A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose.
(Samuel McChord Crothers)
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Draw Me
Draw me a place where the sun shines all day
And the night is so warm we sleep under the sky.
Show me the warmth of the ground that we lie on
And people around us go just passing by.
Paint me a place where the air is so cold
that all water is frozen and snow falls soft to the ground.
Make it a dark sky with stars as our light
Make it as though the moon we have found.
Carve me a story that tells of us two
and only us two in a world of so much.
Cut into the wood as you cut into my soul
Turning the wood as I turn with your touch.
Sculpt me an island, a place of our own
with the beauty of animals, trees smelling sweet
Make it our place where people may visit
But mainly a place where your heart I can meet.
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Great Words
I wanted to write great words for you,
Like Thomas at his father’s death.
To let the world know what you were,
Make them weep too.
I wanted others to despair,
To curse the power that took you
And lament your absence.
But all I did was struggle with the effusions
And take umbrage at my disrespect.
Today, I realised – I have no great words for you.
I can’t compete, I need not try.
What you were is enough.
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It seems easy to walk up this pathway for some
The beginning looks wide and you’ll soon find your feet
But the twists and the turns don’t quite catch you at first
And you don’t know the half of the things you could meet.
The walkway looks level – it’s not, oh I know.
It rises each step that you take on the way.
And you think you can see where the journey will end?
You can’t, and it’s not even for you to say.
The cliff side is beautifully carved by the rain
You could rest and touch rocks and say “maybe, what if…?”
Just remember that things sometimes aren’t how they look.
It’s a very long way to the depths of that cliff.
But many can walk with their eyes on that sun
And never once slip and never once fall.
With their head in the air and heaven in their heart
And never once question the reason at all.
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Beginnings
I watched them rub the twigs until a spark flicked into flame
And then they took the rock and carved the spear to hunt the game
A stone was fashioned in a round to move the carcass of the beast
While the fire burned on and all prepared to engage in the feast.
And the sun shone down.
I saw them take the branches from the trees and make them bend
to blast the sharpened sticks to wherever they could send
a message to another, that told them – “ keep away from here;
this territory’s ours and your presence is too near “
And the rain fell softly.
Still as I looked they turned their thoughts towards machines.
Their works became more powerful in their minds and in their dreams.
And the world was changing faster than each man would dare to think,
As they searched for more yet somehow moved away from a joining link.
And the wind blew cool.
For one observing from afar their achievements were astounding
It seemed that all was possible in this world that they were founding.
But in the midst of all this moving on the children still were crying
for a parent or a sibling who they could not keep from dying.
And the snow began to fall.
Then someone made a potion for use by those who became ill
And men were healing others with a needle or a pill.
Now it looked like immortality was something that was near,
as the people in authority could take away all fear.
And the darkness turned lighter.
But as I continued watching what seemed removal of all pain,
The miracle of this phenomena was turned on itself again.
And the chemistry that had been expert in the curing of the sick
was used to take away mans life like a cunning conjuring trick.
And the wind blew colder.
In horror now I looked upon the dead and on the maimed.
while man’s wars raged on inscrutably, and no one seemed ashamed
that what could have been a paradise, was turning into hell.
That man’s body, which once held a heart, had now become a shell.
And the ice chilled me.
I tried to turn away from this black nightmare that I saw
And I prayed that they’d go back to what they almost were before.
In the beginning, at the start, when all was possible and clean.
But the end was now much nearer than the start of where they’d been.
And my eyes overflowed.
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Heat
She is beautiful. No one could dispute that. She stands straight and confident, two hands clasped around your arm. Her raven, silky hair is clipped beneath her scarf, her almost black eyes, wide and defiant as she looks at me. The heat of the sun is intense on my head and shoulders and as rivulets of wetness run down my body, I wonder where the sweat ends and the tears begin.
I stare at your face.
“Do you love her?”
You look back at me with only the slightest notion of a frown.
“No, I love you”, you say.
My eyes move to her face and I detect the tiniest of smirks from her mouth.
“Then why?” My voice breaks as I ask the question.
“We knew this might happen”. The sound of your voice breaks my heart a little more. “Too many differences, too many things we can’t alter.”
You shrug your arm a little from her grasp. This time she frowns.
I try to turn and walk away but seem unable to.
My over heated, clammy hand is clenched around a wad of grubby 150,000 Lebanese Lira notes.
Pre-nuptial agreement. Post- nuptial agony.
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Bird Man
Here I sit in this tiny corner of my perfect western world,
safe and calm, unconcerned, untroubled, eluded,
protected and free.
This you think.
I seek you - heart and soul, mind and body.
Physical distance can not deter me,
each mile reduced to mere fractions by my yearning.
Do not shun my longing,
nor dissuade my determination to know you;
present and past, culture and future.
My sweet Hanthala
child of your nation.
Let me reach you.
Let my tears for your people wash away fear.
Let my thoughts be bullets through your prison door.
Take your hands from behind you and stretch them to me.
Use your hedgehog hair as a weapon
but fight with me and never against.
Turn your face towards me,
take persecution no more and fly with me.
Be free - and in doing so
free me.
* Hanthala - satrirical caricature created by Palestinian refugee,
Naji al - Ali
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Without Request
It came without request or warning
Implanting itself into our lives,
more deeply than into your body
Your perfect, precious form
Invaded,
Violated where violence should never be.
So we return this, with ferocity
Attacking its very being with all we know
Destroying its make up with venom
Causing more pain - but in anger at it
And with love for you
But soon, not long in the future,
When you are rid of this intrusion,
Detached from its power, free from its hold…
South flying geese will return to greet you
Grazing cattle will hum their approval
A lone blackbird will serenade at dusk
A symphony of joy for salvation
And the sound will linger long into the night.
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Alfie
How do I welcome you into this world-
with clashing symbols and beating drums,
a fanfare of triumph for your safe arrival.
Balloons and flowers, popping corks and streamers,
dancing and song that would wake all from sleep?
Where is the Royal Philharmonic?
I arrive in a t- shirt I have worn all day,
with a coffee mark here and a grease mark there.
My bare feet in sandals flap loosely on the hospital floor
and my red rimmed eyes and tear streaked face
don’t, at first glance, show what I really feel.
Bring on the makeup department.
But I hope that you know of your welcome,
and I pray that you know of my joy on this day.
In the every day stresses of every day life
I lost the balloons on the way.
But I didn’t lose sight of the faith that I had
that you’d come to us safe and secure.
And now that you’re here and the sweetest of things,
you are promised my love, evermore.
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Things to keep you close
Trace each feature with the tip of my finger,
your furrowed forehead in troubled sleep.
I smooth the lines to wipe away the cares,
follow the arch of an eyebrow from the bridge of your nose
outwards to each temple.
Circling the hollow at the side of each eye
willing you to rest peacefully.
Kiss each eyelid, a butterfly kiss on paper soft skin.
Draw the bow of your mouth and mould my lips to yours,
whispering words deep into your throat
so none escape into the air and miss your soul.
Lay my cheek against your chest
and make my breathing one with you.
Beat my heart in time with yours,
perfectly synchronised.
Lay the photograph back on my pillow.
Close my eyes and dream.
(for background to this, see Blog - "Where is the honour in killing?)
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The Story of My life
The story of my life,
Begins and ends with you
That day that I started living
The start of something new.
Don’t ever end this feeling
Don’t ever set me free
In the power of all I'm feeling
I’m not wanting to be me.
So when your life is over
Even when it’s not too clear
to think I made some difference to you,
Remember I was here
You are
The story of my life.
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Perhaps
Perhaps you could somehow help. For all the things that I have ever held dear are taken from me
Everything I thought I owned,
all the treasures of a personal world,
All that I called mine, gone.
And not just the material things.
But yes they are gone too,
the things that mattered and made me what I was.
The books, and ornaments, memory trinkets of the past,
Pictures, photographs and music.
All lie useless in this new un-asked for life.
I did not see them start to disappear
until suddenly they were not with me any longer
I did not watch them go, I do not know their new whereabouts
or if they will return.
The pleasure of the coming dawn against the slowly fading night
Watching the last piece of daytime slide behind the clouds
The smile, or cry, of my child’s child
The tiny hands, the questioning eyes, the innocent touch
A loved ones embrace, a kind word , a cared for thought
Now meaningless and of no point in this place which I now inhabit
Of which I did not choose and can’t escape.
Stolen parts of me which make me into someone else
Someone I do not like or wish to be.
Perhaps you could rescue me
and take me back to what I was before.
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