Poetry from September '96 to Febuary '97

5/9/96

As I try on Armani’s latest design
(It’s all the rage in the fashion mags)
It doesn’t occur to this mind of mine
That two billion humans live in rags.

As I shop for the latest laptop computer
(A TFT Pentium-90 from IBM or Acer)
My brain just doesn’t register
That half the world lacks pen and paper.

Dinner last night was Oxford’s best
(The salmon was heavenly, the steak just nice)
But while I spill Bollinger ’75 down my vest
Children in Africa struggle for wheat and rice.

Still I can’t understand why
I can open my wallet and buy, buy, buy
Yet when it’s not for my own leisure
But for another poor man’s pleasure
I just can’t manage, if I even try.
 

I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I hate the things I say.
There’s nothing I can do,
Can take those things away.

I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I hate the things I do.
They never seem to turn out right,
But mess things up anew.

I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I always act the fool.
I really can’t control myself,
I just can’t play it cool.

I hate myself,
I hate myself,
I hurt the ones I love.
Outside I seem to be a hawk,
But inside I’m a dove.

I hate myself,
I hate myself,
Can self-loathing be  sin?
I know that JC cares for me,
But I deserve the bin.
 

Oh precious Lord remain in me,
For I am nought apart
From your grace which sets me free.
Now of you fruitful life-giving tree,
I am a joyous part.
 

Gift day has come round again,
So please give all you can.
There’s lots of things to spend money on,
Lots the church must do.

For starters we’ll get better ells,
And then we need a nice new nave.
The organ must be more ornate,
Also silver collection plates.

If you’re stuck for cash,
Just raid the missionary money tin,
Which you put your coppers in,
Unless you threw it in the bin
Last year.

God have mercy,
Destroy our caretaker churches,
And phoenix like let her arise,
Golden and beautiful,
Your dutiful and compassionate bride,
Bringing fresh 1st century joy to the 21st century lifeless and lost.
 

Styrofoam seas and fake plastic trees,
A sheet glass sky with imitation flies.
Cardboard cliffs - Is the world skewwhiff?
No, not the world but I.
 

The search for meaning is meaningless if more meaning means meaning means less.
And if the more you mean means the meaner you get then meaninglessness means more.
And Solomon in all his wisdom could not understand
How the good could fall yet the evil stand.
And Solomon in all his wisdom could not believe
That whirlwinds can be due to sycamore leaves.
And even Solomon in all his wisdom fell to flesh
A year’s revenue, a gift for Molech.
 

Where is the line between evil and me?
I there a line?
Where can it be?
 

The question continues to vex
Professor Stanley Lawrence,
Why society overrates sex
But underrates its importance?
 

If you had a different face
Or another mind beneath those eyes,
Who would it be that I embrace?
Would I still love you Firefly?
 

Oh what a day
Bailing the hay,
Then biscuits and tea
With the LAPD.
I’m not a joker
A convicted crack smoker,
I mean what I say
At least anyway.
 

There’s an ache in my heart
Like an undressed wound,
Raw and open to the chill, chill air.
There’s a longing in my heart
Like a sailor long marooned,
Pining for home in ceaseless, hopeless prayer.
Money I could live without,
And food and drink and air,
But love I need beyond a doubt,
Your love, my Lover fair.
 

As You cradle me in you gentle arms,
You make me gentle too.
As you hold me in Your strong embrace,
You make me strong like You.
You give me every perfect gift and
You make my heart anew.
You take such great delight in me
That my delight none can destroy.
You rejoice with singing over me
Let me sing and shout with joy!
 

We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
Two at home, the other a stranger.
Well not strange, just out of place I mean.

We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
In no hurry, no place to go.
The sun softly sapping our strength, a radiant leech.

We were just hanging around,
The three of us.
Dry lips open, forcing conversation.
Anger at either side, sadness in the middle.

Then the sky turned black and the curtain tore.
Eloi, Eloi
He lives no more.
 

Buzz, buzz, buzz - an endless drone;
You never, ever change your tone.
You bore me, bore me to the bone.

Do you realise I could still be in bed,
Dreams no equations filling my head?
But I’m here, listing to you instead.

Perhaps you’re trying, you’re meaning well,
But still you lectures are living hell.
I hat them more than my alarm clock bell.

You would try the patience of a saint;
You’re less exciting than drying paint.
Your dullness almost makes me faint.

This lecture is the last for me,
I could learn much more from a chimpanzee.
From your ‘teaching’ I’ll be forever free!
 

Come over here.
Yes you,
In the shiny bowler hat
You twat.
Come near,
Feel fear.
Your self-importance is of no import
To me.
You are yourselves imports,
From a distant past.
Come see my eyes and know,
This is not your show,
But ours.
The planet Mars,
Regards from distant space,
You are the last of a dying race.
You are out of place in the present,
And the future,
The future is ours.
 

The world may burn around me,
And the sun fall into the sea,
But I won’t stop for a second,
Singing songs of loving to Thee.

Well the ground may crumble beneath me,
And the sky crash down at night,
But I’ll keep worshipping through it,
Praising my God of mercy and might.

Heaven and earth may perish,
Leaving everything frozen and dead,
But I’ll keep shouting Your glory,
Loving with my heart and my head.
 

I hate your happy glowing face,
your twinkle, twinkle eyes,
Staring blank to outer space
With a True Believer smile.

Why do you need to act that way?
It’s driving me insane.
It makes me cringe instead of pray,
But maybe I look the same.
 

Clawing up the golden sand.
14 days of open sea -
don’t get me wrong,
I love swimming,
you just get tired after a while.
Pleasure turns to irritation.
Graceful power strokes degrade
to pitiful paddling.
14 days and then a poem.
The Dreaming Spires conspire
to drag me under.
To twist and crush and leave me
in a heap.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love it here,
I just need to
sleep.
 

I will consider my role as
‘Poet - Social Commentator’,
later.
For now I’m just concerned with
understanding me.
Making sense of what I
think and see.
Why I laugh, cry, smile, cringe.
Why I’m sometimes at peace,
sometimes unhinged.
 

They rolled off the production line,
Prepacked in camo green & pine.
Rigorously tested to lab and VR optimum.
Finished with an electronic tag and bar-coded bottom.
We watched them die on CNN,
But they missed the Oscar ceremony.
How rude.
 

Grin nod smile wave hand.
Fine. Fine.
Umm
Work, must rush, can’t stand on time.
 

In the beauty of the countryside,
In the stillness of the mountains,
In the quiet of a winter morning sky:
We see your face about us,
Revealed in many ways,
And your presence descends upon us like a cloak.

We want to worship you,
That’s all we want to do.
To shout aloud,
To shout, ‘You are the Lord’.

In this living world around us,
In the rivers and the fields,
In each bird and every tree and blade:
We see your face about us,
Revealed in many ways,
And your presence descends upon us like a cloak.

In the beauty of our friendships,
With the joy they bring each day,
In each smile and every warm embrace:
We see your face about us,
Revealed in many ways,
And your presence descends upon us like a cloak.
 

You sit cross-legged on a desk,
In a jungle of Geraniums,
Playing double bass with a miniature oar.
Casting slides and interesting facts
Before the throne,
Laughing deeply as you play,
Content at last at home.
 

There’s no truth,
no hope,
no certainty,
no sunlight; only evening fog.
Nothing magic,
or romantic,
no happy ever afters,
no plan that comes together perfectly.
And all that’s real is
snacks and television.
 

Sanctified,
Purified,
Safe from the gates of Hell.
Sanctified,
Purified,
Fearing not the tolling of the bell.

For it tolls not
for me.
For I have been set free.
free.
Free.
FREE!

Free from sin and strife.
Free to get a life.
Free from worry.
Free from suffering alone.

So I raise my heart and I raise my head,
To the Risen, The First Born From The Dead!
 

Each minute apart is wasted time.
It ain’t worth a nickel,
It ain’t worth a dime.
We were meant to be,
One and two,
Part of the same,
Through and through.

When you’re 64, I’d open the door,
If you walked into my life.
And at 72, I know what I’d do,
Down on my knees -marrying you.

At 80 years old, my heart won’t be cold,
Still longing for your kiss.
And at 95, if we’re still alive,
Without your love, I wouldn’t survive.

Passion
is not reasonable,
is not polite,
is not on reflection,
is not realistic,
is real.
Fire begets fire.
Love and love,
hate and hate,
collide.
Passion
gambles everything
on a long shot,
on a last chance,
on a dream,
can do no else.
Hate always begets hate,
does love beget love?
 

In 18 jumbled years,
I have learnt this:
The only way to live,
is to give.
Self-centred living
is like the dark side of the force,
easier,
more seductive,
but ultimately
empty.
 

Humility bows before the throne.
Kneels before the king.
‘Arise my son,
my delight.
Wear this crown,
mark of your inheritance,
mark of your joy.’
Humility stands beside the throne,
friend of the merciful king.
 

In my mind gallery,
I gaze on images of you.
Snapshot pictures across a room;
Close-ups of your eyes,
your smile,
your hands held to mouth in goofy surprise.
Echoes of every ancient conversation;
Soundbites of your voice,
each word fresh and crisp
like a frosty country morning
(but warmer).
The smell of thick golden hair.
The softwarm touch of delicate hands.
But these images are all framed
in the past.
I can only gaze,
not step beyond the
elegant redrope barrier.
I stand in wonder surpassing Pygmalion,
and how much more do I long
for life to turn this lonely room
into a home.
 

People are more important
than paper,
life than
learning.
 

Good poetry?
Well, it isn’t about metaphor,
rhythm,
alliteration,
rhyme - or lack thereof.
It isn’t long words
and short verses,
sentences split between
lines.

Should good poetry
be clever,
crafted,
look meaningful on the page
so that all may wonder,
laud the poet,
but none
understand?
Of course not.

A good poem is
honest.
It may take a thought,
an idea,
a dream or scene
and make it live in the reader.
It achieves uncomputable compression,
touching telepathy.

Maybe it tickles the unknown.
Art and ambiguity
releasing the mind,
helping it reach out
further than ever before;
it sheds pale moonlight
on the darkness
so you can find the
light switch!
 

How did Jesus laugh?
Was it a deep booming chortle
which shook the synagogue,
startling the priests and
shocking polite Pharisees.
Was it a contagious, infectious,
Unstoppable, breath-gasping giggle
which built up and up
and crescendoed
bringing crowds to tears and their knees.
Or perhaps it was just a warm smile
and a still small chuckle;
despite the circumstances it reassured people
that there truly was better to come.
Perhaps all these together.

Could Jesus laugh?
Feeling both the ache of eternity
and the pain of the present;
the suffering of the sick,
the heat of hell.
Knowing the trails which lay ahead,
friends deserting and loved ones leaving;
the weight of every sin and sorrow
nailed to his own agony.

So Jesus wept and Jesus laughed,
as do we.
 

There it goes.
Another revelation and resolution,
Forgotten and lost in a sea of routine.
For a fleeing moment I saw
clearly.
Understood and knew for certain.
But thoughts and desires,
emotions and activity,
descend,
as clouds settle on alpine valleys.
An Arabian trader,
swift moving when its sails are full,
plots a route to Ceylon by friendly stars,
but is shaken and spun in monsoon gales.
In the morning it floats off course,
purposeless until another cloudless night
reveals its secrets.
Occult knowledge is forever hidden,
true knowledge brushes the mind only briefly,
like cool gusts of wind.
 

I can see the thorns in your eyes,
I can see the scars on your smile;
your body broken,
your haemorrhaging heart.

Your pains are with you forever,
yet you hold them as honour;
badges of brokenness,
above kingly crowns.

And I see my own sufferings,
mirrored in your face;
understood entirely,
tempered with tears.