I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....
....
fraternity
at some point today
I had one son on one arm
and
another son on the other
there were no cars
no dogs
nothing to fear
I wished only to swing my arms
breath in the scent of the bluebells
but I held the offered hands
knowing it was love
and loving every step we took together
....
africa
compassion is not a virtue but a vice
just as nice isn't pleasant but an amalgam of
neat and precise
and they exactly make a perfect pair
for the empathic to feel superior
oh I know I am heartless
for daring to say
that I am greatly saddened
by the knowledge
most african university graduates
dream of working for an NGO
or being an emigre
but it's nice to have cut flowers
in every retail outlet
and those out of season fruit and veg
they simply will not grow themselves
and it is of vital import
to pile them high on gaping shelves
and then there's all the minerals
what must be gathered in
uranium is valuable
as is bauxite and tin
and those dark chaps in the way
they must at once go away
they cannot be allowed to stay
of course it helps those in control
of the mining rights and oil holes
own the compassion tap
for the NGOs to spout some crap
of how you are a racist knave
because you refuse to behave
and object to the plan
of evacuate and drown
but mind and never mention
- don't send blankets just send cash -
haitian hotels of grand dimension
for on the beaches tourists splash
while up the mountain out of sight
another child drowns in shite
as cholera that disease unkind
clears a path for the clinton's mine
oh yes the despots hold compassion
as the greatest of all virtues
without it they could not be stashing
the money nicely taken
from empaths like you
....
sonnet of the hanged man
only he who has lived in shadow
can know the truth of the light
or the joylessness of the lightdwellers
in their constant fear of darkness
only he who has drunk his tears
and been drunk on those tears
and felt his guts in his mouth
can know happiness of freedom
for all else is plastic of design
no matter how roughened the surface
and only we who have lived
in appreciation of our limit
and gone beyond without care
know the truth of foolishness
....
and we are
and the sunlight passes through us in laughter
- roaring and rushing at the joy of living -
spinning in the moment our arms o'erspan
our reach - grab all the eye can see to
cast up in silvered dancing - to shower down upon us
drenching all that we are - and can be
and we turn and we turn and we turn -
until we lift - how full we are with love -
....
faith
because I have rejected good and bad
and seek only what is
I am deafened with joy
no longer do I wrap myself
preparing not to receive
for now I
wash my soul - smell - and see
with a vivacity of which I could never conceive
or believe
before I allowed myself to let go
of those two bogus words
that from childhood define us
....
for a dead child
where shall I take these ashes
my urge is to the sea
to the wide norfolk sands
and trudge across the flatness
on a receding tide
so that I might have excuse
to keep you
I will keep you close
to my beating heart
lay down on the wetness
of drying sand
push my head
backwards onto mussel shells
so that I might have excuse
to keep you
and when the tide turns
chasing me to the land
I will find excuse
why I never take you
to the sea
for I am you
and you are me
and one day
we shall be
....
alternate past
it's a party to which you were never invited
to which you would never have gone
with cheap white wine - you bought red -
and small talk so dull it goes over your head
though you like to look in through the window
and image you are one of the crowd
with fashionable clothes - and poise and with pose -
there's no point regretting it now
for what use is joining a party
to which you would never have gone
you'd only cause trouble
for your present self
no, it's better to leave well alone
....
and because it is workshop night *rolly eyes* -
....
in praise of wb yeats
fuck I hate yeats -
every molecule and electron
within me - despises him -
he's a priest of cheap tricks
shoving his mitre
in a choirboys mouth -
nothing he says has merit -
and everything is divisive
and dull - and dulled
because he says it -
put him beside a real poet -
like rilke - who peels you apart
like lsd - or emily dickinson -
with her subtle honesty -
yeats is the lowest of the low
which is why
he is held so high
to enable his admirers
to jump - not at all -
to surpass him
in their quest for the sky
The Blue Book
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