Blog Archives

Rue George Sand


Honey singing splash through puddles
Or a locust voice shouting depending how it falls
Hissing steam of soundless soul tortures
Bursting dam of huge foam and pent-up waters
Green light flight from the roar of raging beasts

Half-grown hop across Red Sea roads
Through the pulse of the circling of traffic in the town
Suns shine: blood-coloured, flesh-coloured, blue
Dance on one leg Rabelaisian and strange
A mad old Chinese medieval saint

Leaping mouse through a snow-white world
Full or empty wine barrel – such a lonely roller
A star set adrift in Gallic seas
Floating with tides – yoyo prayer wheel voice lifted
Throat free from stained glass hands of the church clock

~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~
Recapturing a drunken evening in Tours, France many years back.

Poem For The Last Days


So that’s what this is for then, this writing,
she discloses – without hesitation –
when, at last, finally, I think to ask
(wondering, unbelievably almost,
why I never thought to wonder before);
this complex histrionic roundelay.

We love to perform this conjuring trick,
the musey lady and I, hand in glove,
again and again, whenever we choose.
A sprinkling of magic words and Presto!
The exhausted familiar transformed
to à la carte resplendent effulgence.

No fear of lapsing into hoggishness;
rather we’d have even willing strangers
share in helping us celebrate again
the birth and rebirth of our wayward child,
this fantastical origination of ours;
another dissembling layer pared free.

Will you, won’t you, dear mobsters, join the dance?
Sense has yet to ever become common;
it is marking time still till the moment
you slow your madcap barely human race.
Disabuse yourselves; the final frontier’s
not outer space but rather inner time.

You’ve managed to plant a flag on the moon
yet seem unable to feed the starving.
Pigs at the trough and lambs to the slaughter.
“Stop, stop, you can’t take us here. There are rules.
We know what we like. We like what we know.
We don’t want it spoilt with this sort of thing.”

Another pistol whipping. Who’s counting?
Play on! The perfect pair flex their muscles.
So take your partners and not your bearings.
Let’s be done with avoiding avoidance.
Fiddles away! Drab Hamelin is boring.
Let’s dance on. Nearer my Nero to thee.

We live in a time and place where seriously worrying things are happening. What is the place of poetry in that world?

Remembrance Day


Came to one morning, found himself
a stranger at the wedding
among all these earnest young men
applicants for the ministry.

(Yes, it was all men in those days
– incredible as that should’ve been.)
They’d be studying books and such,
they told him, and he was appalled,

for he could not discover one
among all those ministers-to-be
whose bell when struck rang true, betrayed
true religious experience.

Ah me, the arrogance of youth!
He was convinced that they, as he,
meant well and indeed were good men
and yet, to his eye, they were blind.

The blind leading the blind? Futile!
More years lost in the wilderness.
Remembrance Day, year after year,
honouring the sixth commandment:

thou shalt not kill. (But not really.)
“War is peace.” “Ignorance is strength.”
Venomous fork-tongued doublespeak
pollutes even the house of God.

%d bloggers like this: