Damian Garside

WHY

why be so singular
writing it as a poem
when you
could have (fire away!)
written it in prose

did you not
require clarity, transparency, conformity,
syntax you might
micromanage?

all of which (we
do believe) prose
alone is
the form
that
can secure

you see
the path
you see the doorway
avoid the kitchen,
drawing room
above all
the boudoir

for all
their highfalutin veneer
patina

there much
distraction and divergence

that way
leads
to carnival, sideshow,
introspection
all that
reeks
of
orgiastic pantomime

pathways opening but
then
immediately closing

rawness, roughness
that could not be more refined

but here
I am simply reminding you
of what you clearly already know

TOP DOWN

not bottom up
can only
top down

gates
and towns
cities through which
go forth

find
unclaimed territory
do Empires found

build walls, fortress, bridges
but
hard in the long run
when force
disintegrate
all topple down

and no
one dare call it
none
know what
it means

new beast
this fracture

this
creature
of ruin

LOVER

is
love

distinctive?
instinctive?

base?
superstructure?

merely lip service?
meandering midnight
love poem
that simply
never ends?

let me
stand back a bit
mirror this
big boudoir moment

(purely
for the big picture
no
ulterior motive)

your beauty such
that taking one look
gives
me such confidence
for the continuity
of the species

unless
it evolve as regards
shape and form
to obviate
all discussion
of humanity’s preservation

and so
you stand appalled
expecting so much more
expecting something different

and me
in hot debate
with her
nonetheless.

Queen of
Confessional Poetry herself

no
love poem
in the air

I ask for the words
for sauce
but get insouciance

not a hint of nuance, colour,
love code and
all its protocols

Hallmark of
all that a love poem should be

having
lost so much at love
so
bereft of energy

HARD TO BEAT

no tiger claws
no vampire teeth

even so
walked through this door
and I was recruited
for murder

all above board
Geneva Conventioned

quickly prepped
armed
and parachuted

into the fray
proverbially armed
to the teeth
(aforementioned teeth)

and what teeth!
less of interest to a
naturalist than
an orthodontist

not much good
for snarling or
biting
through arteries

but pretty
good
with pins

and securing commando
knives between
teeth whilst
leopard crawling

pretty
good
with pins

at pulling them from
grenades with
my teeth

pretty hard
to beat

HEROES

we asked for Spartacus
we got Julius Caesar

we enquired
about the availability
of the Buddha
and you gave us Genghis Khan

history always
switches on us
tells its
own punchline

holds us up
to bad joke scrutiny
makes sure
we miss the point

demolishes
every hero
fighting
for humanity

tells us
who to
follow, obey,
even love

in a voice
you make our own

INCH

slowly
inch by inch

ripple
by ripple

you and me imagining
we are edging
closer to Heaven

closer to the truth
(whatever
that might be)
about the Universe
about ourselves

in this post-everything
world we currently inhabit
post-modern, post-structural,
post-punk, post-capitalist,
psychedelic,
funkadelic

where
you and me
doing the best that we can
at every turn failing

focused on
completing
this ancient ritual (at
least its
bare essentials

basic equation)

DESTINED TO END

Ah, poetry (let’s
out a breath
hears
syllables
expire)

hard to love it
impossible
to destroy it

Eliot, Richards,
Yvor Winters

all those years wasted
learning about it

from first
stumbling days on
the Rondebosch campus
then in red drag
robe
about to be
your Dr G

which does the job
for would be rapper
of academic professional
(professional
perhaps not
in the
dolling up to
take on the streets
revolutionary
of pleasure sense)

but
incoming! a fat
opening line
fully
armour-piercing
iconic Krupp
88mm

flouting itself as it
whistles upon me
fade to
black. fade to
white

lap dissolve and then
match cut as it
demands
all my time

wouldn’t you
know it, have guessed it
something this
agonistic
simply certain
to happen

popping
onto the page
exactly where we are, here
of places

oddest location where
we swore
never again, would never
see
let alone entertain
each other again

so
adamant this
would be so
and yet
look what just happened

both
of us cast headlong
shades of the Lady
of Christ’s

angel
of free speech, secret cosmic rebel

off to the races
newly redefined spaces

no way of knowing
where this poem, this
thing poetry
ever began

where (and how) in Hell, on Earth,
it is destined to end

QUESTION TIME

great question
(such that it
should be
bolded, italicised,
written
in capitals)

let me
do it justice

let me
work on it
sit for a week
a month

a lifetime
ten centuries

hopefully coming up
with an answer
summoned
from below
dredged
from above
(the kind
of deep break-through
that might well promise
to change everything)

ideally
by which time
(so many aeons elapsed)
whatever Dawn’s
upon me
greatis by no means
completely redundant

the world
our world (if
it still be)

unrecognisable
gloriously, horribly,
indescribably altered

now
to proceed

what
was it again

that question

great question?

POEM AS PREDATOR

poem as predator
poem as prey

evolution in the
lines as they
spark, splash
their way
past you

guppies, celopods, great
whites
barracuda

give praise
say your prayers

make a vow
take a bow

publish a statement
pen a declaration

never
in the light of
whatever truth takes your fancy

never to let
them take you
make you
fudge; or fold

BY DESIGN

everything
twitches, shudders,
revolves,
devolves
evolves

shades into

melds
dissolves

splits, pulls tricks,
goes longitudinal, lateral.
becomes hybrid
finds
a solution

runs parallel
chases, takes tracking shot,
edits, splices.,
dices
chases, runs
away from
enters into, escapes
out of

connives, convinced,
consumes
is consumed by

darkens,
enlightens
extends
goes out on a limb
shifts and returns back to
resolves then rescinds

enhances, romances,
shadows, throws
shade upon

thinks better worlds, best
world

worst life we
can imagine

worst reality, surreal actuality,
horror show entirely

ones we
are born into
die in
die from

are enshrined in
remain remembered

unless
resurrected, reincarnated,
renewed, reinvented
simply born again

all things
      designed and created unless
worked it
all out themselves
        (what works
best
   for them)

generating their very being
out of something
rather than
nothing

why is there something
rather than nothing?

why
is there anything

when
nothing is central, primal,
presupposes
logically, mathematically
essential

look at yourself
plain as day you
just appeared out of nowhere

nothing
so
much the deeper

beyond
all conjecture

wiser
than

we could ever fathom
from the very beginning
before
the beginning by
inescapable design

such a grip on the plan