My Picture: Bookworm Bookshop: Hanoi, Vietnam.
The strange death of poetry
Uncategorised
A Journey Home
My Picture
Some bus journeys are ordinary,
open windows and traffic running by.
People chewing the food,
watching the world photographed
on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.
Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does
or how much oil and blood there is in the desert.
You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.
The weather stays mostly the same.
And who cares about the Whooping crane
or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.
So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne
on a desert Island and watched the world go by.
Passing unknown homes and people
screaming at each other.
Nothing left to fight for
and yet angry about the repeats on TV.
Another Day
My Picture: Cafe, Ho An: Vietnam.
Sitting alone
in the café.
Just four other people,
two couples talking
to each other
without effort.
I remembered the day,
and all the people
telling me what they
want to know.
It was nice to
see a bit of them.
But they always want
a guru, a god or another
Steve Jobs.
Hard Moon
My Picture: Cover of a book of paintings by Lai Long and Bich Ngoc: Painters from Vietnam. I met them on a trip to Vietnam.
The hour is late
and I can’t sleep.
A hard moon,
consumed by ill-fate,
screws the night.
It came to me,
how it all slipped away.
A cold truth wooed and won.
Gravely, a tune of sorrow.
But I rather liked the
idea of being bad
And watching people
reproduce more of themselves.
The Harshness of Life
My Picture: Xinxiang Cafe, China
A coffee in my favourite cafe,
escaping the harshness of the
cautious loners.
The coffee was hot and clean
and the staff always say “hello”
in practiced English.
Tonight a woman told a man
they were finished.
She told him he could go to hell.
Someone once told me to go to hell.
It was just after we made love,
and the phone call from a strange woman.
I only met her once, when I was drunk
and probably said ‘I love you’
That was my mistake.
Restless Farewell
My Picture: Wei River: Xinxiang, Henan Province, China
In the darkness a dream came to me,
pale and waiting.
Beauty to destruction,
your head tilted but your face lost.
Rapturous and green eyed,
I drank each word from your mouth.
A sensuous scented sea of colour,
standing naked under unknown eyes.
Infused with lust and exposed skin,
I found a restless farewell.
And through the depths of blue I see
the last star, no longer dreary to be nobody.
It seemed by itself remembered love,
moments of breathlessness, but no sickness.
A cacophony of never ending whispering words,
dropping like flakes, fragile and complete.
Gentle as you should have been.
Lying in the darkness, I made a last wish
I am here.. standing alone
left looking …..
As you touch my soul and bleed into my dreams.
Awakening Solitude
My Picture: Jin River, Chengdu, China
When alone, I thought
the crowd is wearing my face.
Silently judging,
safe in the knowledge of the tribe.
Transfixed by the multitude,
the lights flash on.
And as the daylight falls
the world is silent,
but for the sound of a singing bird
that comes from you.
The light that specifies the
face and the music,
swings as the deep abyss.
Night Father
The Independent Newspaper. UK.
The United Nations High
Commission for Refugees,
told me that 1,500 died
this month.
Or maybe they told me
850 lives were lost
in June and July alone.
It’s probably fake news anyway.
But I hope someone finds a solution,
I’d like to help,
But I haven’t the time today.
I know you tried to save him,
He had a home once,
pictures from school,
his favourite toy, Buzz Lightyear
made in China.
Now his home is the
mouth of a shark, and
one dead night swimmer
is the same as another.
You tell of your anger,
fear and shame?
Of your hopes for the future,
as the world watches you die
A washed up tiny young life,
you say ‘sorry’ for disturbing the
sangria on a Mediterranean beach.
The world speaks English,
when we write poems.
And the poets would like to help,
but their hands are tied.
Yesterdays Sun
My Picture
Most days on my way to the café for coffee,
a homely comfort in a foreign place.
There is a man I see, a bleeding soul
in this vacant place.
He sleeps mainly on the grass verge,
always rough and unwashed.
Lays like an animal too ready for winter.
And the people pass him by.
The whole process shows desperation,
no such helpmates or a plight to bear.
A sickness of the mind, steeped in
ancient rules of deception.
Some see an empty space, some a sleeping dog.
And some an inconvenience from where they lie.
None of them see the whispers invading their
perceptions.
Yesterday the sun was setting, half asleep.
I remembered once feeling the
sun, and seeing half a yellow daffodil pale
blowing left and right.
Another heart broken race.
So I took some coffee and slice of
coconut cake to the man.
Undone with misery, he said something
I did not understand.
I thought, I am bitter sometimes
but the taste of life was one day sweet.
I was loved by goodness, and that was enough.
October Lament
My Picture: By The River
A Wandering Poet 