1, poem, poetry, – Page 12

WRITING A POEM

writing a poem
makes me greater
renders me lesser
gets me

spinning round and round
in perpetual circles
not orbiting
possible worlds or
planets with potential
(for then I would

be missing out
following an ellipse)

Smith. Marx, Engels
Hayek, Varoufakis

debating the politics, economics,
textual strategies and
social dynanics
concluding with
a wrap up comment
to contend
the basic meaning of it all

   not in any total
absolute sense
             upon which
what falls, outside poetry
has to depend

TABANDA

The President is boldly
congratulating himself
on his essential
pre-emptive strikes
on a vicious, terrible people

I met one of these vicious
monsters decades ago
(met quite a few
but this one
I remember)
pulled the short straw
and had
to teach her English

all the middle-aged
British tutors at the college
horrified at her
reputation, flatly refusing,
worst of all
was going to be
one on one
me and her, head to head
bound for confrontation
nothing for
her ever good enough
no possible placation
hope of pacification

so I passed
through that door

looked around the room
no sign of mortal threat
no sign of imminent danger

just
Tabanda
sweetest student I
ever had
Libra glyph on
medallion
about her neck

not that I
knew, barring her name,
any of that yet

trying to
introduce myself, words
a bit stuck
not really coming out

needing to
make an adjustment, take
everything in my side

never before taught, met,
a woman of such
astonishing beauty

crazy the
lengths we need
to go to demonize.

LIBRA

I asked my friend
Mr Stevens
if “thus” is not
the greatest word
in our entire lexicon
and he having used
the word in
a poem on at
least one occasion

for a moment
he dithered deeply
typical Libra
then told
me he
would get
back to me

thus
leaving me hanging
leaving us all hanging

TS, Arthur,
Samuel Taylor, Nietzsche

when you
press them all
these Librans
are the same

thus ends the poem
with thus as its name.

POEM FOR 1983 ME (revised version)

POEM FOR 1983 ME

there you are
in that disintegrating photograph
so sure of yourself
Mr Wry Smile, so unsure of
yourself : deconstruct
this photo Professor Academic
Expert
so much space here
to delineate those inner doubts
and (to make no bones
about it) existential torments
scars of neglect

and what eyes have browsed this?
looked here, remembered,
eyes have looked into,
souls loved, have loved,
still love
could never
possibly forget
(know who you are, know
what history we have,
stuff
shared together)

and now having
pulled this out of the hat
my next trick
will be
one of disappearance
taking all this stuff of self
off the shelf
go Cheshire Cat on you all
(having at times
threatened to
go full
mad hatter

perhaps in truth, far more Alice
caught right there
before the door into Wonderland
crazy. divine, nonsensical
quantum who
knows what
Wonderland

battling to balance
medicine that makes me
too big medicine
renders me too small

she
of the sign of the Libra born
most loved of the beloved
quietly shaking
her head at this point

and you
who only yesterday
told me
to come visit

hit me
with all that goddess mythology
made everything
look so
effortless

what fatal nonsense
was it our paths crossing

what fatal
nonsense was it
nothing and not
everything, all?

POEM FOR 1983 ME

perhaps in truth, far more Alice
caught right there
before the door into Wonderland
crazy. divine, nonsensical
quantum who
knows what
Wonderland

battling to balance
medicine that makes me
too big medicine
renders me too small

she
of the sign of the Libra born
most loved of the beloved
quietly shaking
her head at this point

SPEAK FOR MYSELF

and so
forced to acclimatize
we connected the dots
got the big picture

which of course
did not in any way say
was there
on the inside wheedling
whittling away

and so
in some city state
a ferocious text about
to launch itself
take flight
savage monarchy
and religion

a new
kind of villain at the stage door

and me, despite my
best instincts, being
pushed in a direction
curiously reptilian

burning eyes
blue tongue

pockets for poisons and
concealed array
of daggers

the darkness of forest
overgrown uncomfortably
close to the throne

RIGHT TO REMAIN

espied you
waving your wand
glaring at the stars
determined
to tear them apart

whilst below
far below
ensconced in Hades
Eurydice can here
her husband’s love
beautifully
sung, closing in

there fellow shades
muster support
gather to
explain to her
the symbolic significance
of her
own mythology, deconstructing
this text, reading it
against the grain, wholly
from the liminal
perspective
of borders
and margins

Oh, if there were only pure
light down here not
perverse neon

enough raw
plain, uncomplicated energy
to carry her through
lift her
high above
dive like a swallow
into the arms
of Oedipus

where she can speak
with conviction of all
none
but she can
now explain

and there too
you, our celebrated astronomer

wondering
     about the planets
all the planets
and whether
        denuded of majesty,
stripped
of mystery, void
of so-called
music
      of the spheres
they have a right to remain

FRIENDS

would rather be caught
in bed with Stalin’s girlfriend

than have to suffer
the excruciating torture
of listening to you speak
(“speech” here
an euphemism
for demented droning

poor take
on dictatorial power,
resurrection of Caesarism
if you ask me

so let me
stick to my principles
even risking
the Gulag

Siberian subzeroes
to freeze
my skin to bone

but then
the intelligence of
fellow inmates, their
loyalty to the ideology

believing
in the system, banking
on the real
possibility

that they could well
survive to serve
as confidants
become
the Boss’ closest friends

WHAT TO MAKE OF THIS

Oh, what
to make of this

all those inbred crazy
arguments from analogy

conclusion being
there we have it
shut all your doors
batten the hatches
and set sail

ten strike fleets with carriers
all integrated into one
ultimate bipartisan armada

each carrier
reminding us of
great
snd not so
great Presidents

contained, perfectly
preserved within
a bubble

total logical technological wholesale impossibility
rather
the stars collapse

high ceiling
caves in.

AT THE SHEBEEN

I took Wallace Stevens
down to the Shebeen

we dined
on braised cow’s head
and a selection
of South African beers

all of this chased down
with tub-fulls of
salted caramel ice cream

throughout this novel experience
I felt I could detect things whirring
in that machine-like faultlessly
poetic brain

something afoot behind
those placid eyes
finely meshed, sublimely
purposeful

some I dream, gut-feeling,
but also there
in heart
of hearts

he will real all this off
by way of a special poem
cleverly infected
in language
flirting with becoming
totally impenetrable to me.