lost in a location, where am I
lost in a location, where am I
naught familiar to the eye, yet it seems real
naught familiar to the eye, yet it seems real
lost in a location, naught familiar to the eye
yet it seems real, where am I

in an illusory state, as the dreams of night
in an illusory state, as the dreams of night
blurred the imagery, awakening to truth
blurred the imagery, awakening to truth
awakening to truth, blurred the imagery
as the dreams of night, in an illusory state

light casts a beam, all in proper perspective
light casts a beam, all in proper perspective
the show is worked out, mirages no more exist
the show is worked out, mirages no more exist
mirages no more exist, light casts a beam
all in proper perspective, the show is worked out

mirages no more exist, lost in a location
as the dreams of night, where am I
all in proper perspective, awakening to truth
blurred the imagery, the show is worked out
a light casts a beam, yet it seems real
naught familiar to the eye, in an illusory state

You kissed her lip
in the most gentle way you could
sipping her breath
her sweet nectar of love
she closed her eyes
her love is deep

with your eyes half closed
eating your own pain away
torturing your fickle-minded brain
You took a last look at her...
Her pretty face in your hands
You leaned to her closer...
Tenderly you held her...

Your intention was clear
You finally whispered ...
the painful word GOODBYE....
to the loyal her
Goodbye to good old days...

How love could be so cruel
in the most delicate way...
And You'd finally left her forever...

report this poem
it's deviant
it may teeter into f-word terrain
and it's not what one might
think a poem ought to be

malign this poem
it's mutant
it does not have form,
history or conventions
it doesn't refer to a point in the world
it's self-referential
(no comment on poverty or humanity
no evaluation of terrorism or social ills -
it's not even about love
or about the poet's first-world woes)

and so pointing back at itself
it's like ******* -
which is always a crime, always has been;
de-construct this poem
for it drifts into no meaning -
it does not help humanity transcend

useless, uninspired, with no legitimacy
it must not be -
report this poem to have it removed

We sit by the small pond
after school

Mother's still out shopping
Yehudit says
so we can sit
and talk awhile

the water's murky
no ducks or fish
in this small place

maybe tadpoles
or old boots
or ******* thrown in

trees surrounding
are still in leaf

no one must know
what we did
and where today
she says

I look at the tin can
lying on the side
of the muddy pond

as if I would
I say

if it got out
my mum'd **** me
she says

what about your dad?
I ask

he would **** me too
if Mum told him
he could

a blackbird settles
on a branch
on my left
black
yellow beak
noisy

but worse than that
what would the other girls say?

lucky you?

no they wouldn't
she says
they'd say what a slapper
what a ****
and there of all places

she's quiet
and stares at the pond

but you're not
we didn't plan it
I say

but we did it
and what if someone saw us
what if a teacher
or prefect came in the gym
lunchtime and saw us?

somewhere to our left
a dog barks
smell of the farm
just over a cow moos

no one did
I say
live what is
not what might have been
or may have happened

she sighs
and looks at me
with her blue eyes

guess so

she looks at the wrist watch
on my wrist

better go
Mum'll be back
on the next bus
she says

we get up
and brush ourselves down
and walk through the woods

it was good though
even if it was
an odd place
I say

odd being
the operative word
she smiles

the fear of someone
coming in
made it seem
more daring
I suggest

daring?
absolutely mad
she says
but yes
it was good

we came to the back
of the cottage
where I lived

shall I walk you home?

no best not
she says
Mum's not struck on you
thinks you might
get me into trouble

I frown
me?
but butter wouldn't melt
in my mouth
I say  

she smiles and walks on
I THINK IT WOULD
she shouts back at me
and walks out of sight

I turn into the garden
and along the path
thinking to myself
she's right.

There is a forest old as hillsides
tall, majestic, dappled shades
fall on ground beneath the silent
gnarled defenders of the glade.

There they stand in ancient splendour
many souls have passed their way
often used as welcome shelter
from the heat of summers day.

Sweet the air they breathe in chorus
our life's breath their lungs provide,
soaking up our daily poison
so that we may live and thrive.

You seas of men intent to clear them
citing progress, peddling greed
tearing roots from precious mooring
laying waste to nature's seed.

**** the beauty of a landscape
displace creatures for your need
rupture fragile ecosystems
scar the earth and watch it bleed.

To you I ask a simple question,
as I see the land bereaved.
What need has man of all this progress
when he can no longer breathe?

by Derek Walcott (1930- )

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Under misted august sky
where the fishnet boats dot the Matla River
I stand drunken on the wild mangrove.

This abandoned out of world noon
when the river breeze whispers
you are deathless
my blood paints in my eyes her face.

Only the estuarine heron
wings smelling of sun and fish
is my timeless witness!

to be the first person,
singular
to write of
one's experience,
the essence of
life's own blood,
the pulse of people
coursing through
the constricted byways
of coronary cities,
the exclusive cancer
of cliques
voracious, feeding
on those around them,
to observe
humanity
with a certifiable,
clinical detachment
without use
of the interminable,
insufferable
first person
singular.

Stars at night, long the hours
watching animal spirits deep in the wooded wilds
tracing circles round the moon, glowing
translucent spiders weaving webs
floating at the edge, before diving in
oceans of sailing green seas
waves newly born, bright as sparks
lightning in the dark, igniting hearts
fiery blue, water too, the earth and air runs through
basking in other worldly realms of moon
with hearts, pure white where lilies bloom
home, where the soul of the sea is borne
drenched in storms of falling star seas
yours is a place wilder, than these.