I have spoken many cruel words
I have harboured many unkind thoughts
I have been guilty of many unconcerned feelings
And these are all shameful.

But, at the end of the day,
I am not defined by what I say;
I am not defined by what I think;
I am not defined by what I feel.

I am defined by what I do
And I have done nothing
for which I need to feel ashamed.
Thankfully my deeds define me.

She wore her heart upon her sleeve
displayed, though vaguely risible,
with no intention to deceive,
her love spilled out naively visible.

The path was dark
hushed were the twitters of her belovèd birds.
Silent dove and muted lark.
She wore her heart upon her sleeve,
and unheard were her dying words:
“I believe”.

I arouse myself from joyful slumber
and contemplate the assault
on all my senses
that I know will aggravate me
as I anticipate

the odour of freshly chopped onion
that assails my nose,
in contradistinction
to the aroma of freshly mown grass
that elevates my soul.

When politicians speak their lies
my nostrils twitch,
in complete contrast
to a metaphysical debate
that enchants my essence.

I consider the “gherkin” in London
that degrades my sight,
so divergent from
the view of the Parthenon in Greece
that arouses my spirit.

And as I make the best of it,
I grit my teeth
and hold my nose
and settle back to contemplate
my inner peace and calm.

Parfois je me regarde dans le miroir
et c’est le visage de mon père
qui rend mon regard.

Et je sais que dans ce moment
il est toujours en vie
parce qu’il habite en moi.

C’est ainsi que nous atteignons l’immortalité.

Un jour peutêtre mon fils
va se regarder dans un miroir
et c’est moi qui rend son regard.


*Based on my poem written in English and published in Metaphors and Matzo *****, ASPEN 2015.

I believe in the power of positive thought
I believe I can affect the future and that
the natural course of events is not immutable.
I reject the normalcy bias which assures me that
because it has never happened, it can never happen.
Sometimes life’s greatest lessons come from the
most unanticipated experiences.

And yet,
and yet . . .

My favourite Scripture Ecclesiastes assures me that
what has happened before will happen again;
what has been done before will be done again;
and that there is nothing new in the whole world.
Resonance of the “history repeats itself” dictum
whose lessons Santayana warns us to ignore
at our peril.
Whereas
my favourite history teacher “Tinny” Newman
had a more appropriate prescription:
“History does not repeat itself, historians do.”

How do I reconcile these apparently conflicting beliefs?
[Silent screams]
It is a precious lesson to be learned.

And perhaps my belief that the power of my thought
is sufficient to alter the course of my life
is merely another example of
the Ecclesiastes’ “vanity of vanities, all is vanity”.
[If there’s a telekinetisist in the house, will you please raise my hand]

At one time I could not recall experiencing anything
that I had failed to envision and
this had always enabled me
to make due provision
for any nasty aftermath such as the
problems involved in leaving a slippery bath.

Thus it was with an absence of concern
that, having suffered a really bad fall,
I immersed myself in a bath and then found
I could not escape at all and this stimulated me
to reflect on other instances
where prescience, or the lack of it,
had failed to intersect.

How do I recover these memories?
[Knee ****!]
It is a potential hazard.

Saddest of all is not what is or what might occur
so much as what might have been.
What we do not realise, or are reluctant to accept,
is that we inhabit the world we deserve.
Returning, equally reluctantly, to my thesis,
and returning to Scripture, we are told that
one generation gives way to another
but earth abides, and I cannot decide
if this is a cause of regret or one of delight.

And when I am told
in wisdom there is grief
and that increasing knowledge
will also increase sorrow,
I’m tempted to set it all aside until tomorrow.

Okay.  Oy veh!
I’ll leave it for another day.

Un silence profond.

Pour un instant
tout mouvement cesse
et mon esprit achève
le sommet
de la solitude.

Et puis
tout à coup
le bruit recommence
comme un ruisseau
brédouillant.
Le vacarme assourdissant
remue
les enchevetrêments
de mes pensées.

jusqu'à ce que. . .
jusqu'à ce que. . .
jusqu'à ce que
la paix
revienne.

Et c’est une
situation
qui se répètent
sans cesse.
Comme un robinet
qui coule.

Les gouttes de la
mémoire.
Les gouttes des espoirs.
Le bruit exaspérant,
épouvantable
qui monte,
qui fait revenir
des expériences
qu’on a cru
bien cachées.

Et après
recommence
la lutte.,
la bataille
entre
les souvenirs joyeux
et les chagrins.

Et
au moment où
je me sens crevé
. . .
un silence profond

Oh, where has that god gone?
Oh, what has that god done?
How shall we live alone
that once depended on
a heavenly father who defended us
and now is made superfluous?

Oh, where has that god gone?
Oh, what has that god done?
What can replace
that heavenly grace?
Can ear or hand or eye
supplant its mirthless majesty?

Perhaps it’s not that god has gone
but rather god has been
replaced by many other gods.
Unholy gods, ungodly sods,
who offer no exemption
from time-past sin’s redemption,

but just provide a shining light
to illumine a fearful night,
colonized by miscreants
and similar recipients;
and what remains in that confusion
is nothing but a vast illusion.

There is no plan, there is no haven
to escape from images engraven.
The trumpet that was played by god
is merely a connecting rod
to nothing but a shooting star
a sound drowned by Satan’s guitar.

So often the god that we thought great
is ******* of no more than hate.
We see them in all walks of life
with gordian knots that lack a knife,
or weavers of a nautical shroud
more shocking than a mushroom cloud.

I would choose to have it gone
that secular phenomenon,
that we might build trust up again
far from the place where corpses reign,
to somewhere safe for everyone.
And now I vow my verse is done.