these heroes, so distant
these heroes, so distant
far away and long ago
it’s a struggle to recall
how much I once cared
about antics with bat and ball
an early attempt at figuring out
what was worth following
developing the techniques of
historical immersion in pursuit of insights
picking sides on forgotten controversies
and raking over the coals for hints and directions
now I blanch at their ineloquence
the familiar cliches of the athlete
held to fast as the white invades their temples and moustaches
and their hairlines call stumps
the glories are still there as long as they genuflect
to their pat phrases and worn justifications
not that some of the rock’n’rollers or beats
that replaced them in my pantheon
were that much more articulate in their own ways
often fighting their way out of paper bags
wet with their own spillage
but that’s the thing about heroes of course
that they rarely benefit from close scrutiny
best leave them on the shelf
in their own dust
part of what we become but
not really wanted on voyage
determined ants
today I want to commence a dialogue with the ants
on the floor, on the wall, on the furniture
I want to tell them – hey,
what’s the hurry?
slow down, take it easy,
enjoy what life can bring
in the way of small joys and quiet moments
look, I want to say,
at the flags strung up across the street
in anticipation of the holiday,
the overheated pregnant expectation of the
birth of a new year
we are baking in the heat and waiting
for the timer to go off
think, ants, of the benefits to heart and soul
of reflectective spells that come to the
middle aged, as they contemplate their choices
and where they have been brought to
washed up on the sands of late afternoon
always apprehensive that a
hitherto unnoticed character may
burst through the fourth wall and
in some Gilbert and Sullivan plot device
shout: stop! there’s been a mistake!
you were supposed to take the other fork,
take a different flight,
by this time you’re supposed to be living by the sea!
such thoughts ought to be coloured
with curiosity, rather than regret
one life, but every day thousands of tiny choices
that can tilt us backwards and forwards, left and right,
deterministically hammering out what we can see
of the path ahead
ah, ants, I see you will not be swayed
I lack the persuasive power
and fair enough – it seems that
if the genie were to offer me three wishes
I might use one of them to receive the gift
of communicating with ants
rather than more practical things like
a cement mixer that never breaks down
or the perfect endless glass of beer
or world peace, etc.
so run, ants, scamper and run
towards your indefinite future
make your hay as your sun shines
I will follow in good time
leave me to my nonsense, it pleases me
days pass
we pass comment on the heat
and thirstly await breezes
while the city empties for celebrations
and a team of sandwich experts
repaints the palace walls
first whiter than white bread
and then mustard
the evening prickles with
karaoke and Ganzberg
in narrow lanes and outside
shops closed for the day
in the morning streets
tourists move swifter
than the day calls for
and patient tuktuk drivers
loll in shadow
on analysis
shall we arrive by dissection
necessarily creating a carcass
or shall we stand back and compare
necessarily creating a distance
of course we shall do both neither
and both
in roughly equal measure
if a truth is what we seek
rather than an opinion
in the nuance of one soup to another
say Monday’s or Thursday’s
we can guess at the contents but
the flavour is the whole
and richer tomorrow
with scalpels it is best to be
wary and careful
binoculars must be used with
wisdom and unhurry
there is much to be missed in the rush
acts and facts
as observed from collected vantage points
around which meanings swirl
a bang today is a bop tomorrow
and a blip next week
the fire at one’s back is still warm
even when it is behind and out of sight
the well fills slowly
as full of echoes as Cambodian karaoke
well well well, Delilah
is it time to draw water?
first drafts benefit from unreadable scrawl
a reminder of a forgotten grasp of a perennial idea
trapped briefly but escaping to float by another day
a sacrifice to the gods of seeking
it was written, but it is undecipherable
the mystery is retained
the well is refilled
that the thaw may come
that the river may rise
an aging mind still goes a-roving through
pastures old and new
with the weightings changed
childhood thoughts amplified over yesterday’s crises
experiences re-examined under
microscopes of powers vastly higher
stories warp in the retelling and then
defy the old interpretations
praise and blame re-investigated
past enthusiasms and certainties come up for questioning
the hills that we would die for
become molehills that merely trip us up
the descent can be dark
tug on the rope and be pulled up
knees banging on the sides of the well as we rise
echoing like Cambodian karaoke
recover with a nice cold beer
while the sun dries you like a tomato
the praise and blame of memories
artefacts – consider our use of the French word souvenir –
sewn together in a coat of many manoeverings
refreshed approximately annually
at those times
like birthdays and anniversaries
when one is liable to take stock and retell the stories
to sit and think and holler down the well
if I was right then
and now the interpretations that were fashionable at the time have changed
might I now have built a character on shifting sands?
call the building inspectors!
call the cops!
pressure is building behind the dam
good and bad examples alike have come untethered
and are storming the castle and overturning the furniture
the boy who stuck his finger in the dyke
has cried wolf
the hero of the beach has kicked sand in the face of Charles Atlas
but still, my heart
no more hollering down the well
refresh against agitation with a nice cold beer
as the sun dries you like a tomato
then on your feet!
face the fire!
whistle down that wind!
approaching 57 by stealth and barely succeeding
today my mind works
with a mind of its own
with every sentence seeming to spark off
memories of parisian intersections
an arrangement of curtains
adolescent discussions
the tilt of a table
the line of a path through trees
jolts of remembrance
seeking to tie it all together
in some simple impossible package
something easy to carry
perhaps store under a seat
or in the overhead locker
not this unwieldy multi-pronged
awkwardly augmented life story
that threatens to
unbalance at any moment
and spill this mind of its own
all over itself
all over again
on this fragmentary morning
I rummage fitfully in my toolbox
so many things can be fixed
with water, soap
paperclips and gaffer tape
a little salt, lime juice
a kind word
deliver us from the evils
of an upturned cart
save the apples from bruising
like all others, this day will pass
in restless times seek time to rest
might other selfs
from the range of selfs on offer
be suitable
at the change of season
perhaps planted in sandy soil
with good drainage and afternoon sun
we phytotrophic beings have our ways to bloom
even knowing that blooming isn’t everything
still, it’s a word worth savouring, repeating
tiny flowering explosions: bloom
bloom
bloom
opening windows to the wind
can also let the stillness in
2 December 2023
while dressing I was curiously awoken to
a subtle change in the air
that some tweak of the zeitgeist
had rippled through to a mitochondrial-level depth of existence
perhaps the sun had rolled over in its sleep
turning in a tasty nap
with a burst of joy
that sent forth a wave of fresh neutrinos
that are now passing through us all
on their way through the universe
rinsing us with a new flavoured tint
perhaps sweeter
perhaps with a hint of jasmine
Kissinger is dead – hoorah!
McGowan is dead – what a shame!
two radically different lives
joined only in fame and
juxtaposed obituaries
rarely are we compelled to reconcile
such extremes of human character
stirred into the familiar personas of
war criminal and dissolute poet
Jew and Catholic
killer and singer
each outsider finds their own path
clash, splinter, fall, retrieve
blow into the mouth and revive
we are all made of clay
I know I am surrounded by those in
unexpressed turbulence and disorder
but today my internal settings are tending towards equilibrium
despite the vissicitudes
taking time in the warm sun
with espresso (dressed)
the street appears to have a gentle sleepwalkingness to it
or maybe drowsy is the better word
drowsiness in an unhurried
beforecoffee way
peppered by neutrinos and the endless news cycle
where facts and opinions
are pulled from drawers
shaken of dust
a history at last laid to rest
in conversations to be forgotten tomorrow
O’Hara would approve
when I get home I shall consult him
hello ghost
the smiling beaming
newly released friendly ghost
is at large tonight
across the night
taking in all the shows
that you can’t take in
in corporeal form
fly, fly, soak it all up
lucky bastard
free of pain
at last
out here at wherever we land
we know you will not begrudge
a little delight in life
but rather exalt – go, man go!
rage against the dying of the light
enjoy every sandwich
every squelch
every squeal
every riff
every fragment of melody
because if not what are you living for?
3 November, 2023
take up thy pen
tabula rasa – a day, a page
every hour unfolds with the chance of
mindnumbing or skyreaching possibilities
take up thy pen and write your life to come
delicate phrasing to encourage the heart
light and air to encourage the work
a little quiet to let thoughts run
a little beat to tap the feet
days to earn and days to spend
and days of neither slipped in
where practical
times to embrace and times to refrain from embracing
called outside by the sun or kept in by the storm
find those elongated moments to observe the angles and shades
flickers and wobbles
no shortage of apt metaphors for what drives you
ails you
wakes you
long streams of contrasting struggles
great and small
that remind of the work that has been done
and the work there is yet to do
the fitful gymnastics of the soul that with luck and grace
may melt into a refined yoga of the spirit
it is good to live in a neighbourhood
with a high incidence of smiling
where you can observe the aftermath of little victories
the continuous miracles of
being bigger than the troubles
stronger than the grief
faster than the speeding bullets
that always seem to track us down
we are our own creators
making ourselves microstep by microstep
as we catch waves before we can swim
taking flight before we learn how to land
allow ourselves to be caught so we can learn how to catch
key features may include
acknowledgement of gifts and kindnesses
(each giving is an act of love)
remember names even when you can’t
savour scents and flavours
laugh with children
laugh with lovers
laugh with (and at) yourself
laugh until you sing / sing until you laugh
sit still and let it all wash over you
there’s always time to stop, breathe, go blank
and when presented with a blank slate
sharpen your pencil
and start again
thesilverpepperofthestars 