Tag Archives: poetry

THIS PICTURE,

THIS PICTURE

it is not what it seems
nothing is
what ot seems

an armada
sailing East
sailing across a
sea of mist, across
Homer’s wine-dark
smooth as
glass
    could not
be unruffled

and in
its secret stockpile
many a
noose of light
for the Sultan’s turret

ships
    big as cities
whose meaning be war
war
   their entire industry
gliding to
their assigned
positions, making headway

nothing being
wrong with this picture

everything wrong
we can
no longer see

everything, everyone,
insisting it is all
a bad dream

the night, so dark
mother of
storms
      about to
break

the story
       so thin we are
about to see through it

far too late
to do anything

CLOSE SHAVE

CLOSE SHAVE

first shave
close shave

so relieved
it was not
an open razor
I piped like
one of Blake’s angels
of his demons

but fatherly shadow
stalking me from childhood
lurking now
that I have
come of age
unable to deal,
with what
got twisted
in his own childhood

now praying that my
hand strays
cuts
a neat necktie
about my throat

or worse
spectral, haunted,
down-levelling figure
for whom
sons must
stick in
neutral or
pose insurmountable threat

and me
not in eager concurrence
to proclaim
all sacrifice sacred

find any
solace
in theological
explanation

striking out alone
at this late, perhaps final stage,
wondering what
merit
in trying to be wicked
daring to be profane

writing the peverse new
script of my entire being

on the surface of
this mirror, drafting
the introductory passage
to a great
memoria

finger
sliding across reflective glass
recording as condensed steam

IN MY STRIDE

IN MY STRIDE

ever looking
for the real deal

spoke Latin, Greek,
Italian. Aramaic,
finally switching
to Arabic

of which I knew
more than a smattering

always
on the lookout
for great voices

texts steeped in wisdom
prepared to give you
their all

and now
in this time of ghosts,
abounding spectres

I take all
of the evidence
close to all your hearts,
for and against

as it comes
in my stride

VRAIMENT MR T

VRAIMENT MR T

what do we have here?

a walking talking
bloated embodiment
of force majeure

impacting us all
driving all and sundry
across the edge of insanity

walking talking
force majeure
(except not
     walking so good and
talking
even less good, no
doubt about it)
    
and force majeure
itself obviously taking
no pride in this embodiment,
as embodiments go

so much of the force
and the majeure
utterly
    pissed at all the
roleplay about it

FROM YOU

FROM YOU

Tabanda must be old now
remember teaching her

scariest student
ever to come to
the language college

frightening the life
out of
    all her middle aged
female teachers

me
  just knocked for
six by her beauty

her quiet
kindness, less
than innocent laughter

she must
have become quite old now
hope the war
heading her way does
not touch her

or touch you
my incidental muse
my friend
     from a
dead different planet

opposites attracting but
not where
too
   opposite

to find, keep,
a connection

I hope this war
stays far away from you

scary threat
    to all her middle aged
British

THE POEM ITSELF

THE POEM ITSELF

structure here
is simplicity itself

dawn to dusk
birth to death

form
following function

maybe
you were lucky
enough to
live a war

even luckier
to have
    up down
all turned
around
   by revolution

maybe something
was quietly said, was
not felt
     but could only
have
been past
on

sealing the deal for
our entire evolution

the poem
     ending
             somewhere
in its music
                   between joy
and far less

form following
function
the structure here
simplicity itself

ALL APIECE

ALL APIECE

“Seven days in sunny June/long
enough to bloom/ the flowers on that sunbeam dress you wore
in Spring.” Jamiroquai

Can’t believe
they called a flower
“honeysuckle”

begs
the question, what were
   they thinking?
 
that’s real
bower of bliss. midsummer
night’s dream stuff

all apiece
with
lords and, ladies. fairies
and mechanicals doing
their thing
   prancing around

which beats
sharing a melting icecream
with Doja Cat and
Slavoj Zizek

fanning myself,
taking a break away from
finding myself
always haunted by
sublime
    prospect of
things
before my very eyes
turning from real
to surreal
to hyper-
    real

nothing every returning
to braveface the real

as Janet croons
seductively to inform us
regarding
    the nature of love and
its, inevitable destiny

must have
been brain dead to
love
    as I did for
so many years
 
can’t believe
they called it “honeysuckle”
to my mind that
for better
      or for worse

in sickness or in health,
really takes the cake
                      
             

MIRAGE

MIRAGE

it is too
much for
anyone

we stumble around
unable to see

someone has
switched numbers
someone has
changed the codes

nothing makes sense any more
it seems like soldiers,
armies,
divine leaders

are just
bursting up
out of the ground

if it is
not on a screen, not
been digitally altered,
an obvious lie
we can
no longer believe it

we seek shelter
in the familiar, tried
and tested, first
principles,
things of foundation

but they all
have become
L for
liminal

there is nothing
that is not a mirage

history is a nothing
to see here thing
just walk on by

WITH EVERY DAMNED THING

WITH EVERY DAMNED THING

look what happens
when you put pressure
squeeze everything
you can out
of us ordinary humans

reduce the quality further
of our less, than stellar lives

force us
to turn within
find what
we can all bring
to the party

fish for and
snare
what stories. fables,
myths, legends,
and, dare
I say it?, poetry
that we are sitting on
that we
have always hosted

and, to give
supreme benefit
of the doubt,

try to
touch your heart

believing it not
irredeemable, for
argument’s sake

but of course, as you have
gathered, as we have
always gathered nothing there

bereft of empathy
devoid of
understanding, no
place
for anything but
profit and greed

and a polished ideology
premised on a need
to never let anyone
smell
let alone see (in
all its abject glory) such
ceaseless hypocrisy

at which
revelation

we sigh, close ranks, recite
poems, tell our stories

back to
work
putting pen to paper
hit you with every damned
thing we got