(Pompeii/Florence, 1997)

Vulcan was real, alive as you were,
you and your language, long dead now.
Your town was prosperous, with its paved streets,
bars, bath-houses, brothels,
mosaics, painted walls, graffiti.
Your domestic gods too were real to you;
they had saved you before,
and when the superhuman hammer blows shook
your houses, you repaired them,
decorated in greater splendour,
erected a temple to your protectors.
But Vulcan was not appeased - years are not long
to the lord of earth and fire.
This time he struck swiftly, sending you death
from his mountain, overwhelming you
as you ran. Your garden
gave you no protection,
hot fumes choked you,
hot ash surrounded you,
sealed in your tomb as you died.

The ones who excavated your town
marvelled at its completeness,
and in the ash that filled your garden
they found hollows.
Filling the hollows with plaster,
they found . . .  not you,
but echoes of yourselves,
like statues in a museum.

We came to see you, and after that
to the Academy, standing in awe
at David's perfect marble humanity.
But we were troubled by the others,
the uncompleted ones, the Prisoners,
their twisted limbs, hidden faces,
frozen in the act of emerging
from the stone, recalling too painfully
in their unfinished creation
your own agonised poses
as you died.
"I had seen birth and death,
  but had thought they were different."
.

If you read somebody’s poem and it makes you want to say,
“I think this piece is wonderful; it really made my day, ”
just go ahead and say it. Feedback like this is good,
but saying why will please them so much better - or it should.

But if you think it’s terrible, be careful how you speak.
Some people write as therapy; their life may be quite bleak.
Don’t be too harshly critical and leave them feeling worse,
but simply go to look elsewhere, and just ignore their verse.

Some poems, though, may leave you with a puzzle or a question,
or even make you want to give some tentative suggestion.
There’s nothing wrong with doing this – just get it off your chest,
but don’t think your ideas are necessarily the best.

With writers, though, who think they are God’s gift to Poesy,
if there’s nothing to commend them as far as you can see,
you can state your own opinion – of course you have the right –
but don’t forget the golden rule: be HONEST but POLITE.

When we first stood, those fifty years ago,
outside the church together, man and wife,
we had no way of knowing if our life
was bound for sun and smiles or tears and snow.
In the event, we had our share of each.
When children came, as we continued longer,
the highs and lows made our love all the stronger,
and happiness was never out of reach.
Together, then, we've weathered many a storm,
and having lasted now for half a century
I think we're justified to call it victory
to know our love continues just as warm.
(Although age may reduce youth's fiery passion,
a long, slow smoulder's never out of fashion.)

"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."

Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.

"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds

of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.

.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.
The physical weight is a thing that I share,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair?

I am close to you now. Yes, touching my hair
the flag with its lions of gold and of red
that wraps round your coffin. I know you are there.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.

My comrades move with me in slow, solemn tread.
Our eyes are all fixed in an unseeing stare.
Our shoulders support you in your oaken bed.
The physical weight is a thing that I share.

As I feel the world watching I try not to care.
My deepest emotions are best left unsaid.
Let others show grief like a garment they wear,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.

The flowers they leave like a carpet are spread,
In the books of remembrance they have written, 'Somewhere
a star is extinguished because you are dead.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair? '

The tears that we weep will soon grow more rare,
the rawness of grief turn to memory instead.
But deep in our hearts you will always be there,
and I ask, will I ever be able to shed
the burden I bear?
.

When afternoons would ******
a shank of sun across the kitchen,
and dust would loop and swarm like dumb bugs,
and warring bedroomed voices
pinned me cruciform,
cheek moored against the cool wall,
counting silences to find the storm,
sometimes, the white frame of Hands with Bouquet
would graze my head, its knowable
art like an unction, its thousand
possibilities intact.

HEART, not only are you much taken for granted
- how many million beats do you make
in one lifetime? and rarely a grumble -
but you are not even responsible
for most of what you are blamed for.
Am I hard-hearted?
Am I half-hearted?
Nothing to do with you, blame the brain
or wherever the soul or the spirit is.
As for heartburn, that is merely a slander
put about by the digestive organs.

Who knows better than you
that I may experience a change of heart
without a transplant?
or search my heart,
without needing surgery or a body-scan?
a heart of gold, or of stone,
may do for a statue, but not for me, thanks.
And if I hear a heart-warming story,
you still maintain
your good old ninety-eight point four.
I can pour my heart out
but you always stay put.
If my heart aches,
do you need an aspirin?
If I say my heart is in my boots,
or in my mouth,
if I wear it on my sleeve,
we both know you are where you always are.
(Thank goodness my heart's in the right place.)

OK, if I see a face of heart-stopping beauty,
you may pump extra blood to my giveaway cheeks,
even palpitate a little,
but stop? No, not you.
And when I met (long ago)
a girl after my own heart,
and she stole my heart away,
was I left heartless? Of course not, because you,
faithfully beating inside me,
are only one of my hearts, and the other,
though it may well be less *****
than metaphor,
is as necessary to a lover
(or a poet)
as you are.

heroes should be recognised at birth
which would save them the incon
venience of a firstname
that nobody will want to use,as for example

Voltaire now there was a guy;
less than h a p
p y with françois-marie arouet
as a handle(and who can
blame
him?)
he up and invented his own name
he would have invented God too
if God hadnt already
existed

or take Beethoven who
for all i know
might even have been God

or then again Picasso(who justifies(more than most)
his capital letter)
he really didnt need
the pablodiegojoséfranciscodepaula
     nepomucenomaríadelosremedios
          ciprianodelasantísimatrini­dadruiz
that he was lumbered with from birth

ok it's easy enough to make
    f  u  n    
of people with flatfish faces
both
éyès
on one side iaskyou
!
but who can look at faces the same
since he drew them that way(?)
and if people don't (real
ly) look like that
some of them
   jolly
     well
        ought
           to

eight sixteen a.m.
    a light explodes in the sky
        time stops forever

People who indulge in tittle-tattle and rumour
put me in a bad humour.
Without wishing to be unduly formal
I can state that as a rule reality is pretty normal,
which I suppose explains the fun to be had
by folk who reckon they can add
two and two, but almost invariably make it more
than what it should be, viz., i.e., or to wit, four.
Call me cynical,
but too many people's approach to the truth is far from clinical.
So it no longer gives me any surprise to
know the conjectures that the simplest remark can give rise to.
A ****** of overheard conversation
in all likelihood has a very mundane explanation,
on account of (as I said before) reality
for most of us being of a mind-numbing banality.
The interest that rumour-mongers can find,
in the further imaginative reaches of the mind,
however, is considerably higher.
But then they have the effrontery to attempt to justify
     their outrageous speculations by claiming that there's
     no smoke without fire,

It was a day when the sun rose out of the sea
washed and polished, shining gold;

a day when the pigeons, in a black and white flock,
flew out from the cliff and back again in circles
because today - surely - was the day
when that nice Mr Escher was coming
to paint their picture;

a day when the haze over the sea hid the horizon
and a fishing boat chugged slowly
across the sky;

an evening when the mountains stood out
so clear and close and sharp-focussed,
and the village halfway up luminous in the sunset,
you could have cut it up and put it in a box
for a jig-saw puzzle;

a night when the full moon hung brilliant and silver,
drawing a pathway of ripples across the sea
you could have walked on, all the way to Africa;

a night when the waves hushed on the shore
like the slow soft breath of a sleeping giant,
soothing you to sleep in the still warm air;

another ordinary, extraordinary day
in my home in the sun.

How can I tell you what is in my mind,
how can you know what is in my heart,
when I cannot express it?
The words that do come to mind, again and again,
words that are few and simple,
are not appropriate for the situation, only the feeling,
and even for that they are not enough.
Then I remain silent, or talk of other things,
and so do you, but whether for the same reason,
or different, or none at all,
I cannot even ask, nor could you tell me.
The words would only get in the way.

If I loved somebody
as much as I love you,
if I loved somebody
as long as I've loved you,
how could I ever stop loving them?

If they had gone away from me,
if they didn't want to know me any more,
if they were dead to me,
even if they were  
literally
dead,
I could never imagine not loving them.

You don't go to that much trouble
for nothing.

If you read somebody’s poem and it makes you want to say,
“I think this piece is wonderful; it really made my day,”
just go ahead and say it – feedback like this is good,
but saying why you like it will please them (well, it should).

If someone that you don’t know says, “Please comment on my writing,”
and you look at it, and find it … let’s say, rather unexciting,
then don’t forget – be tactful, find something good to say
before you start on finding fault – don’t ruin someone’s day.

And if you think it’s terrible, be careful how you speak.
Some people write as therapy; their life may be quite bleak.
Don’t be too harshly critical and leave them feeling worse,
but simply go to look elsewhere, and just ignore their verse.

Some poems, though, may leave you with a puzzle or a question,
or even make you want to give some tentative suggestion.
There’s nothing wrong with doing this – just get it off your chest,
but don’t think your ideas are necessarily the best.

With members, though, who claim they are God’s gift to Poesy,
(if there’s nothing to commend them as far as you can see)
you can state your own opinion – of course you have the right –
but don’t forget the golden rule: *be honest but polite.

"Found poem", all the text lifted from a tourist pamphlet picked up in Crete, only very slightly edited.

There are daily buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge,
which is called Xyloskalo.
Buses say on the front "Omalos" and depart
from the central bus station.
By taking any of the morning buses you get to Xyloskalo
after one and a half hours.
At Xyloskalo there is a tourist pavilion
where you can get meals, drinks,
and which has only seven beds for staying overnight.
For those wishing to spend the night
on the Omalos plateau
there is another possibility, that of staying
at Omalos village itself, five kilometres before Xyloskalo,
where are two cafés providing several beds. From there
you get any of the morning buses starting from Chania
to the head of the gorge.
The length of the gorge is sixteen kilometres, and you need
five to six hours to walk through it. There is plenty
of drinking water all along the gorge. Tennis shoes
or walking boots are recommended. Camping,
overnight staying, smoking, hunting,
cutting and uprooting plants
are forbidden.
At the mouth of the gorge is Aghia Rouméli village,
which provides restaurants and accommodation.
From there you take boats
either to Sfakía (duration: one hour) or to Soughia
and Paleochora.
Remember that the last boat to Sfakía is at 17 hours,
which connects with the last bus to Chania at 18 hours.
Duration of the bus trip: two hours.

I admit it.
I blew you up.
No ill-feeling,
I just had to do it.

There you were,
so small,
so young,
so innocent,
and I blew you up.

I had nothing against you.
In fact I rather liked you.
I still do like you,
quite a lot,
but it had to be done.

You need to understand,
that photo of you was so tiny
I couldn’t even tell
if it was you or not.

So I blew you up
until you filled the screen,
and I could see that it really was you.
You looked so much better like that,
much younger,
but still you.

So I checked the colours
and saved it.
Oh yes, I kept the original too,
so that I still had what you had sent me.

But you must agree.
You were so small,
I just had to blow you up.

I hope you don’t mind.

I have looked at sunsets as long as they lasted
the reds and the golds and the pinks of them
the play of light on the edges of clouds
the changing shadows over the land.
I have watched the sea steadily rolling in wave after wave
breaking against the rocks with the energy of distant storms
or gently lapping at softer shores.
I have gazed up at the brilliance
of a black night of stars million upon million
no moon to dim their richness.
I have seen the hidden blues and greens in a slow river of ice.
I have known forests and mountains.

I have known you also and you no less
are part of the universe.  I can admire
the changing sky in the colour of your eyes
the moving sea in the curve of your neck
the wonder of an opening rosebud
in the crook of your elbow.

I saw you again today
going shopping
I knew it was you
how could I not recognise you?
your hair
your height
your walk
you were there
but I could not catch up with you

it's always the same story
I see you
too far away
and you disappear
why will you never stay
and let me speak to you
hear your voice again
look into your eyes?

it's a long time
I know
ten years?
twenty?
half a lifetime?
but you are always close by
just out of reach
never out of mind

I miss you

please come back

The first cold letters, alone on the page.
A quick pencil found them,
and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed.
The pale book felt the pencil,
and the terrifying, hot words entered.
The lines grew, living and sensitive,
gleaming as never before,
and I knew the unheard lines!

First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound.
A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words.
A strong, golden adjective ran out,
a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring.
A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions,
and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively.

The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud.
It dreamed a grey rain,
and the tall trees felt the rain.
There was a first and unknown river,
imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer.
A red bird glided beyond reach,
as if it had never happened.
The soft sounds fitted the lines,
and the quick bird cried,
Remember the short rain!
Remember the sad poem!

Very early in the morning we were woken from our sleep,
We were going on safari, being driven in a jeep,
We went out before our breakfast, we went out before sunrise,
We went out before the sleep had fully vanished from our eyes.
We had to dress quite quickly, and we went out in a rush,
And after we'd been driving through miles and miles of bush
For an hour or two, I have to say - forgive the way I speak,
But the roads were very bumpy - I was dying for a leak.

The driver stopped the jeep and kindly offered us a drink,
But it might have been more kind if he had only paused to think;
We had seen a herd of elephants, some vultures in the sky,
Several wildebeest and zebra, a hyena passing by,
Giraffes, a pair of ostriches, a buffalo or two,
And we'd taken lots of photographs (well, that's what tourists do);
We had even seen some lions lazing underneath a tree,
But ... we hadn't seen a toilet ... and I really had to ***.

Beside a water-hole at last we found a pair of loos,
And I hurried to the gents', 'cos that's the one I have to use.
Yes, I went up to the gentlemen's, and pushed the door ajar,
But I didn't push it hard, and it didn't open far.
There was something in the way, you see. I did a double-take,
For it looked just like a tail, the last six inches of a snake.
I decided not to panic - I'm not that sort of bloke,
And it could have been a rubber one, left there for a joke -
So I pushed the door wide open, to be sure of no mistake,
And what should I clap eyes on but two yards of living snake!

I closed the door, quite firmly, and went to tell the guide,
"I was going to the loo, but then I found a snake inside."
He didn't quite believe me, but he went across to check.
- Not just a snake, a cobra! - "Gosh," I thought, and "Flipping Heck."
For the snake looked very supple, and the snake looked very strong,
And if it would uncurl itself, the snake looked very long,
And a cobra's bite is savage, and a cobra's bite is quick,
And if that snake had bitten me, I'd be feeling rather sick.
"It might even be a spitter, judging by the size,
"So don't you go too close, and please be careful of your eyes."
But I had to take a photograph, for that's what tourists do,
And, warily, I took a snap of the cobra in the loo.

The driver wrote a notice "Danger, Big Big Snake Inside",
And the lady with the first-aid box took out of it with pride
A strip of sticking plaster to stick it to the door,
To tell anyone who came, there was a cobra on the floor.
By now the snake was moving, it was climbing up the wall;
It hid behind the cistern, and could not be seen at all;
It came down again, and wrapped itself around the waste-pipe neatly,
Then slithered right inside the pan and disappeared completely.

Now I was on a mission to tell others what I'd seen,
But I was very conscious of the fact I'd Still Not Been!
So in that situation, though most times I wouldn't dare,
When I found the ladies' empty, I quickly popped in there.
I'd had a narrow squeak, but now (in every sense) relieved,
I had to write my story, which I hope will be believed,
For every word is gospel truth, I fully guarantee,
And it's even got a moral, which is very plain to see.

    (Moral)
If you ever see a man who's coming from the ladies' loos,
Please don't jump to conclusions, he might have a good excuse,
- "I went to spend a penny, for my need was quite intense,
"And I had to use the ladies' - there's a cobra in the gents'!"

(Things aren't always what they seem,
and the same goes for people.)

It's a commonly held belief,
a theory by many supposed,
that inside every fat person
a thin person's enclosed.

And it's often been said before
(though that doesn't make it less truth)
that inside many a middle-aged man
beats the heart of a passionate youth.

A girl who appears just a butterfly
may deep down be a slave to her duty;
and one with the plainest exterior
may be blessed with a soul full of beauty.

But here is another hypothesis
I'd respectfully like to suggest
- if no-one has any objection -
that might take up its place with the rest.

If I'd courage to match my conviction
I might stand on the table and shout,
but it's this. . . . Inside every introvert
there's an extrovert trying to get out.

The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.

These landscapes I have seen;
- green hills, a winding river, and beyond,
another hill crowned with trees;
- a lake among pines where blue jays clamour
and a lone gull cries;
- the sudden view of a city of golden stone
and domes gleaming in the afternoon sun;
- an iron bridge in the mist
and a train crossing between mountains
veiled in layers of pure tones
like a Chinese watercolour;
- a shore where pelicans dive
into ocean rollers before they break,
releasing twelve thousand miles of energy;
- palaces shimmering in the air as their reflections
shimmer in the water they rise from.

But in my mind are other landscapes,
unseen, hardly even imagined.
Come and explore them with me.
Who knows what we will find?

If I wanted to write a poem for you, what would I write about?
   - Better not go too far
Other eyes than yours may sparkle
    - Better be very careful  
Other lips may smile
     - Better not say too much
Other cheeks may blush
      - Better not seem to have said too much
Other names may have music in them
       - Better say nothing at all
But my poem would not be for others; it would be for you
        - Better not even consider it
So this is just to say, this is not a poem
        - But it could have been.

I wanted to write a poem with its own
self-contained harmonies, like the counterpoint of Bach,
half a dozen instruments playing at once,
each one retaining its own
purity while contributing to a pure whole;

or one that should summon up Provence,
with its olive trees, cypresses, and sunflowers
(after van Gogh), and somehow convey the heat
and the perfumed air and the sound
of cicadas;

or one that, like a jewel,
small but perfectly formed,
refracting the light of experience
through each cunningly crafted facet,
might return it in flash after dazzling flash
of inspiration.

I have no ambition to write
the poetical equivalent of the Sistine Chapel,
but I have envied Michelangelo
(Superman of the Renaissance)
his X-ray vision.  He could see
the statue inside the stone.
Why must I so often fail to see
the poem for the words?

Joy is not the same as happiness,
not warm, not comfortable.
It is unsettling, difficult,
painful even.

Happiness belongs to the world;
like the things of the world it can fade.
Joy is of the spirit;
it exists of itself, intense,
in the spirit.

Bach knew about joy. His Heaven
shines glorious in his music,
searching, yet certain of the outcome,
restless, yet at peace,
yearning and fulfilment in one.

This one was originally written in Spanish.

volví al Kilómetro Cero
donde empiezan todos viajes
y en el mapa
en el centro
de la rotonda
debajo
donde estaba escrito
Usted Está Aquí
he añadido
Pero Tu No Estás

Then I translated it, with a small change to the last line.

i returned to Kilometre Zero
where all journeys begin
and on the map
in the centre
of the roundabout
underneath
where it was written
You Are Here
i added
But She Is Not

I had to alter the line, because "tu" also translates as "you", which would have been confusing, but I think it's less good in the English version.

I.
As you survey this marble hall
And cast your eye around the wall,
Consider the polyglot graffiti.
I personally find them far from pretty.
- That last line could have been more spectacular
Had I indulged in the vernacular,
But I thought it best, at this seat(!) of learning
to give my phrase a more modest turning.

II.
We would sit here and read with pride
the words we’d written up inside,
and when the caretaker rubbed them out,
we didn’t scream, we didn’t shout,
but knuckled down like Oxford men
to write graffiti up again.
So now the Taylor’s rarest, if not best,
this manuscript’s its only palimpsest.

Why does the right hand get all the good jobs,
like greeting visiting dignitaries
(such a pleasure) ,
or blowing farewell kisses to the one you love
(such sweet sorrow) ,
or playing the melody while the left
has to oompah along in the bass?
Right-handers get the best adjectives too.
I mean, we’d all like to be
adroit (as the French have it) .
So why do we poor southpaws have to be
gauche or, while we’re about it, gawky?
Tactless, without grace, ungainly, awkward,
physically and socially inept, that’s us.
And Latin’s no better.
We’d like to be dextrous too.
What makes us
sinister? Was Dracula
left-handed, or something?

Even when we can hammer
or saw or paint or drive a *****
with either hand equally,
or cut the nails on both sets of fingers,
they only say we are ambi-
dextrous, which is a bit of a left-handed
compliment, treating the left
as if it were an honorary right,
as if it had no right
to be skilful
in its own right.

I suppose my left hand ought to be grateful
(in this respect) that I was not born
into a tradition where it is laid down
what each hand can do. It could have been
condemned to a lifetime
of bottom-wiping and not much else,
and becoming cack-
handed in more ways than one.

When you left this room,
or a room somewhat like it,
stepping into the light
you were dazzled by the sudden brilliance,
only gradually coming to terms with it.
Now, overwhelmed by the darkness,
by the stillness, dazzled still
by the light you learned to take for granted,
(impossible in this quiet room to see
what faces you) you ***** for a chair.
The thought of turning back passes briefly
through your mind, you refrain
from opening the curtains, knowing,
telling yourself, the moment will pass,
the after-image fade, the echoes
of outside be absorbed in the silence.
Be still in the dark,
listen to the silence,
understand
this room was waiting for you.

... and this one isn't.


They were going to start a new life,
childhood sweethearts become man and wife.
But a drunken stag-night
ended up in a fight,
and someone had taken a knife.

Over the years, I taught so many classes
in many different schools,
long-term or short.
Hundreds and hundreds of  students,
all ages, three to eighteen years old.

But how could I remember
all of them?
I was the teacher; they were there to learn.
Those were our roles; that was the contract.
They would move up and I move on, for all of us
always a new beginning.

But now and then
one will return to haunt me, like the girl
whose secret friend, Little Mister Hansford,
drove a tiny red plastic car.
I keep it now, in my drawer,
and remember.

The boy, his skin
flaking and cracked with eczema, trying to resist
the urge to scratch, but always failing.
How could he bear to wake each day to face that life?
Yet I was proud he claimed me for his brother;

On a school exchange visit,
an older girl, seventeen,  
crossing the Alps in a coach,
moved beyond tears
by her first sight of real mountains.

Do they remember?
Maybe they do.  
A young man I met by chance
one day on a Spanish street
surprised me by recalling
how I read Winnie-the-Pooh when he was small,
and did the animals in different voices.

So many children, so many years have gone,
but memories, like love, can linger on.

Just as when looking into the sun
I am dazzled by pure light, which is invisible,
and I only see what is lit by the paler reflections of its rays -
or when my mind, refusing to hear a perfect silence,
creates its own thundering echo of that silence,
so that I may more nearly understand the incomprehensible -
your absence also is absolute, and leaves
a void in me I cannot come to terms with
until it is filled by a memory.

There were four of us that day.
We all lost our virginity at the same time.
. . . well, more or less the same time,
there were a few minutes between.

All that fuss she made,
you’d have thought we were killing her.
She told the police she didn’t want to lose hers,
but we said she did,
and there were three of us
to back each other up.
We said she was hot for it,
and they believed us.

There were bruises, of course,
but we were all pretty excited, her as well,
and it got rather active.
The police agreed
it wasn’t all that unusual,
but they took photos,
in case they needed evidence.

I wish they’d given us copies.
They’d have made a good souvenir
of our first time.
The other lads would have had a good laugh.

What did she lose anyway?
Her self-respect?
Well, self-respect's cheap enough,
and when you consider it,
if it had gone the other way,
we could have had a criminal record
and lost our freedom.
So, all in all,
it was a pretty good result.

Pity about the photos, though.
That would have been the icing on the cake.

We didn’t go to Mea-She’arim on Saturday
because they throw stones at cars there on the Sabbath.
We wanted to see the locals, certainly,
but only to look in a respectful way. We had not expected
to make contact. But crossing the road you didn’t notice
that you had dropped your book.
I picked it up, ran after you.
Not knowing how to address you, I touched your sleeve.
You turned to me, took the proffered book
without a word, and looked at me. Your eyes,
beneath your strange hat, between your side-curls,
showed no expression. You turned away.
Was your garment unclean now? Did the volume
need to be purified? I was only
returning your book. We had not expected
to make contact.

Lines we travel together
are parallel
but not infinite,
never meet
but O too soon
end.

-1-
Consider the Paradoxical Frog,
so named because it is several times smaller
than its p h e n o m e n a l l y huge tadpole.
(But then, look at people,
whose achievements often fail to match
the promise they once showed.)

-2-
The Second law of Thermodynamics
Out of winter, spring,
out of spring, summer,
then autumn, winter,
and out of winter, spring,
always the same.
Out of the bud, growth,
out of the flower, seed,
out of death, life.
Entropy always increases.

-3-
Once you were within my reach.
Suddenly you became a
g l i t
  t e r
    i n g
damselfly.
Just wait, I thought, I can change too.
Why did I have to turn into a frog?

I

Once you were within my reach.
Suddenly
you became a
g l i t
         t e r
               i n g
damselfly
Just wait, I thought,
I can change too.
Why did I have to turn into a frog?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

II

Consider the Paradoxical Frog,
so named because it is several times smaller
than its p h e n o m e n a l l y huge tadpole.
(But then, look at people,
whose achievements often fail to match
the promise they once showed.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

III
The Second Law of Thermodynamics

Out of winter, spring,
out of spring, summer,
then autumn, winter,
and out of winter, spring,
always the same.
Out of the bud, growth,
out of the flower, seed,
out of death, life.
Entropy always increases.

Have we known each other forever?
Might we have met before,
in another life?  
But where and when,
or how it might have happened,
I cannot know.
And in that other possible world
did we know each other
in good times and bad?

Were we friends?
Good friends?
Possibly lovers?
Or simply strangers,
occupying the same universe,
not knowing each other,
but destined to meet again
in different circumstances?

And shall we go on through time,
meeting and parting
again and again,
with pleasure or regret,
or, most likely, a mixture of the two?

I only know that your eyes,
your smile,
speak to me in a language of their own,
which I hope will continue
while we both exist,
in this world or another.

today i bring you
no glittery greeting card
no filling-station flowers
only a very special offer
you cant refuse
(i wont let you)
a part used bargain
from the hearts department
bruised and scarred
but still beating
and its yours for nothing

do with it as you will
only
pause before you throw it away
(please dont throw it away)
if you dont want it now
save it for later
keep it like a lucky penny
press it with rose petals in a book
put it at the back of a drawer
take it out from time to time
and remember
or find it maybe when youre looking
for something else
and think of me and smile
(i hope youll smile)

but please dont throw it away
its bound to come in handy
even if you never use it

I love my little garden, even though it takes me hours
to mow the lawn and prune the trees and **** around the flowers.
I love the bees and butterflies, and I wouldn't mind the snails
if they'd leave my runner beans alone and not go off the rails.

I like to watch the badgers as they amble 'cross the lawn
very early in the morning, in the hour before the dawn,
and if Mister Fox comes passing through, it's really quite exciting
- though I find the smell he leaves behind is somewhat less inviting.

I like the worms - they're useful and they don't do any harm,
but the badgers think my garden's their own private worm farm.
So I rather like the idea of a wild-life community,
Except the badgers messing up the lawn with such impunity.

Yes, I like to keep my garden like a small nature reserve,
but creatures sometimes do things that I really don't deserve,
like badgers digging worms up!  Though I really wouldn't mind it
if they'd just re-fill the holes, and leave my garden as they find it!

today I bring you
no secondhand poem
no recycled emotion
only a very special offer
you cant refuse
(I wont let you)
a part used bargain
from the hearts department
not quite perfect
but its yours for nothing
do with it as you will
only
pause before you throw it away
(please don't throw it away)
if you don't want it now
save it for later
keep it like a lucky penny
press it with rose petals in a book
put it at the back of a drawer
take it out from time to time
and remember
or find it maybe when youre looking
for something else
and think of me and smile
(I hope youll smile)
but please don't throw it away
its bound to come in handy
even if you never use it

I have an album
where I keep photos
of places I have lived
places I have visited
people I have known
people I have loved
I keep films
of things I have done
things I have seen
things I even think I have forgotten
but they are all there

you who read this
may not have known the people
not been to the places
not seen what happened
but I can tell you about them

those photos
those films
are not in a book
not in a computer
not even on a memory stick
I keep them wirelessly
in my mind
and I call them up at will
or they come to me
happy or sad
without my wishing it

but the difficult part is
that the drive can be corrupted
memories can be lost
and the day will come
when they will all be erased
unless I can recreate the photos
in your mind
remake the films
by telling you about them

then if you read what I have written
you may make your own pictures
from my thoughts
my words
my memories
and maybe some of them
can live on

I hope they will

Here are some subjects of which I have written
in blank verse, or free, or in rhyme.
I've tabulated twenty-six or so,
but might think of more, given time.

Arts and music show our humanity,
but Birds and Beasts also have passions.
Celebrations of joy, or Death and grief,
Events of all kinds inspire Emotions.

F tells of Friends and Family;
G and H, Garden and Home;
and I is Inspiration,
sometimes slow to come.

Jokes and humour entertain us,
or may have the power to move;
and K could be the Key to all secrets
of Language, Life and Love.

Metamorphosis and Magic can change our lives,
and the Natural world can surprise.
Objects of all kinds may inspire,
and Places we visit can open our eyes.

Quirky poems may be Quaint,
though Religion is generally serious.
Scenery and landscape surround us,
but Time is deeply mysterious.

Unfortunately my index doesn't include
any subjects beginning with U;
but I do have Verse-forms of various kinds,
Villanelle, sonnet, décima, haiku ...

Weather and seasons influence us,
and pastiches (by X) may be fun.
Youth and age come to us all in time,
and Z shows a poem's a fantasy one.

As you see, I've forced into an alphabet
some subjects I've treated in verse,
and if this is not one of my best poems,
at least I can console myself by thinking that if I had maybe written it differently
        it could have been an awful lot worse.

I write my shopping-list in rhyme.
It doesn’t take me too much time,
and always helps me to remember.
(I’ve been doing it since last September.)

Wholemeal bread
low-fat spread
strawberry jam
dry-cured ham
Cheddar cheese
frozen peas
free-range eggs
chicken legs
grape jelly
pork belly
lamb chops
lemon drops
fillet steak
chocolate cake
cookie mix
seafood sticks
tortilla chips
salsa dips
instant coffee
treacle toffee
dried sultanas
ripe bananas
runner beans
a bunch of greens
new potatoes
vine tomatoes
and (really urgent)
liquid detergent.

Now that I've written my shopping-list,
I hope there's nothing that I've missed.
And if you don't think much of the verse,
Consider this - it could have been worse!

I  went into the kitchen and made sure to wash my hands,
then looked inside the cupboards and took out the pots and pans.
I sorted out my sharpest knives and laid them carefully
beside the wooden chopping-board I'd brought home from Capri,
a wine-glass, and a bottle of a cheeky Spanish red  
(another happy souvenir of my travels to the Med).
I thought I'd  better have some herbs to flavour up my lunch,  
so I went into the garden and picked myself a bunch
of parsley, sage and rosemary, then poured myself a drink
– a drop of wine should help me in my labours round the sink.
Then I peeled and chopped an onion, which I sautéed golden brown
in extra-****** olive oil.  There was no time to sit down
while I scrubbed some new potatoes and put them on to boil,
so I had another glass of wine to help me through my toil.
Some Italian vine tomatoes and some peppers, red and green,
I sliced up on my chopping-board – no need for a machine,  
and I always think that slicing veg is somehow that bit kinder –
then I sprinkled them with sea-salt and some pepper from the grinder.  
By now my glass was empty, so I poured another drop in
to replenish all that energy I'd used up in the chopping,
and started on the vegetables, some pak-choi and mangetout,
from the local Farmers' Market, though they cost a bob or two.
I got the steak out ready, a lovely bit of fillet,
and lit the gas to heat the pan, my well loved cast-iron skillet.
It wouldn't need that long to cook; I didn't need to think
too hard about it, so I poured another little drink.
“That's really rather good,” I thought, but noted, broken-hearted,
that I'd finished off the bottle – and I thought I'd hardly started.
Still, I laid the steak into the pan.  I left it there to fry
and uncorked a second bottle. “Here's to me. Mud in my eye.”
I don't know why at this stage I was feeling less than fine,
but the cure was very obvious – another glass of wine.
My attention must have wandered then, if only for a minute,
for I saw the pan was smoking, and the steak that I'd left in it
was going up in flames, and so, although I knew I'd rue it,
I emptied out the bottle – it grieved me sore to do it.
The potatoes were so overcooked they'd  boiled completely dry,
and were rather badly scorched; I wish I knew the reason why.
Still, I rescued what I could, and laid it sadly on my plate,
and I know you won't believe it, but I thought it tasted great.
So when relations come to dine, perhaps on Christmas day,
I'll serve my speciality – I call it …. Steak Brulé.

(Alternative last line, for American readers :
  I'll serve them up my specialty – I call it …. Steak Brulé.)

If my words had power

to tell my feelings for you my love

they might seem illogical.

So too the extravagant nightingale

singing to the summer midnight.

(Or, It takes all sorts to make a world)

About half the world is female, while the rest of us are male,
and some of us are rather young, while others are quite a bit older.
Some people are emotional, and wear their heart on their sleeve,
and others, from the outside, may appear to be rather colder.
Some writers are extremely careful to obey all the rules,
while others in their attitude are very much bolder.
Some may be quite tolerant and easy-going,
but others seem to have some kind of chip on their shoulder.
In fact, from what I have observed over the years,
in some cases it's not so much a chip as a boulder.

Oh yes. By the way, please write this down
and store it very carefully in your poetry folder —
It is most definitely not a definition of "well-balanced"
if you are carrying a chip on both the left and the right shoulder.

Nobody can understand how another person's mind works.
Nobody can travel across time.
Nobody can be in two places at once.

So if I were Nobody, I could read your mind.
If I were Nobody, I could time-travel to where you are.
If I were Nobody, I could be with you and still be where I am.

But is that the way it works?
Sadly, no.
It is all a fantasy,
just playing with words,
totally impossible.

In any case, I don't want to be Nobody.
I want to be Somebody,
to be a part of your life.
But I can do nothing,
except give you my love,

and hope you return it.

Aquella noche
la playa era llena de hogueras,
y las olas entraban misteriosas,
cargadas de espuma,
de los paísos antiguos.
Y en la playa
llena de hogueras y magia
quemamos nuestros deseos de papel,
porque esta noche tal vez se podrían realizar.
Entonces, poco dispuestos a esperar, corrimos
unos minutos antes de la medianoche
en la mar misteriosa, antigua, pagana,
y nos sumergimos en la espuma.
Surgisteis vosotras,
gritando en las olas
con la alegría de esta noche.
Cuando subieron fuegos en el cielo,
y algunos, cayendo en la mar,
estallaron de nuevo allí,
entre las olas mismas,
saltasteis tambien, gritando
con la energía de esta noche mágica.
Y más tarde, cuando éramos casi
los últimos quedando en la mar,
salimos a la playa
llena de hogueras y amor.