With All The
The following poem is my most famous one. 
You sometimes sit at home feeling that time is 
passing and nobody knows about you and nobody cares, 
and then, once in a blue moon, you get invited to read 
something, and you stand there leafing through your 
things trying to decide what to read, and all of a 
sudden a terrific shout goes up: "Zyggy! Read the 
one about the bus!" Fiona Pitt-Kethley, the English 
erotic poet and writer, included it in "The Literary 
Companion to Sex" , ranging from the Bible to our day, 
(Sinclair-Stevenson), which she edited, and I thought 
it would be lost somewhere in the (longest) 20th Century 
section, but no, she placed it last, giving me the last 
word on the subject! 

After Ravel wrote his "Bolero" he took to saying that 
he is sorry he ever wrote it, because ever since everyone 
wants to hear his "Bolero", to the detriment of his better 
and more profound things. This poem is my Bolero. 

WITH ALL THE 

With all the 
pills 
IUDs 
condoms 
safe periods 
coitus interruptus 
abortions 
accidents 
wars 
and emigration 

why is the bus so crowded? 

The Road
THE ROAD 

There is this road running along the beach 
always glancing sideways, 
brooding, comparing. 

Although quite long, it only runs from A to B 
and feels very one-dimensional. 

On the sea, you can travel in any direction, any distance, 
circling the world if you want to, 
visiting new strange places, not just A and B. 

The sea does not suffer from potholes; 
the nearest to a traffic light they can saddle it with is a buoy, 
and it immediately decorates that with a seagull. 

The road runs parallel to the beach, and parallel lines never meet. 

And some nights, when the moon is full and the road is empty, 
it tries to sing sea chanties, 
out of tune, in a cracked concrete voice. 

The First Dive
THE FIRST DIVE 
On my very first dive, at once this feeling: 
I have been here before. 

Green weightless world; 
Curling of tentacles towards a silver ceiling. 

There is no love and no hate at this depth; 
and, in spite of some red, 
the colours here are mainly blue and green. 

Such silence; even strife is silent here, 
and most deaths, swift. 
We left it all behind 
the day we landed. 

We Always Envy Birds
WE ALWAYS ENVY BIRDS 

We always envy birds because they fly 
and never pity them because they have no hands. 

You sing or write to your girl how you would fly to her 
had you but the wings of a bird; but if you did 
you'd have no hands to hold and caress her 
when you're together; 
what is love like 
using only your beak on the nape of her neck, 
treading her with your feet, off balance, 
your bodies insulated by the feathers? 

Or is our lovemaking, with its kisses and sweat, 
repulsive to birds, like that of slugs to us? 

With hands, you can even make wings of sorts, 
while the birds remain handless forever. 

Translation
TRANSLATION 

In the original 
you wear revealing dresses 
and the colour of your eyes is untranslatable. 

In the original 
you belong to another man, 
another family, 
another collection of poems. 

I would like to translate you 
into a naked woman in bed with me. 
It would be dark 
and all your colours would be lost in the translation 
and I would lie there thinking 
how beautiful you are when you're unfaithful.