Muse

Silence is golden,

but I still can’t guess.

Tongues tied

beg answers from

a sleeping Muse;

an Oracle whose love

falls like dust

on our ears.

So speak

some nonsense of the heart;

your Midas touch

has dumbed

whatever passed

for language.

Journey

Who can name

a town

where fiction ends;

foretell, as credits fade,

their journey home?

Time preys

like some lost angel,

deceiving the voyager;

a scripted adventure

striving nowhere:

canvas without wind

disturbs the artist’s hand,

till truth comes

with sharpened words;

or hope,

like a bedtime story,

invents a world

where travellers survive

till morning.

Futures

For Norma

Thank you

For sticking around.

It must have cost

A fortune

In time travel.

From stars yet born

Why choose this one?

I sent no signal,

But lived in trust

That telepathy works;

And natures not our own

Can feel.

The crater where you landed

 Seems

Great enough to hide an ocean,

Yet infinitely small;

Foretelling all,

In words

Unknown to language.

Recall

On the thirty-ninth step,

Mr Memory (for it was he)

Realized that nothing mattered

Anymore,

And that Winnipeg

Was no longer a city

In Canada;

That Tokyo had taken off

And landed in Alaska;

Moscow had become Vienna

And London had flown.

Time lay abandoned,

Its future unknown.

He watched the gulls

Circling,

Or thought he did,

Because the sky had fled

Along with the land;

The wind had given up

The ghost;

Nature lay silent

And, in some freak collusion,

Poetry had become prose.

Mr Memory

Left the world naked,

Much as he’d entered it,

Leaving no epitaph

Or forwarding address;

Just one more enigma

In infinite space.

Dream On

They’re coming for you,

The lives you ignored:

Those little people

Passing below,

Morning and evening.

Asleep at noon,

You feel yourself adored,

A Klee or Kandinsky,

Inventing some brave new world.

Achieving glory

As an artist should,

While clutching the duvet tight.

Dream on,

Ignoring the creak

On the stairs:

The scuffle of shoes

And murmured threats,

Spurred on by

The landlady’s whispers.

Animals

Animals:

Why are they here?

To take over when we’re gone,

Turn back the clock?

They haven’t forgiven us

For acting smart,

Reforming the wild;

They’re lying in wait,

Lurking in jungles and zoos,

Ready to strike.

Pets aren’t as cute as we think;

They’ll have first pick

When civilization ends;

Get to the larder quick

Before the wolves arrive.

Noah should have filled the Ark

With flowers instead.

They don’t bite;

You can stick them in a vase,

Watch them fade,

Write poems in recompence.

So, watch out!

It’s not just rats.

That horse wants more than oats;

That worm knows more than we guess;

That swan has ‘previous’.

If you see bears in Oxford Street,

They’ll be shopping for human coats.

Now Look

It used to be goals and girls:

Who scored in extra time.

You were always in for a laugh.

Brawls didn’t start

Till you turned up.

Together, we kicked ass,

Breaking laws even

The judge hadn’t heard of;

Not giving a fig leaf for taste,

Tradition, temperance,

What passes for truth;

Spitting in society’s face

And not missing

Once.

Now, look at us,

Chatting away in Sainsbury’s,

Like a couple of eejits.

Discussing world events

Like what’s cooking for lunch

Or which cat food is best;

Our trolleys bright

With ideas.

Not trading recipes, not yet

Just idle chat

About things we used to mock,

Aloof from the herd,

The dullness we feared,

Never dreaming the suburbs

Would one day come to us.

What a waste!

But then,

Have you seen the price

of tea bags lately?

Dead Reckoning

Living near a graveyard

Sounded a good idea:

Not far to walk

If you need fresh air.

Stones don’t depress me;

It’s people that do.

There are far too many

And they look like you.

With the dead,

You know where you are:

They understand

What silence means;

Yet don’t complain

If you hold wild parties,

Or scream in the rain.

The odd ghost you meet

On those cemetery strolls

Where life appears abstract

Is strangely polite.

Even the headless ones

Raise their hats.

Spooks can be obliging

With directions

(Where am I buried?);

And endlessly patient,

Knowing (unlike us)

That time leads nowhere,

And worrying’s no use.

Their jokes aren’t as funny,

But that's no excuse.

Bearing Up

The Eighties were great,

Forging money all week;

Swilling Krug by the magnum

On wild city nights.

Where has it all gone, you ask,

As you gaze at your estate?

In the bath at noon,

Feeling my weight:

Time brings on questions

The butler can’t help.

He claims ignorance, like the masses,

Staring down with the drinks;

Surveying my splendour

With no hint of reproach.

Things aren’t so bad,

Though the poor still complain,

Crying at the gates.

You can hear them at night,

If the peacocks let up.

Vigil

I count the funerals

One by one,

Waiting for time to end.

The guest list

Shrinks,

While longevity brings

The advantage of repentence.

If you beat me to

The Promised Land,

Save some manna for me.

I loved you,

But you couldn’t stay.

Morituri te salutant

Lullaby

Before archaeology,

A baby’s cry

Split time.

Before fire

Or conscious thought,

Language of any kind,

A cry

Before sound

Became word.

Clear yet

Untranslatable

(language is not yet born),

No echo, but

The original

Atavistic urge

That brings us rushing

To the cradle.

Party for One

You like to drink alone,

You say,

With just a mirror or two

For company.

No one complains,

Which makes sense

If there’s no one around.

A party for one

sounds fun.

It’s select:

The only bouncer is you;

You double as barman, drunk,

Barfly and guest,

Downing your own cocktails

In infinite space.

All that room

And no need to share it:

A solipsist by choice,

Millionaire of emptiness.

Like champagne in the rain,

It might catch on,

If all your friends leave town

At once;

Or you never had any

In the first place.

And then I came along

And ruined it all

By ringing the door bell.

Spoof CV

Graduated from the school of misery;

Flunked hard knocks;

Took a stab at whingeing;

Ended up on the rocks.

Old Haunts

1966

See where he stands,

Glorious to behold,

Like some Roman God

Flushed with the spoils of life,

Re-entering the shrine of youth,

Resplendent in old school tie.

And, in his mind,

The bridge of time

Is idly spanned,

Back to the lost cities

Of his youth.

As he passes,

Small boys wonder at his bulk;

He marches on in state,

Down the halls of yesteryear.

The Prodigal Son

Returns to his own.

Continuum

Was there life on earth?

Did ghosts in ancient times

Walk village greens

Thinking themselves eternal?

We, on other planets, know

Little of what they were

Or might have been;

Whether, like us, they sought

Enlightenment.

The silence that reigns

Through space

Might tell us more;

If only that

What we don’t understand

Is endless.

Dog's Life

‘Look me up, ’ she lied.

I took her at her word.

She lived in the Royal Kennels.

If there were other animals,

I couldn’t see:

Just columns and windows,

Brooding like butlers.

How easy access is

If you pad in unannounced;

Everyone’s barking,

Of course.

A slum dog

Down Millionaire Row

Soon learns the part.

Now, if the plates aren’t gold,

I send the food back.

Voices

The voice in your headphones

May be wrong

When it says the painting ‘breathes’.

There are no obvious signs.

The voice is blind:

It can’t see thoughts;

But nor can you.

Jumping a few old masters,

You move on:

A minute per picture

Seems too short

For a lifetime’s effort.

You are a masterpiece,

Needing no expert commentary

To prove yourself.

Back in the open air,

You sit, perplexed,

Consulting the day for answers.

And who’s to say

That darkening scene

In front of you

Isn’t some future Rembrandt?