NAG HAMMADI
a pot in a desert
a jar, an amphora
tattered pages, set
like a timebomb
to wake us
from our sleep
that is why
it was not meant
to exist
not suppised,
to be found
and yet it wS
full of deadly turn
the world upside
down gospels
such a different voice here
recorded on the spot
of the resurrected
one himself
so clear here
so
different
you could never
be alloeed to listen
mission
almost fulfilled
EMBROIDERY
It only lasted a few minutes
but was a quite
breath-taking bit of
fire-embroidery
that, however,
was months ago
as I look for blankets
papers and rags
to create a nest
warm enough for
me to have a hope
of surviving
this winter
at least
for a few days
too cold to eat (if
there were food)
too deep below
freezing point
to put pen
to paper
(or even just
pick up a pen
before even thinking
of putting to paper)
and so little paper left
for burning
most vanishing in
the major epic firestorm
when every
firestorm joined
not
without faith, I prayed
hard and prayed thrice daily
that the embroidery
return
finish what
was begun.
AMEN TO THAT
the spaces
between words
letting me hedge
my bets
with you threatening
to go
full Plato
get universal with me
can’t
allow that to happen
need to scratch around here
making my own noise
doing (as they say
in sixties-speak)
my own
thing
the light fading
and light, searing light
an intimate part of
my origin story
what saved me
in saving my father’s
seed
thoughtful fireball
suddenly at the heart of two cities
obviating the tactical need
for father flyboy, Mr Grand Slam,
to drop serious deathload
on temples and those
sweet bridges you see
painted on
porcelain
maybe catch some
vengeful ferocious flak
my brother
told me
without little boy and
his fraternal thermonuclear twin
(dropped on
that most Christian of
Far Eastern Cities)
he and I might
not be having
this conversation
you and I sort of making
acquaintance
whatever that
is precursor to
(the spaces
between words
throwing
a spanner
blowing us off track)
and yet
if we are, despite appearances
to the contrary, about to meld
go full Plato
before
some altar
would smile and say
Amen to that. Amen to that.
BLINDFOLD
I understand
the logic of
blindfolds
and firing squads
but blindfolds
for academics and
all those entering
tertiary education
seems to have taken
strategies for
a dumbing-down playbook
to a whole
brave new level
way higher dimension
that anything
hitherto observed
in the corporate sphere.
TIPS
the tips
of the trees
are dancing
the clouds
above them
sublime
as they float
high above
composing, dissolving —
I feel them
pulling me
up,
towards them
here below
drinking chilled
tap water
when the vista would
seem to demand
sparkling wine
KNOWING FULL WELL
was writing to you
carefully
knowing full well
how the choice
of a wrong word
can devastate meaning
this even though
whatever I did
manage to write
you would most
definitely
not reply to,
perhaps, I contend,
not even read
whilst
this happening
everything went dark
not just for me
but for everybody
and therefore
my forlorn hope
for future
communication
immediately dashed,
suddenly
no longer relevant
worse still, no one
left to
help either of us
understand
no one for us
to talk to to figure
this darkness out
SENSE
you think
they are
margins
left
right
justified
they are
actually fences
actually walls
you
think
it is
editing
in effect
it is
gatekeeping
you write
what you wrote
speak
what
you said
nothing
controversial
nothing to
get upset
about
vetted
and validated
it makes
perfect sense
UNTOLD
and now
for a riddle, a parable,
a moment
of silence
this poem
cannot speak
is best left unsaid
let out
sent on its way
tracking sweeping sky to Earth
Earth to
sky parabola
from absurd truth
of particle accelerator
back and
forth
to ancient text
everything is
written the way it is
you and I
written
the way we are
WONDERING
Was wondering
what the soul
is made of
when I heard
you were praying
as hard
as anyone has
prayed
for a rival’s death
celebrating every casualty
in the war you began
as proof of the supremacy
of your (not my)
one
true God
God of missile and bomb
and accurate targeting
(your
thermonuclear arsenal
proof and sign
of how
thoroughly blessed)
but, forgive me
this sad,tangent to
careen
off at
and let us
get
back to the soul and
stuff whereof made
would if I could
try to manufacture me
a new one
fresh from the factory
smelling like
instant salvation (not
like the rose-
scented stigmata
of Father Pio
sanctified on
account of, yet
despite, his suffering
Rome’s
constantly bleeding,
wonder
of this forlorn age
beloved, most loving
saint
SMALL THINGS
Small things
shifts, nudges,bruises
inconsequential
bending of the light
all unnoticed
until something dawns
familiar turned
alien, climate
changed, landscape
erased
supercaldera
on the boil
and yet
radical interconnectedness
you
spin one way
your soul mate tru-luv
opposite apposite
spins the
other
hard to believe it
hard at work
behind
the radical separateness
on the agenda
to bombard
our feelings
mystical it is, which
is just the acceptable way
of claiming
answers are infinite
the Universe
suckered by divinity
into plunging
for
endless variation
the better
to live, survive, thrive
evolve into something
that will
sense
how it works, show appreciation
Arundhati,
burning the midnight oil,
her queenly pen unwavering.
poems 2 die for