
Thinking about the schoolgirls on the bus
I wanted to impress with words, words, words.
They liked the poems. Was it worth the fuss?
Learning to be a Bard to pull the birds?
Holding, not pulling, is the poet's curse
I know now, and write sarcasm in free verse.
Truth, which, like bone, remains
When you boil off the mess
Of flesh and lies, retains
Little attraction and less usefulness.
Tread carefully. Wherever you set your feet,
You're bound to be walking on bones. The bones of the earth,
A long dead river's dried up skeleton,
The bones of men and women and cats and dogs
And things that only have a name in books.
Walk circumspectly. You're bound to be treading on feelings,
Your own or somebody else's, scattered about,
Invisible in the long grass of general emotion,
Concealed under tufts of reticence, tussocks of shame.
Adders of antagonism, ready to bite an ankle
And make it go puffy, not deadly but inconvenient.
And if you don't move
at all - you're in somebody's way.
(After Böcklin, Reger and Rachmaninov)
Look! There it is! The island of the dead,
So full of cypresses, they spill over the edge
And even in full sun their inky shadows
Cloud the water.
Look: there it is, and every stroke of the oars
Bringing it nearer; you can see the beach,
A narrow fringe of white sand, and the steps,
Just wide enough for two abreast and a coffin,
Winding up into the darkness of the cypresses.
No sense of hills or valleys, just the cypresses
And the path, disappearing. Look. There it is.
The island of the dead. And every stroke of the oars
Brings you nearer.
Love
Is a word
Used in the game
Of tennis
To mean
Nothing
As The Deer Move Through the LandscapeSo thoughts move through the mind, The hart's comical notion, The inspirational hind.
Some are half-heraldic, Some have blood and foam on their flanks, Some you curse for eating your roses, For others you offer up thanks
That they deigned to enter your garden Or traverse your headlights' tight beam, Though they startled you, never a nightmare, Though they beggar belief, not a dream.
You see with much less of your eye: Is that a hand under the bushes, Or loose earth piled suspiciously high?
With sentries or searchlights on towers: They're already inside the enclave, Their face, if you see it, is yours.
Let wind, deer and darkness pass through, Note the slots in the mud by the puddles, The lines that don't shine in the dew.
That you mustn't let on you have seen, Are the life that won't come to an end, But will be, as it is, and has been. |
SONNET FOR RESPECT WEEK
It's clear to me, if I've a right,
Then others have that right as well:
So what I do, by day or night,
Must not deprive, do down, compel,
But show respect, leave people free
To be themselves, live and let live.
That's my responsibility:
Never to take unless I give.
And so, if I am fortunate,
I can't forget the suffering rest.
My happiness, the fact I ate,
Obliges me to do my best:
Friends, family, self, school, and the Earth -
Respect for Life, from death to birth.