Such a wind today! The air
seems almost solid. Impossible
to go out in it.

Swifts invoking anti-gravity
lean on the air with sickle wings,
slice upward through it;
hang weightless at the peak,
then accepting the pull of earth,
hurtle downhill on kamikaze ski-run,
a mutual slalom, each avoiding
a hundred twisting obstacles;
alter their angle to the air, and rise again
up invisible gradients,
a swooping, soaring ballet with the wind,
its complex choreography
conceived in the tiny brains
of a hundred separate birds.

One pair, suddenly detached,
wings fluttering, wheel and plunge,
circle each other in an aerial
ice-dance pas de deux,
stunt kites without strings;
return to the flock, and are replaced
by another, and another, virtuoso couple.
The whole etherial stage is full
of improvisational star turns.

Such a wind! Impossible
for this earthbound human
to go out in it.
I'll stay and watch the show.

Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.

Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.

But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with Titus
Andronicus, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.

The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.

Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;

all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.

I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.

I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.

Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.

Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says, I'm sure you know.

Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there'd be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark might be hard.

But I'm sure the little blighters
would get on fine with Titus
Andronicus, The Taming of  the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that's Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.

The Winter's Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona's Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love's Labours might be Lost,
or even Tempest-tossed,
but All's Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.

Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts!), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure),
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate.

All the Sonnets and the ****
of Lucrece (typed by an ape!),
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor and the Scottish play.

I grew more and more excited ‒
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn't just a reckless berk.

I bought one chimp from the zoo
‒ didn't have the cash for two ‒
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while.  Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I'm quite an optimistic guy.

Now, everyone who heard
of my project said, "Absurd!"
when I told them of my striking new departure.
"Teach a chimpanzee to type?
"Why, I never heard such tripe!"
Still . . . he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.

I was only seventeen, and you were about the same,
and I knew nothing about you – I barely knew your name.
But I looked at you, and you looked at me, and we looked at each other, and then…
I knew, the first time you smiled at me, I wanted to see you again.

So I went where I knew I could find you, and asked you to go on a date,
and you looked quite shy, but you said you would, and I knew it must be fate.
And I looked at you, and you looked at me, and we looked at each other, and then…
I knew, the first time I held your hand, I wanted to hold you again.

We were crossing the river. The sky was grey, but the sun came bursting through,
and lit up your hair like a coppery flame, and I couldn’t stop looking at you.
Yes, I looked at you, and you looked at me, and we looked at each other, and then…
I knew, the first time I stroked your hair, I wanted to touch you again.

We walked in the park and sat on a bench -- I still see it all so clear.
my arm was round your shoulder, and your face was oh, so near.
And I looked at you, and you looked at me, and we looked at each other, and then…
I knew, the first time I kissed you, I wanted to kiss you again.

You were everything I wanted – well, that’s the way it seemed –
everything I wanted and all that I’d ever dreamed.
For we met again, and I held you again, and we kissed again and again,
and I’d never known a feeling like the happiness I felt then.

But life doesn’t stay that perfect, and dreams don‘t always come true,
and there came the day that you told me you had found somebody new.
And I looked at you, and you looked at me, and we looked at each other, and then…
I knew, the one time you broke my heart, I could never be happy again.

But, though young hearts are easily broken, it’s surprising how soon they can mend.
So after you there were other girls, and now I have more than a friend.
But I still think of you with affection (even if it is just now and then)
for the one you remember as first love is never forgotten again.

(homage to Ogden Nash)

See the buzzard soar, the swallow skim a lake, the kestrel hover;
observe the skylark pouring his little heart out in the sky;
admire the flapwing, lapwing flight of a flock of plover;
what birds do is fly.

At least they oughter,
because once birds get onto the water
they can't help looking absurd
– except the swan, for which nobody I know has an unkind word,
or, mostly, seagulls,
who fly with almost the grace of eagulls,
and in their silvery-white uniforms are impeccably neat,
even if my admiration for their manners is incomplete –
but, shucks,
look at ducks.

And for something really silly,
shaggy-winged, fluffy-headed, and disproportionately
                                                                ­                   neck-and-bill-y,
consider the pelican, for heaven's sake.
Surely Nature made a mistake,
or left the designing of it to a particularly inept committee,
it's so unpretty.
But once in the air he can soar like a buzzard, though maybe lower,
and skim over the waves with more perfect control
                                                                ­        than a swallow, and slower,
and dive for a fish like a living javelin, that clumsy pelican.
By helican!

No, for a shapeless, hapless caricature, created to be comical,
the epitome of what a bird shouldn't be, the penguin
                                                             must be the most epitomical.
As he does his impression of a Charlie Chaplin waiter,
you know he'll fall off the ice sooner or later.
But before a warning can escape your lips
he trips
(and slips).
Then, as he slides beneath the waves, ah! See the happy penguin fly,
A graceful bird in his greenblue underwater sky.

(triolet)

I've been awake since half past two;
    if only I could sleep
instead of brooding as I do,
"I've been awake since half past two."
If only I could be like you
    and snore in slumber deep.
I've been awake since half past two!
    If only I could sleep!

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages ***** and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

The setting sun shone on the lapping tide
as pensively I walked along the sand.
Above my head the soaring seabirds cried
their wild, sad cry from some forgotten land.
That golden evening, there among the rocks,
far from the noisy city's roar and rush,
I saw him sitting, on his knee a box
of watercolours, in his hand a brush.

Oh, had I but the skill, the painter's art,
to fix the scene in colours like that man.
I went towards him, stood a step apart,
over his shoulder tried his work to scan.
A masterpiece . . . . . or was it? No such luck!
Just filling in cartoons of Donald Duck.

(triolet)

Unthinkingly just now you said "my love".
    I made no sign, as if I hadn't heard,
but now my heart is soaring high above.
Unthinkingly just now you said "my love";
I'm all a-flutter like a turtle-dove
     to think perhaps you didn't use that word
unthinkingly. Just now you said "my love".
    I made no sign. As if I hadn't heard!

Words have power.
We all know this.

Verbs have power
because without verbs
we can neither laugh nor cry,
neither run nor walk;
we cannot breathe,
nor even be,
without a verb.
A noun too has power
because with it we have, in a sense,
mastery of the object, the person, or the feeling
that we name.
Even an adjective has power,
for it qualifies the noun,
fleshes it out,
makes it more our possession.
A conjunction,
small, insignificant,
you might think
without power,
but ....

All words have power.
We know this,
or we would not be writing poetry.

(On a line from Mandelstam - 'I have learned the science of parting')

There was so much we never did together,
places to go and visit hand in hand,
so much we could have learned about each other,
so many things to say before goodbye.

Nobody ever knew how much I suffered;
but by applying all the skills I'd learned
I always coped. My strategies were successful;
the ache of separation always eased.

So many times the same has happened to me,
but every time the pain returns anew.
Just as intense, although it's so familiar,
regret comes like a band around my heart.

Falling in love, each time's a new experience;
the same thing goes for learning how to part.

There was so much we never did together,
places to go and other lands to try,
so much we could have learned about each other,
so many things to say before goodbye.

Nobody ever knew how much I suffered,
but, using all the strength that I could find,
I always coped. My strategies were successful,
the ache of separation left behind

So many times the same has happened to me,
and every time the anguish will restart,
just as intense. Although it's so familiar,
regret comes like a band around my heart.

Falling in love, each time's a new experience;
the same thing goes for learning how to part.

These children
round-eyed
absorbing what the world offers them
or silently wandering in their own
imagination
must lose their innocence and grow
older but not necessarily wiser.

They weren't kings really, those other visitors. The chaps that wrote the story down (and that was years after), they knew it, called them "wise men". Don't know where the "king" idea came from. Wizards, more like, astrologers even. Maybe there's something in that astrology stuff, but they were nearly a fortnight late. We were there at the birth, well, pretty soon after.

I don't know about angels. There was a light, like a star had exploded or something, but angels? We may have said so at the time; I'm not sure now. We'd gone into the village, some of us, looking for a drink and a change of company, but perhaps it was too late. Or perhaps it was just that the village was full of ­strangers claiming a royal ancestor. Pity they were all so ordinary.

But then we heard this baby, a real new one, in a cow-shed, with a pitiful little cry on him, and we went to have a peep. We had a lamb with us. Nothing unusual about that; he was only just weaned, and his mum had kicked him out, so we were keeping him warm. Lovely little chap he was, not a mark on him, just the kind for an offering in the temple. So when we saw the mum and dad so worried and lost-looking, and that scrap of a baby, well, they needed all the luck they could get. I suppose that was why we gave them the lamb.

But this is the bit that still scares me. When the baby saw the lamb he stopped  crying, and he looked ... peaceful. Wise. Only sad too, almost as if he knew what the lamb was in for. And - you'll say I was imagining it, but I know sheep, and I know what I saw - the lamb looked back at him the same. I've never seen that expression on a sheep again, and I've looked for it, believe me. It was almost as if he knew, too.

(based quite closely on The Naming of Cats by TS Eliot, my favourite poet, and one of the greatest writers of English poetry)

The showing of slides is a family matter,
It just isn't something to do to a chum.
Let the family watch while grandmothers natter,
But don't show outsiders those views of your mum.

First of all, at a pinch, try them out on the daily,
But watch for the yawns - you don't want her to leave.
Are you sure your wife liked them? Did she smile, or sigh greyly?
It can cause more divorces than you would believe.

Matching programme to audience you must be particular;
Consider the person, consider the slide.
If your buildings all lean from a neat perpendicular
Can you really expect to keep friends on your side?

The pick of the bunch you may show to another;
If you have any doubts, leave the slides on the shelf,
And reserve them for one who's more close than a brother,
And will truly enjoy them - just view them yourself.

A hundred people, having known our girl,
who knew her love, and loved her in return,
came to her funeral, and there were others,
too distant, too fragile,
or too old to understand,
who would have come as well.
You were not with us, families and friends,
to see her coffin go stately to the fire;
you were not there to see us spread her ashes
on hillside and seashore, say a last goodbye.
But you, who never knew of her in life,
you also wept when you heard of her sudden death
from haemorrhage in the brain,
aged thirty-six and pregnant,
as if the facts,
the words alone, were tragic. You were touched
by the death of one whom you had never known.
You shared our loss.

(well, this man, anyway)

My passport knows my calendar age
and, while I keep it,
my driving licence

But in my head
I am still thirty-five

And in my heart
I hope I can stay
seventeen
for ever.

(as T. S. Eliot might have written it)

Lady, three blind mice sat under the wainscot,
silently waiting, sightlessly waiting, while in the garden
the blackbird sang and the children
played at knucklebones. The farmer's wife
entered the kitchen,
entered the warm kitchen,
preparing to prepare the meal for the children.
Crumbs fell from the table
but the mice said , We are not
worthy we are not
worthy. And they all ran
after the farmer's wife.
     Well, I ask you. Did you ever
see such a thing? Did you ever?
Quick as a flash she was,
took the carving knife to them,
chopped their tails right off.
Sorted them out good and proper, I'll tell you.
Did you ever see such a thing in your life?
Did you? Did you ever?
Three blind mice!

If it is considered offensive to make disparaging remarks about those of the feminine gender,
I guess that makes me an offender
when I say I don't understand why, if rabbits are cuddly, and kittens are cute, and furry things in general are considered quite nice,
women feel the obligation to be afraid of mice,
even on a farm,
where they may be a bit of a nuisance, but don't do much what you could really call harm.
Now the farmer's wife of my story was by nature slow to wrath,
but maybe on the day in question she had been disturbed by the telephone ringing while she was enjoying a leisurely bath,
or someone had left a gate open and the hens had got loose,
or perhaps it was just her husband being more than usually obtuse.
Only she was annoyed by three particular mice who were blind
- if that, in these days of political correctness, isn't considered unkind.
Oh, let's just say they couldn't see very well,
but they were quite good at finding their way by smell,
unless they used their whiskers and navigated by feel
as they followed the lady of the house around in the hope of getting a free meal.
However, this time, when she saw the mice in the dairy she broke her golden rule.
She lost her cool.
In fact she threatened to get them with her cleaver,
but either they were deaf as well as blind, or they didn't understand English, or they simply didn't believe her,
and by the time they had turned round and decided to go
it became apparent they were too slow.
Yes, she got all three at once, but I am glad to say
that as she only chopped their tails off, they lived to scamper another day.

1/
I called your number and
your voice answered –
“Sorry I’m not available.
Please leave a message.”
I put down the phone
without speaking,
and hoped you might pick up
my thoughts.

2/
I called your number and
your voice answered,
sounding tired and lost.
I wished I could hug you better,
but the voice said,
“Who did you want to speak to?”
– It wasn’t you,
but I still wanted to hug you.

3/
I called your number and
your voice answered,
and this time it was you.
I said hello,
and you said hello,
but what could I say
(that I wanted to say)
that you didn’t already know?
So we talked about trivialities
until we said goodbye.

Waiting for a train,
I am thinking about nothing in particular
when ...
- "Excuse please.
Can you tell me?
What is Time?"

Time, that invisible dimension
in which we live
and grow
and die,
which goes relentlessly forward
and never back.
(Words move, music moves
only in Time, but that which is only living
can only die.)
Time, in which the future advances,
oh, so slowly
as you await the arrival
of the beloved,
and in which, as you grow older,
the past recedes
mercilessly faster
(Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
and the end and the beginning were always there
before the beginning and after the end).
Time, which rules
the natural world.
(The time of the seasons and the constellations,
the time of milking and the time of harvest).

Time, in which each observer is in a different moment,
according to where in the universe
you are standing,
and how fast
you are travelling through it.
(You are not the same people who left that station
or will arrive at any terminus ...)

- "Excuse please.
What is Time?"
Can I place that accent?
Ah yes, Russian...
No definite article in Russian,
no word for "the".

- Sorry, I was daydreaming.
It's half past two.

Of all the seasons, summer
is timeless.
The summerblown cornfield,
windwaving sunbleached white gold,
is forever,
and the time of wild strawberries,
small and freely given,
is outside time.

Happy dreams too
are timeless.
On waking I am filled
with an oceangrey
mistgrey
cloudgrey
regret
that the dream was not reality.
Yet I am glad to have felt joy,
and the beauty overcomes the sadness,
as the sweet wild sound of the pibroch
transcends the lament
that gave it birth.

Of all the seasons, summer
is timeless.
The summerblown cornfield,
windwaving sunbleached white gold,
is forever,
and the time of wild strawberries,
small and freely given,
is outside time.

Happy dreams too
are timeless.
On waking I am filled with
an oceangrey
mistgrey
cloudgrey
regret
that the dream was not reality.
Yet I am glad to have felt joy,
and the beauty overcomes the sadness,
as the sweet wild sound of the pibroch
transcends the lament
that gave it birth.

Knowing you, as I do, in cyber-space,
not in the world that we consider "real,"
I have no way of knowing how I'd feel,
if I should chance to meet you face-to-face.

Looking at you, I wonder would I be
embarrassed, mute, uncertain what to say,
and end up wondering why I'd come this way,
not really sure if this was right for me?

Or would we hit it off right from the start?
Two minds that share their innermost ideas
of poetry and life, their hopes and fears,
like two souls with one single beating heart?

(In case you think by cyber-love I'm smitten,
I'll make it clear - it's fantasy I've written.)

So many years, so many miles go by.
In smiles and tears the storms of life we've passed
and made our home together, you and I,
through thick and thin, together to the last.

Well, not the last maybe - we're not there yet.
However many years behind us lie,
we're still prepared, however old we get,
to sail the seas or fly up in the sky.

We've seen so much, in all those far-off places,
we've shared so many moments in our life,
the years have etched their lines upon our faces.
We've been through such a lot as man and wife,

but still we'll go, forever hand in hand,
together till we find our promised land.

.
I cry out your name silently
over and over in my head
and hope that no-one will hear
except you.

Gloriously green in spring and summer, these leaves
turned to bright shades of flame, lit up the fall,
and autumn's winds tumbled them to earth.

Decaying, their remnants now enrich the earth,
and winter buds fatten for next year's leaves,
which in their turn, we know, will wither and fall,

an endless cycle of growth, decline and fall.
We too decline, return at last to earth,
and memory is all our existence leaves

until we rise in new leaves, and fall again to earth.

Long ago a king of France
-I don't remember his name -
when asked was it possible
to love two women
at the same time,
replied that he loved,
equally but in a different way,
burgundy and beaujolais,
and if he could love
two different wines
how could he not love
two different women?

For me, an inexperienced wine-taster,
I could not tell the difference,
but give me elderflower champagne
fermented from sugar, lemon and hand-picked blossom,
fresh, golden and sparkling,
or home-‌infused sloe gin,
rich, fruity, purple and mature,
and I would say I love them both,
equally but in a different way.

Yes, but does this mean I could love
two women at the same time?
Ah, that is a question
that I must decline to answer.
You see, I might tend
to incriminate myself.

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

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

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.

Your ashes
unburied
dispersed in the sea
dissolved in salt water
mixed with sand
find a quicker way
to nature's recycling.
You are not gone
simply absent from life
and I cannot pull you back.
I can only wait
helpless as you are.

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
as 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!

Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.

A body on the line at Basingstoke -
the train to Waterloo has been delayed.
You'll have to wait; the plastic bag brigade
are clearing up and trying not to choke.

Commuter suicide's no news to us.
We don't suspect foul play; it's by the book.
But one train driver, terror in his look,
takes the day off, wishing he drove a bus.

Neighbours or strangers, those who saw him leap
could never know what so possessed his mind.
His unwished legacy - they long may find
the image of his death disturb their sleep.

The quiet desperation of a life
brought by that final step over the rim
to its conclusion - weep no tears for him,
his torment's over. Who will tell his wife?

A body on the line at Basingstoke
has caused an inconvenient delay.
(Unless it’s just a rather tasteless joke
- a body on the line at Basingstoke?)
What pain could make an ordinary bloke
do himself in? It’s just another day.
A body on the line at Basingstoke
has caused an inconvenient delay.

The one who should have lived has gone so fast.
The old ones, in their dotage, linger on –
they, with no future, live only in the past.

And we who can but sit, dumb and aghast,
scarcely believe that while the sun still shone
the one who should have lived has gone so fast.

Six decades older, surviving to their last
few days or years, together but alone,
they, with no future, live only in the past.

At least she kept on living to the last,
but should have had a future. She has none.
The one who should have lived has gone so fast,

and they, for whom so many years have passed,
are unaware that one they loved is gone.
They, with no future, live only in the past,

mark time until the final trumpet blast,
and never know the respite they have won.
The one who should have lived has gone so fast.
They, with no future, live only in the past.

The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.

The mother ***** died at the side
of the road, another hit-and-run
victim. Her still warm fur
unblemished, luxuriant, russet,
now with life's bloom on it,
will soon be a shelter for worms,
must turn to dust,
her milk-heavy teats return to earth.
The hungry cubs whose birth
gave fulfilment to mother-love
will cease their shrill
unanswered pleading, become victims
in their turn. I can't pass by
and do nothing. Lay her at least
on grass, where soul of beast
may be at home,
not on concrete.

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.

The love of a mother for her child
is not the same as the child's love for his mother.
The love of a man for a woman changes
after they are married
from what it was before,
and her love does not correspond in all points with his.
Love between man and woman
is different from the love of boy and girl.

Love can be permanent as the tides, regular, unquestioned,
with no end and no recognisable beginning.
It can come suddenly,
violently,
as a thunderstorm in summer breaks
upon the thirsty earth,
short-lived
except in the memory.

But under any one of these emotions,
what is there for us to say?
Only, I love you.

Thoughts can be subdivided, classified, clothed with words.
Words fit feelings only approximately,
and our deepest feelings must often go unclothed.
So when I say I love you
I cannot analyse what I mean.
I only know that I do love you
and hope you understand.

The love of a mother for her child
is not the same as the child's love for his mother.
The love of a man for a woman changes
after they are married
from what it was before,
and her love does not correspond in all points with his.
Love between man and woman
is different from the love of boy and girl.

Love can be permanent as the tides, regular, unquestioned,
with no end and no recognisable beginning.
It can come suddenly,
violently,
as a thunderstorm in summer breaks
upon the thirsty earth,
short-lived
except in the memory.

But under any one of these emotions
what is there for us to say?
Only, I love you.

Thoughts can be subdivided, classified, clothed with words.
Words fit feelings only approximately,
and our deepest feelings must often go unclothed.
So when I say I love you
I cannot analyse what I mean.
I only know that I do love you
and hope you understand.

What is this feeling,
overwhelming, new, yet somehow
half remembered,
uncomfortable, ferocious,
and where even fear is not unknown?
Is it the same when I look deep inside you?
when I touch your hand?
when I know you want me to be there
(even though you do not speak or look at me)?
when you struggle for the words to tell me
what you want to say?

My heart races, I want to shout, laugh,
cry, hold you, be still with you.
I have known happiness,
but this goes much further.
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,
yearning and fulfilment in one,
and it will not let me go.

Say not it was by the ocean,
in the country or the town.
Say not if the sun was shining
or the rain was beating down.

Say not it was morning or evening,
or the high noonday or night.
Say not it was summer or winter,
or springtime, or autumn bright.

Say not what she was wearing.
Say not what colour her hair.
Say not how magical her smile.
Say only: She was there.

This is where I came from,
and the place to which I shall come back at the end.
I have been away many times,
and between the setting out and the returning
there are towns, villages that are home to others,
rivers and mountains that are familiar to them,
but all are strange to me.
The people that I meet, good people for the most part,
even those with whom I travel some of my journey,
are not my people, and I am not sad
to part from them.
So I travel on, and each time
my journey brings me to the same place,
and I am happy to know it again.
Sometimes, alone and far away,
I see men and women happy to be where they are,
and notions may come to me in the night
that I too could be happy somewhere else,
that another place could be home.
But with the sunrise, as the mists disappear,
I see those phantoms for what they are,
the ramblings of a lonely soul, fantasies,
imaginations of what might have been.

The gardener
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself.  The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged.  If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon.  I don’t know why I bother.

The blackbird
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago.  My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.

The wasps
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality.  We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better.  When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting?  If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care?  And if they do, we’ll sting ’em.

Will Granny be coming for Christmas,
the same as she does every year?
- No, we won't be seeing her this time;
she's too ill to travel, my dear.

She'll stay in the hospice for Christmas.
They'll have hats and balloons, just like us.
But my darling, your granny is dying,
and she'd hate us to make any fuss.

We'll still have the presents to open,
with paper all over the place,
and even though everyone hates it,
I expect we'll play Chasing the Ace.

We'll still have the turkey and pudding,
and the tree standing out in the hall.
   But if Granny's not coming for Christmas,
   it won't seem like Christmas at all.

These are the rules of the game:
You may say what you like
provided it is not serious.
You may say something serious
if your tone is flippant.
You may say something flippant
in a serious tone.
You may even say something serious
in a serious tone,
so long as you exaggerate just enough
to show that you do not mean it,
or to imply that you would mean it if ....
(without supplying the condition,
even in your own mind).
If you mean what you say
you must not let anyone know that you mean it.
If you say something you mean,
and if it becomes known that you mean it,
it is no longer the same game.
It may not even be a game at all.

If I could go beyond time,
And life be transformed into music;
If all that is subject to change
Could be fixed into an intricate pattern;
And what is expressed in words
Distilled into pure sense,

Perhaps what we experience in the physical sense
Could be extended to infinite time.
Then what we now perceive as words,
And what we think of as music,
Would all be part of the same pattern,
And things would not always have to change.

But if nothing were ever to change
Can we be sure it would all make sense?
Our life is part of a pattern,
But a pattern that is lived in time.
The emotions inspired by music
Have to be forced to fit into words,

And when I communicate my feelings to you, my words,
And your understanding of them, are liable to change.
When I hear what is deep in the heart of the music
It speaks directly to my sense.
Though I may interpret it differently each time,
The rhythm, the melody, the harmony form a pattern.

Then, as I struggle to set down that pattern
In what I know must be inadequate words,
Sometimes I feel the echo of a time
Before I was aware of life’s continual change.
Yes, I can be transported, in a sense,
To a time or a place recreated in the music.

Trumpet, *****, or seven-stringed lute recreate the music
That existed first only as a pattern
In the mind of one who could give it sense.
Thus in my own way I search for the words
To express myself in a way that will not change,
So that this much of what I have felt may go on through time.

And if I can make the music ring in the words,
If I can weave my thoughts into a pattern that may resist change,
Then, but only in that sense, maybe then I can go beyond time.

Would it be possible for me to feel friendship
for one I had never seen,
except in a blurred photo?
one whose voice I had never heard,
not even a phone-call,
not even a recording?

Would it be possible for me to love
one who had been a true friend,
who used to say she loved me,
but now felt nothing for me
but bitterness and anger?

Would it be possible for me to have confidence
in one who didn't write to me any more,
who would never read
what I had written?
who never let me read
what she had written?

Would it be possible for me to trust again
one who had told me very firmly
that she never lied,
but later admitted
without shame
that she had deceived me,
broken that trust,
almost as if she were proud of it?

Would it be possible for me to understand
how she could feel as she did,
when she refused to tell me?

Would it be possible for me to understand
if she did tell me?

The answers are
Yes
No
Maybe.

But which answer
might go with which question
I have no way of knowing.