The words, wit and what ifs of an English poet.
The Shortest Distance
How do you measure
the distance between
warm mahogany
and forget-me-not blue?
Should you count the coils
of the double helix,
calculating the length
of the missing chromosomes?
Maybe the question is not
how far
but how near?
Is it the distance that counts
or how the gap is closed?
The shortest distance, then,
can be the width of a smile,
the reach of a hug
or the length of a kiss…
A Martian Sends a Postcard Home
(After Craig Raine)
People do their social duty as conduits
moving liquids from bottles, barrels and cans
to thirsty yawning pedestals. They keep their Gods
indoors and in gardens, honouring them
with food or toys, ritual walks, playful games and,
sometimes, human names on feeding bowls.
Television is a prison with inmates boxed in,
forced to entertain or disappear, off screen.
People communicate with their lips:
a gentle touch reveals white enamel
The Wires Singing
What did you think when you saw my machine,
its fabulous frailty, wide canvas wings,
wicker-bound seat and the hungry propeller?
It was my wooden-ribbed dream: a canvas-
skinned craft with a gasoline-driven heart.
Did you see the flash powder explode the wind,
could you hear the reporters stab me with questions?
I was surrounded by sceptics, hawkers and spectators too.
Which were you?
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Jazz
An eclectic audience pause in
anticipation,
as knee-high boots and soft soled slippers tip-toe
across the bridge.
We are caught between tradition and
off beat funk;
the disapproving high-hat and the inviting snare.
We’ve heard it all before
of course,
and what remains floats in the air:
unsaid.
Our fusion breaks chapter, verse and rhyme,
but who’s to say
an old jazz fan couldn’t dance your tune.
Genesis
In the lab a white coated cleric of the new religion
fumbles from genetic theory to genesis and looks
to see the marvel of creation. It’s all wrong,
of course, but he cannot see beyond the glass
lipped rim of the test tube. An empty beaker
beckons and another broken protozoa is washed
away. His wiry frame is folded over the old oak
bench, watching enzymes dissolve in solution
along with all hope of peace and noble prizes.
Stepping through the stanza break
1.
‘The old expressions are always with us
And there are always others.’
Charles Olson
what is the poet to write? do dolphins plunge bottomward / to find the light? or is it rock / that is searched? and what of us? You, the reader and me, the eye of the poem.
can we hope to (re)write well / to correct the errors of history with graceful arcs,
to turn the page, to stop and begin again,
again.
must we too
dive,
through flights of B29s under Enola’s far reaching
wings?
that day the sun, stolen from the sky, seared the skin of(f) humanity and took the light by which we write.
what is left but a break in the stanza /
2.
children of the bomb guardians, we are responsible.
readers, writers, students both responsible.
not for the old wounds, the shadows
that haunt our divided selves, forever tugging at our feet,
but for the voice
we must (re)breathe
the line
that cleft atom from atom
and remember
the break in the stanza.
Legacy
(For Gary Snyder)
On the boat of a million years
beneath the great fire
we are.
As Hait-un dances, Taiyang dances
on the waves
we are.
Words
laid down like rocks
are.
David and Goliath
They stood, the David and Goliath of the house.
David’s nerves as sharp as arrowheads, his body
a quiver. Goliath, swaying stupefied at opposition.
Lines drawn, the atmosphere cut and time
the silent referee. One bellowed and roared.
One shook and cried,
resolute to the point of a knife.
I could not survive, but dying would destroy
your life. Ignoble warrior, father, friend.
Unfeeling and untold. Felled by bitter, liquid gold.
That night our innocence died.
The sister watched, the mother cried
and I, a child, stood still. And you my Goliath,
with your anger and rage, denied
Christmas, 2001
The beach was empty beach and I alone
wandered on. The world had changed.
We were never close but now forever apart.
Haunted by my shadow I walked on.
The smooth tide approached,
licked the frost-crowned sand,
then retreated without breaking.
It’s harsh whisper reminded me
of your old gas fire, how it would hiccup
with the spark before settling down to a burbling hiss.
It kept you company,
I imagine. I know I didn’t call often
but that suited us both.
Economics
The bitter black salty seeds
(harvested from
the Caspian depths
by third generation
river pirates
are a lavish toast to new friends/enemies
as the crescent moon ascends the sickle,
blood-rusted and blunt.
In the East, wealthy towers gleam with tomorrow’s
dawn while the West chokes an oil-fuelled cough,
bunkers
down
in the shadow of Hiroshima,
and
mutes another constitution.
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