Tag Archives: poetry

SCARS

SCARS

on You Tube
interview with an author
on the dawn of insanity
managed
to pass my time

whereupon
somewhat self-
reflexively
thought of him
always starting to write
something but then
something happens

call it a tic, call
it a, glich
findimg himself
in a script unlike
any he had fashioned

so let us say
thete was a dinosaur
or the sound
of one at least
heading up
the street

not
being a, marvel, or
any kimd of
hero, person
extraordinaire

he ran as
fast as a mere
mortal can do
(mere mortal at a time
of increasing decrepitude)

and yet, all things considered,
at extraordinary velocity
across
an entire cityscape
now, reduced
to an ash heap

happy to prove
that even if
it were false, alarm
he, had the fortitude
to escape anything
jurassic, , creatacious,
or Gestapo SS
from 39 to 45

no matter
how horrific the scare,
and how deep the left scars

NAG HAMMADI

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

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

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.

KNOWING FUĹL WELL

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

UNTOLD

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

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