reconsiderations

life is not
one must observe
characterised by straight lines
whatever the straight people might say

consider the tender encounter of
two philosophies mixing and merging
as they absorb the slings and arrows
of the season

from the outside the paint is chipped and scratched
and the contents may have shifted in transit
the sly curtain of protection sometimes falls
stiffens at odd angles

straight lines are to be
avoided
reconsiderations are to be
encouraged

days are numbered
but mostly just in calendars
time may indeed be infinite
but there are only so many hours between sleeps

to misquote Jesus: the flowers have got it right
although they can be pretty judgey when
the pots are dry
to be fair he was talking of the field not the flat
consider the houseplants… not so much

getting it right doesn’t seem to last too long
every month the rent looms afresh and
a new set of quandraries float forth
some of them appear to be straight lines

but these are illusions
in disguise
with things to hide
the lines are not what they seem

almost cut my hair (with another barber)

there’s a loyalty thing with barbers
even for those with minimalist haircuts like mine

so when my barber of many years
disappeared from his outdoor corner post
I was hoping he hadn’t been disappeared for good
by the monks that didn’t like him using their wall
or the CPP who pushed him aside while electioneering
or the police who just like hassling anyone on the pavement

this afternoon
while drinking espresso and scribbling
on a different street even
looking ragged and in need of a cut
I spotted him riding his moto towards me

he was only too happy to stop
and deliver me to his new spot
in one of my old stomping grounds
at the bottom of 19
near the pork and rice
full of mirrors and mild AC
and a brand new chair
with his face on a sign out front

an anxiety reducing shearing
knowing I was back in his careful hands
my speckled white hair
hit the floor gently

and I was relieved that I had not
betrayed him with someone else’s clippers

leaps and plunges and burps and whistles: a new volume launches Friday 8 September

the launch is on

here comes the latest volume of poetry with readings spread across two hours of literary indulgence at Little Susie in Phnom Penh. leaps and plunges and burps and whistles is a thematic collection around the theme of music. Copies of the new book as well as the back catalogue will be available at $5 each.

Here is a video that helpfully highlights some of the many words used in this volume, should you be interested. https://youtu.be/Bg8liM6t7QA

Apparently in Tuol Tom Pong on a Friday evening

out of the whirling deserts of mind
the quiet springs of reflection
the confounding bellow of turbulent oceans
dustings of thought come to be sprinkled
on the existing world view
layers of accretions
wipe off today at your peril
a thought can change the world
in a blink or a sneeze

we are all the result of decisions
major, minor and apparently trivial
by ourselves and by others
intended and un

no use bewaring
we run on the rails of fateful thoughts
apparently thought by ourselves or by others
the absense of a decision
is a decision in itself
sometimes it works by choosing not to decide today
but to wait until things become clearer
and silently realise themselves

tangentially, isn’t it good that there are opportunities
for people who want to wear uniforms
and march in lines
to do so
just as for folk who like running races
and throwing objects
how frightful if these urges were denied to them

lay on, McDuffelcoat

better questions

contextual introduction:
I dreamed that I was gone
and all the worlds and all of their wives
were angry at me

not the best start to the day

—

an aeroplane ditched in the sea
and so a grasping
and then slowly the realisation of my passing
so I go for a walk to find out what that means after all

I found myself in what was certainly not the good place –
a cross between an airport and a shopping mall –
no heaven for the likes of me

this wretch is pulled athwart by a wrenching undertow
of ferocious rage
at every turn a purple pulsing anger
that throbbed behind harsh facades
and visages
stomping from temples to toes

where to turn in such a place
where hatreds burned behind eyeballs
staring from every face
every surface
every subface
what to do but keep walking

until waking dissolves it all
but not all
there are still images floating suspended
in the solution that colours the
eye-rubbing blindly blinking morning

—

in both eastern and western traditions
dreams of death are, of course,
not premonitions
but symbolise change
often dramatic
preparations as one slips from one life to the next
—

embellishing with details –
airports and shopping malls
often indistinguishable
offer two extremes:
domestic consumerism and the call of the sky/road

is it significant perhaps that this passing was
by aeroplane falling into the ocean
returning to the primeval water?

or that the anger seemed to be related
not to the loss of me
but to the loss of my luggage
perhaps specific items that I was carrying?

(possibly items that I would be expected to replace
while wandering for countless centuries in the
great shopping mall of my purgatory)

as in artistic endeavours
when the use of restraints
can squeeze an uplifted creation
so in life where one
cuts off exits
tears up tickets
forfeits escape hatches
might there be a rejuvenated fire
a belly pregnant with new joys?

as ever, the search is not for answers
but for better questions

a little controlled burning
in the vineyards where we toil
that and the loam earthier
the grapes are plumper
and the wine is headier
and the soul may savour a greater fulfilment
as the afternoon stretches into the twilight
at the end of an interesting day

motion of stillness / stillness of motion

a motion of stillness
or a stillness of motion
adding and subtracting as necessary
though one ought not covert
thy neighbour’s wants or needs

at what loss do we eliminate
the superfluities?
often none
but a little trivia can
really tie a room together

cutting a cross-section of
a life’s accumulations
within a particular temporal slice
sifting through the rubble like
a collective noun of archeologists

small objects

even shattered
can remind us of how we got to
where we are
whatever the view from the summit of now

the artifacts are gathered
they clink against each other
in a small soft bag now tied to the tip

only to be left behind accidentally
perhaps irretrievably
and recategorised at lost property

gods willing they may be found useful
by some other pilgrim
to be laid out in such a way or another
balanced and piled and suspended
into some sculpture or mosaic
possibly even giving off a
sweet deep scent of
a motion of stillness
or a stillness of motion

musings on 15

from this vantage point
the 15 is appropriately folded with a crease
at seven and a half
neatly dividing the moving-about years
and the stationary years
each half with its share of highs and lows
the benefits of staying and the benefits of not

the searches are not dissimilar
the common thread reaps the rewards

embracing a new twist in a tale
already as twisted as a particularly twisty twister
relishing the irony of having steady jobs while
keeping the flame low and strong
tapping out lines to help understand
the twisty twister

with the daytime/nighttime beat
pulsing strong
here a this, there a that
grooving into a groove and
splashing the licks left and right

funny how a switch can flip
from one month to the next
a change of season
counting down the calendar with
the soft and the hard
the feather touch and the body blows
drifting into the accumulations
that slowly transform us all

another 15 will be 71
approaching venerable, gods willing
making friends with Father Time the watchman
who knows what horrors I will observe
from my faraway eyrie
cultures now foreign stewing in their own juice

prop me in a corner with a guitar and a microphone
and I’ll warble until I’m done
stare long enough into the unforeseeable
and the unforeseeable starts to stare back
rehearsals for the inevitable?  perhaps

I intend to enjoy the ride

Why we do the things we do because what would we do without them

when it goes beyond the normal
wear and tear
and the collective heart beats stronger
than the lone

putting in the miles and the time
in celebrations of the miles and the time
put in through all those yesternows

with our meagre tools we chip away
at the metres and the minutes
to create a memorable object
upon which we can paint and drape
our changing emotions
as they ripple through the time and space ahead

it is what it will be
whether hued or clothed with
laughter tears joy regret sorrow
all the bittersweet reverberations of life
a sculpture architectured out of
dancing and beer and wondrous waters
the crash of cymbal and bash of drum
the crunch of guitar and the punch of bass
alchemical harmonics and the
shiffling whiffling of golden shakers

it will be there sitting
at a corner of the world
for all to behold
always

Siem Reap
29 July 2023

eyes/balls

every time I hear
the clackety balls
I hear two young eyes
not fixed on screens

like brakes or faith

b-b-b-b-
bee-sting
but no – only half a bee-sting on
Bayon smile

stuttering kimono steps
at once tentative and excited

what has the calendar done to us?
hardening and softening
grasped and let go
little harm in testing
like brakes
or faith

new canvas stretched on an old frame
a vintage decanted into fresh bottles
the rain nourishes a replanted tree
rewritten lyrics for a revamped melody

b-b-b-b-
bee-sting half on
smile of Bayon