Selected poems
Dealer of dreams
In times of incandescence,
a mind as full as a crowded
Times Square, Venetian St
Marks Square, bobbing gondolas
making those on land reach for
the brown paper bag, for a handrail,
a bright stucco building to touch,
grip, give you a sense of steadiness,
but it is an illusion as you seek out
peace, a piece of something might
settle you, then the earth moves
in a wide sweep, like a dodgem car
and you are off once more,
reaching, retching, asking why
these images suck you up,
spit you out, and the wise old owl
with yellow eyes, on the dead
branch, sees it all and simply waits
for a hint of carrion about to be
surprised by randomness, which is
what we all are when it turns out that
today we will not wake and the fiery
flames of Joycean Hell and Fury will
be our home. For some this will be
a relief, even though unblessed, and
the priest will adjust his soutane and
his steamed glasses and offer unction
and the body of
and then you awake.
Discourse
El poeta
alle estabe con su lire
y su baston cortado en la Montana
de un arbol oloroso
the poet
was there with his lyre
and his stick cut in the mountains
from a fragrant tree
Revolutions: Neruda
These men in suits,
well dressed colour coordinated,
sometimes women,
by formula,
strut their stuff in
houses of debate
and formality, in
adversarial poses, speeches
held aloft on scraps of
rolled up paper, and words
dashed on the dispatch box
like regurgitated poison,
having forgotten those who
hid in caves, disseminated
thoughts to turn things on
their head, let loose
the slow moving molasses
of ideas,
crashed glass shop fronts,
and ceilings
and wore bruises on their heads,
as rewards of the process,
rosettes spreading red
across their chests, faces
lit up with belief.
Sometimes prophets and poets
come down from their caves
in the mountains where they
have seen burning bushes,
a light on the hill, having
learnt a new discourse,
language, poetry of new ideas
and images of freedom and hope.
Sometimes the prophets
have seen too much brightness,
it is manifested in their own
burning, flesh crackling
in the flames, too much,
too soon, for those
who need the insight,
the sustenance, deny denial.
As a young poet I read
Marxist tomes, subsidized
by a communist press, workers
of the world unite, the little red
book, other texts and pamphlets,
could smell something in the air,
duffle coats and desert boots
a uniform of dissent and question.
Sometimes the poems were writ
large across the sky, but like
clouds they drifted, dissipated
like the words of the Tiger Moth
skywriter, and now the skies are
blue, and like the height of summer,
spread into infinity,
are an echo in the mind,
of nothingness.
The words of those in suits
simply vaporize like high
invisible,
barren summer clouds
becoming nothing.
We can hold our breath,
those with