Emerging

What labyrinthine caves of flesh and blood
lead to the power of that female smile,
a bow that only callow youth can wield
on bloody battle fields of life and love.

The timid glance but growing confidence
of secret joys projected from within
fall suddenly like blossoms in the spring
raining down upon unsuspecting hearts.

Keen arrows pierce the ageing predator
and sting alive forgotten memories
of love stumbling helpless among the thorns
following then fleeing the longed for prey.

The mask of beauty briefly donned and then
replaced by irresistible desires,
the mouth pulled down with each sore panting breath
and urgent cries of love’s insistent song

Riding on the breeze the new butterfly
flashes ephemeral beauty on the world
knowing nothing of its brief span of life
it seeks out the perfumed path of its fate.

And so the woman child smiles at the world
not knowing the force of her fateful glance
so careless of the fires she may ignite
in sun parched hearts it falls across by chance.

The Style

A strictness in your soul that was your style
would not allow curvaceous joys to show,
although the jasmine thighs of Josephine
unlocked your dancing feet and a made you smile.

Slowly, with grim intent, your world had formed
in solitude, the storms of war shut out,
where nature’s wayward forms were brought in line
with cubic lore and space that was deformed.

In Paris, abstraction was all the rage,
the cafés blazing with artistic thought,
and rhythmic beats of Jazz upon the stage
where Louis blew and sang through strong, white teeth.

In La Rue du Départ, beneath the moon
wind precisely the tension on the spring,
place a shiny disk on the gramophone,
lie down and listen to your angels sing.

The horizon bore down upon the sea
seen through vertical lines of worn out piers,
half remembered from childhood’s waking dream,
distilled with tears to a philosophy.

Where shall they lie upon the pristine plane,
the horizontals and the verticals,
the width of every black, defining line
a question fit to drive a man insane.

Poverty, frugality, lack of success,
a daily blight upon the iron will,
transformed by habit and that careful dress
the aesthete forced his life into Der Stijl.

The list of friends grew long with loneliness
so neatly written down in books of notes,
a careful piling up of signs and words
undistinguished by woman’s fond caress.

The atelier long brought to order,
a work of art and tight conformity,
abandoned as Huns massed on the border
packed up, a refugee upon the sea.

Heavenly sight of towers seen through the mist,
safe haven for those who love the height
of vibrant streets arranged upon a grid
with neon lights and dancing through the night.

Refreshed by friendship and a studio
the black lines gave way to flowing yellow
bands of red and blue, like a radio
blaring visions of songs he loved and knew.

Now, at journey’s end, the culmination
of his art passed on the torch of freedom
to a younger nation of hopes and dreams
a keen vision more complex than it seems.

The Feast of Souls

The waning sun brings on the month of blood
when shadows of the past collect in pools
of memory, where lost loved ones cluster
clamouring for their share of living warmth,
clustered at the door jamb or window pane.

Running home, the children flee the grey cloak
of year’s eventide, when the black sow comes,
snuffling and squealing from each bush or tree,
learning the meaning of that mortal fear
that lies pushed out of sight by young and old.

Once, fishermen knelt in the flooding tide
and made offerings of ale to Poseidon,
master of the storm whose season had come,
praying for a fruitful catch in the year
just begun, and protection from the sea.

But fire and merriment outdid their fears
as chiefs and local kings gathered to drink
and feast the fateful evening to its end,
and herald the coming of the  new year,
when bonfires would blaze briefly on the hills.

Candles, those symbols of the soul, flared bright
as processions of the faithful passed by
the windows of the fearful safe inside,
but soon devils  came knocking on the door
demanding payment of cakes or sweetmeats.

The fear of death now generally allayed,
we sit content before our blazing screens,
quite unafraid of the year's dark season,
happy remembering ancestral fears
as entertainment and the joy of youth,
yet knowing that the month of blood will come.

The Rocket’s Red Glare

Dr Norbert Martensen looked up at the faded copy of the periodic table pinned to the corkboard in his study. It had once adorned his bedroom wall when, as a struggling young chemist, he worked his way through college in the early sixties. The world had seemed simpler then, perhaps because the Cold War had stiffened the sinews of the nation into it’s preferred attitude of striving against a powerful adversary and toiling assiduously to create a better world.

He had been in the vanguard of the post war scientific and technological revolution, despising the sideshow of sex, drugs and rock and roll. His indulgence hadn’t extended beyond some furtive gropings with his wife to be, albeit to the civilised beat of the Modern Jazz Quartet. He had been a clean cut, reliable young man, dressed in polo necked sweater, crepe soled shoes and the kind of dark rimmed glasses worn by Nixon’s German advisor. A Nobel Prize had not been beyond all hope then.   
Measured by the conservative yardsticks of business and government, Norbert’s life had been a success. Materially he was quite well off, even in early retirement, though his health was none too good. Alone now, childless, his wife dead three years in the fall, he went over in his mind what he had to do.

Uneasy with unemployment, following his forced redundancy from the secret laboratories of the Department of Defence, he had sought work with the State Government. Despite his impressive credentials, he could only get a part-time job as a chemical safety inspector. He didn’t care about the low pay and was happy enough to get out of the house for a few hours each week, ensuring that his fellow citizens were not being poisoned or blown up by the industrial hazards that threaten the inhabitants of any big city.

The redundancy had interrupted his research, which was abandoned as unfruitful after he left, his two assistants being redeployed to more relevant work elsewhere. Over the years, his interests had gradually moved from inorganic chemistry to the chemistry of the brain.
The secrets of controlling human beings (whether criminals, foreign armies or the unemployed) lay there.

 During the Vietnam War, he had worked at Monsanto, but was soon assigned permanently to the DoD. He had become deeply involved with herbicidal and ant-personnel agents, particularly Agent Orange. His interest in biochemistry arose from his work trying to prove that dioxin was not harmful to humans. This question assumed increasing importance when claims were made that it was responsible for deformities in the children of US war veterans as well as countless children in Vietnam and Cambodia.

Everyone knew by now that the effects were catastrophic, but official lies had to be maintained to minimise the cost to the taxpayer and preserve the image of a humane Government.
Norbert knew, from his own research with veterans and field trips to Cambodia and Vietnam, the deadly rains of Agent Orange had permanently damaged the genes of the victims. Succeeding generations without end would suffer horrible deformities with no hope of medical aid or compensation. A third of Vietnam and huge areas of Cambodia had been sprayed and dumps of Agent Orange were still seeping into village water supplies, carrying on the deadly war long after the Americans invaders had been hurled ignominiously into the South China Sea.

He could not simply absolve himself from all this, even though he had been completely innocent of any deadly intent at the time. He had just been one man in a vast network of organisations, dedicated to protecting American interests and keeping the Communist menace at bay. It was impossible to wage wars without victims and wars were often unavoidable if enemies were intent on doing America harm.

His career had provided a prosperous life and a good pension but he was willing to testify
on behalf of US Veterans or the Vietnamese victims if it would redress the awful harm that had been done. The chemical companies had made some small restitution but the Government was largely immune from prosecution. He suspected it was his willingness to testify against the authorities that had hastened his redundancy.

Something more effective than admission of guilt and compensation was required. Something that would not only inflict retribution on the agencies concerned but would prevent a future recurrence of such tragedies. His own penance would take the form of altruistic revenge, even at the risk of imprisonment for life.
   
After his wife’s death, he had converted the back of the house into a makeshift laboratory. There were experiments he dare not conduct at the Department’s labs. He had worked on human subjects there, lifers from military and civilian jails. The effects of chemical and biological agents on combatants required such sacrifices of otherwise useless lives. He had become fascinated with the simpler behaviour of chimpanzees, which had also been used for military experiments.

 He could not afford to acquire such rare animals for his own lab but had to be content with their brains, after they had died in the Government Lab. He had been fortunate enough to get hold of the brains of a couple of bonobo, a rare protected species only recently discovered. He had become fascinated why the behaviour of the bonobo differed so markedly from its human cousins and that of Pan Satyrus, the common chimpanzee.

The bonobo were cooperative and highly socialised but Pan Satyrus was highly aggressive, the males often murdering the offspring of their rivals. This behaviour might be a learned cultural pattern but was more likely to be the result of different brain chemistry. After years of work and considerable expense, Norbert found there was a difference in the chemical balance of the brains and, surprisingly, had been able to demonstrate his theory.

He had managed to synthesise a pink bromine-like liquid, which vapourised around fifteen degrees Celsius. When exposed to the gas his rats had behaved like the bonobo, but to an extreme degree. They copulated in a frenzy without regard to gender until they became too exhausted to continue. After a short rest, they resumed until death ensued. The remarkable thing was, that a single exposure seemed to cause a permanent change to the rats’ brains a fact confirmed by post mortem examination.
Like any good investigator, Norbert sought an antidote to the poison he had created. This turned out to be a similar, greenish yellow liquid, produced by swapping a phosphorus atom for nitrogen.  It switched off the effects of the love drug all right, but induced a deadly aggression instead. The cage was soon strewn with dead and dying bodies as internecine war between the rats broke out. The behaviour of the bonobo and the common chimpanzee had been explained.
         
The plan had occurred to him by accident. He had been assigned to check the safety of the municipal firework display on New Year’s Eve. It had been a simple matter for him to read up on the regulations and apply the safety rules in the field. The display had gone off without a hitch and he had been confirmed as a reliable member of the Safety Directorate.
  
Most of his time on the job was taken up with routine testing of effluent and chasing up illegal dumping of chemical wastes. June turned into July and he was assigned the task of policing the massive firework display that was to be installed along Constitutional Avenue and other venues in the Capital. It was the President’s second term and no expense had been spared to mark the occasion with a spectacular display.  
  
After the first display, he had taken an interest in the construction of fireworks and the chemicals used to produce the variety of effects, particularly the shells and their many kinds of payloads. There were palms, which curved downwards like the tree, rings of stars, roundels of maroons, chrysanthemums and many more. It was a lot of fun making prototypes and testing them along the quieter reaches of the Potomac. He got caught once, but his official inspector’s pass got him out of trouble.

Two big shells sat on the bench in the garage, ready to load into the blue panel van. He had bought professional fireworks, replacing the payloads with glass vials containing the pink and yellow liquids. He’d made some careful calculations to insure the vials would fracture at the right height. The prevailing wind would be blowing from the basin, with any luck and would carry the gas to its target.

When darkness fell, he suffered a mixture of excitement and terror. He was a man of science, not a man of action. He procrastinated over a cup of coffee before going down to the garage and loading the shells into the back of the van. He drove to his chosen site, south of the Ellipse, and parked the van. When he got out, he saw the operators were already busy checking their racks and testing the wires that communicated with fire control. They waved their acknowledgment that he was on the job and let him get on with his cursory inspection. It was a simple matter to unwire the big cylinders he had identified on the display plan provided by the Directorate and substitute his own modified shells. After he had finished inspecting the rest of the network of racks and fixed displays
        
He found the supervisor and issued a safety certificate. The rest was in the hands of the gods so he went home to watch the display on TV. He settled down with a beer and activated the remote. Most channels were showing parades from all round the nation. After a few more beers the enormity of his action Dawned on him, he felt depressed and on tenterhooks. He wondered, perhaps hoped, that it would fail and that the shells would explode harmlessly. Even if it did work, the presidential party might not come outside to watch the display. He wasn’t too worried about this. The cameras were waiting on the White House lawn and the lure of publicity was more than political blood could stand.    
 
He sat through endless parades, beamed to his lounge from all over the nation; marching bands, miles of flags, twirling batons and the shapely thighs from Americas finest young womanhood. At last, the studio cut to Washington and dwelt lovingly on the national icons of the capital. The commentator filled in while the telephoto lenses tried to pick up the slightest movement behind the elegant windows of the White House.

The firework display began and the French doors opened to reveal a couple of sharply dressed goons. When they thought the coast was clear, they stood aside for the presidential party to emerge. The President came out first, followed by his wife and family. The dog was not with them presumably it was being kept away from the noise of the fireworks. The Secretary of State followed, then the Secretary of Defence, The Chiefs of Staff, The Security adviser and many more. The expensive dresses of the women folk made a fine display against the dark suits of the men. They chatted gracefully to each other, sipped champagne and looked dutifully into the sky. After a few massive bursts of light, their reserve soon turned into childish delight.

For what seemed like hours, the sky was torn asunder by an accelerating holocaust of sound and light, a truly grand finale to the glorious Fourth and tribute to the pyrotechnician’s art. 
The display drew to its climax with the big maroons going off with a terrifying noise, causing some of the guests to duck involuntarily for cover. The penultimate shell was Quiet by comparison and was a bit of a damp squib, but the cloud of pink gas descended on the company as planned. Nothing much happened and some of the party turned to leave, coughing discretely as the gas tickled their throats. Some official seemed to be apologising to the President but he broke off suddenly to remove his trousers.

Before the G-Men could find anything to shoot at, they lost interest in killing and made straight for the nearest animal in skirts. Some guests seemed unaffected at first but it wasn’t long before the lawn was crawling with half naked bodies, grappling with each other in the quest for instant relief. Some fell back momentarily satisfied but were impelled to hurl themselves back into the fray. The cameramen abandoned their posts to join in but the studio soon cut the feed and struggled to explain what their viewers had just witnessed.  No-one watching TV saw the final shell explode. There were only a few pathetic survivors still alive when the security forces arrived to clean up the mess, who either flung their arms round their rescuers or tried to murder them with tooth and nail. 
    

The Mystery Unexplained

The one who never sleeps can never wake
but must forever wait for the dreamer
to pull down a bright cloud of consciousness
into the deep void of insensate dread,
and dream of the conductor of lost souls,
that dark psychopomp, Ibis headed god
or swift messenger, flying  from the heights
into the abyss of eternal sleep.

Unborn he rules alone, between all that
lies above him and all that lies below,
but she, pregnant with possibility,
squats ubiquitous, ready to conceive
from every seed that falls from weeping moon
or virile sun into her moist darkness.
No monster is too foul to call her own
or goddess too fair to rival her power.

Two conjoined, but forever separate,
begat a third, unrivalled in beauty
and fecundity, from their roiling seas,
to make substantial all the forms of life,
but only in the darkness of their dream,
for the garden of the goddess is lost,
spinning in the void, bounded and finite
among the fiery hells of burning stars.

Desiring to be her consort the first
becomes the fourth, ruler of her domain,
Emperor and lawgiver, unrivalled
among her creatures that think themselves real,
but remain expelled from the true darkness
of unbeing, caught in the delusion
of the cubic throne and bound to obey
the arbitrary rules rules of time and space.

Written in the Sands

In imitating God’s long winded hand
the sinuous Quranic script takes wind
on sand as paradigm for truth and wit:
but life’s impermanence embedded there
leaves hoped for heavens nowhere to be found.

Those born into the faith must long in vain
for lost oases with cool waving palms,
displaced by rearing towers of steel and glass
thrown up by potentates grown fat with oil,
and foreign slaves who toil within their thrall.

One son born into this oppressive clan
was dutiful in studies and devout
but, while fortunate in wealth and power,
dissented in his heart and drifted far
from his family’s involvement with the west.

His world of minarets and ritual
now left for barren wastes of rock and sand,
low murmuring of women by water
in cool courtyards of decorated tile
abandoned for coarse cloth and jogging mules.

The bad breath and crooked smiles of his men,
dark eyes gleaming by the fire with God’s wrath,
revealing burning coals of hate within,
fed by left slanted verses, memorised
in boyhood and digested with each bow.

Now, the mountains rise, forbidding of life,
demonstrating the smallness of man’s dreams
and his pitiful span of life and hope,
brief shelter from Satan’s all seeing eyes
until the bane of aery fires rains down.

The only path between two living hells:
the gleaming luxury of worldly wealth,
or some soulless toil within Satan’s mills
was to restore the twin temples of God
in the land of his nurture and his birth.

But first, tear down the twin towers of Satan,
they said, with rising fervour round their fires,
use your wealth and influence with men
to capture and guide his soaring eagles
and dash them burning into his proud den.

And so God’s will came to pass, as it must,
mysterious in consequence, by stealth
the fires of Hell rose up from out the dust
and ravaged all the lands of faithful men
in Mammon’s name and lust for power and wealth.

Wraith like and hollow eyed the Prophet’s man
wandered in barren lands, beset by pain
and doubt, loved by some reviled by many,
knowing the ever testing hand of God
would lead him at last to His paradise.

Meanwhile, a sojourn in some doleful place,
would have to do while further plans were made
to rouse the world from sinful slumbering
and false enjoyment of a failing world,
mired in material faith and godless strife.

Such vain thoughts of glory were soon cut short,
by treachery and bureaucratic thought,
when Satan’s dogs did their master’s bidding,
intruding on his brief domestic bliss
administered the fruits of Judas’ kiss.

Now the right hand of God writes on the waves
another windy tale of hate and death,
and far beneath the pale faced Prophet lies,
perhaps dreaming of a better life, lived
again, but next time not so much in vain.

The Wings of Truth

The child’s eye lights upon a dragonfly,
following the play of light and shadow
along the wayward, darting path of life’s
ephemeral and urgent search for joy.

Tiny prey swarm among the swaying reeds,
dancing above the gently flowing stream,
but the one who sees without yet knowing
lies naked on the pure white river sand.

Only a myopic microcosm
has opened here, a perfect realm balanced
upon the gleaming wings of summer’s world,
crowned by yellow Iris and celandine.

Below, the dancing stickleback flashes
fire and gleams, hoping to lure his drab mate
into a fishy nest of love and dreams,
beneath two tall shadows in human form.

The day wears away into memory
a lost tapestry wrought with the Devil’s
Needle, flashing bright on the wings of truth,
a single joy among the world’s false fruits.

Ghost Train

The night is dark and I am small
but tall enough to stand
next to my father’s case,
battered leather, brown,
in the crowded corridor.

My mother is sitting down,
in fur trimmed hat,
on matriarchal luggage,
grey imitation crocodile,
its belly pregnant with camisoles,
sponge bags and old towels.

My childish world that day
a swaying cacophony
of piled up kit bags
and bracing legs,
wearing khaki or navy blue
and the Few
displaying stripes or wings,
Brylcreme boys in lighter hue.

Outside the window,
cinders spark and flash
with that funny smell
of burning coke and ash
that invokes the sound and fury of
Behemoth striding through the night,
on a working holiday from Hell.


In compartment and corridor
the dolorous air is full of smoke:
the stench of Woodbines,
Players and Craven-A combines
with the rank perspiration
of other ranks,
seeping from serge uniforms
and woollen socks,
brown or grey,
darned in desperation
by yearning wives,
inured to loss and separation,
ground down by force of habit
and frustration,
turning factory wheels
and keeping home fires bright.

The night is warm:
the window’s leather tongue
lolls out long, swaying,
buttoned down for ventilation,
a breath of air refreshing
the Victorian dream,
preserved for each new generation
of travellers in the age of steam.

Nose pressed to the window,
I see the repeating shadows
of the latticed bridges, black
telegraph poles and trees;
red and green eyes burning,
signals raised and lowered by
invisible hands and ties pulling levers
in windowed boxes along the track.

On the horizon Bessemers roar,
licking at the purple sky;
flaming desperation of a nation
facing sure defeat in war
or, maybe, the elation
of unexpected victory.

Somewhere overhead,
the Plough turns the celestial sod
about the ill-lit maypole,
a vacant carousel
without its rider god.

In glimmering cities light fingers
reach out in vain,
feeling for the throbbing aeroplane,
bearing incendiaries to rain
down fire on the Co-Op
courtesy of Heinkel
or Messers Smith and Co,
whistling into mean streets below,
and allotments (to maim
the odd marrow or geranium)
where stirrup pumps and red buckets
stand ready to dump cold water
on German ire and magnesium.

Underfoot the floor bucks and clacks
to the unwritten song of the railway tracks.
Sleeping heads loll and jerk,
Pontoon players brag and smirk,
knee to knee over yesterday’s daily rag,
dusted with droppings from a drooping fag.

Doors slide open and slam,
bodies squeeze and cram
in urgent procession
to the lavatory pan
or distant dining car.

A woman stoops and spits
into her handkerchief and,
with a toil worn hand,
wipes away the smutty smears,
puffed out from iron lungs by straining gears
and blown through the window where I stand.

On towards the North
the iron charivari rides,
shattering the silence of the night,
through England’s craggy spine
and lonely valleys striding forth
along the trans-Pennine line,
into the grey glimmer of first light.

From battered Crewe to Manchester,
Wigan, Huddersfield and Bradford,
the LMS express drags its motley load
into the industrial fields of grimy Leeds
where barrage balloons hang out,
hawsers dangling overhead,
angling nightly for a German scout.

Slowing before the destination,
we wait while the lights are red.
Ghostly figures loiter in the siding
beneath the curving iron shed
or lurk within the murky station,
shunting coal tenders up ahead.

Within the train, sleepers wake,
yawning, stretching, standing,
dragging luggage from the rack,
the weary throng prepares to disembark.

Couplings jerk and clang
and with a last triumphant shriek
and bang the monster comes to rest,
disgorging smoke and oily reek.

Windows crash down:
weary arms reach out,
dangling hands grope
for brass handles;
doors fly open and idly swing,
releasing the damned
from their mobile purgatory
into the Yorkshire morning.

Sixty years after, in my brain,
the travelling ghosts alight again
from their journey into night.
But none remain to haunt me now,

lost riders on that ghostly train.

In the Darkness Reconciled

Born of water, the first element known
to the child is air, in that choking gasp:
earth soon becomes an irresistible
attraction, to mankind as crawling worm.

Fire appears later, as candle or coal,
Quite distinct from the domineering Sun,
it beckons with its warm and flickering light,
but repels the touch with a stab of pain.

The sudden flaring of the pink match-head
informs the child that hidden magic lies
in serried ranks within a brittle box,
out of reach, hidden from tiny fingers.

In October, mysterious work begins:
adults and older children in the know
begin to pile up wood into a cone,
on a dark spot now overgrown with weeds.

A guy is made, from old clothes stuffed with straw,
ready to be hoisted onto the pile,
but kept safe out sight until the time
of sacrifice and celebrating flame.

The why of mock death is never explained,
except as remembrance of dire treason,
but not as the fear of creeping darkness
that must be dispelled by the bonfire’s flames.

The loveliest mystery is left till last,
when the child discovers a pretty box,
all decorated with peculiar signs
whose meaning is a different kind of light.

Within lie the enchanted forms of fire,
each safe inside a coloured tube or cone,
ready to be released from their prison,
ignited by a salted twist of blue.

Weeks of agonised anticipation
pass by, until the day and that dark hour
comes round when the madness of fire shall rule,
and shining eyes behold the Golden Rain,

the burst of the Volcano and Snow Storm,
the glittering sparklers and the rocket’s glare,
all too soon expended until the last
Demon or whimper of the final Squib.

Somewhere else, a Catherine Wheel goes awry
and fails to spin, and a Roman Candle
lets loose voluptuous loads of fiery balls,
among the bonfire’s sparks of falling rain.

The women add their sacred rituals too,
chestnuts and potatoes thrown in the ash
provide a late night supper for their young
and bring the revellers closer to the hearth.

So Hera and Hephaestus reconciled,
participate unseen within the smoke,
inflaming the minds of the very young
to seek beyond the confines of dull earth.

Summer's End

The time of sunlight is now past
and shadows lengthen every day:
you knew the bounty could not last
and darkness would demand its pay.

Gather the fallen apples from the ground,
squeeze out the sunlight trapped within their flesh,
hang some from the rafters and dance around
and try to bite the few that still are fresh.

Sit at midnight before a glass
and hope the one that spills first blood
will come and roll you in the grass,
before the snow lies on the wood.

When the veil between the worlds has lifted
cut good joints from a newly slaughtered beast:
see spirits rise where the smoke has drifted
from bon-fires burning the bones of the feast.

In the greyness of the morning
pick from the ash your cooling stones,
read the future that is dawning
for young virgins or aged crones.

When the children come knocking at your door
treat them with kindness and bestow your gift:
teach them the meaning of November’s lore
before their springtime blossoms fall and drift.

The Sadness of the House

The contents accumulate,

an aggregation of desires,

chosen with economic care

and young hopes of future ease,

only to be discarded

sacrificed on fashion’s altar.

TV tubes morph into flat screens,

their ganglia of wires are pruned

and the once loved leather lounges

are deemed unfashionable,

despised, they no longer please,

their kindly embraces now spurned.

Evidence is erased by paint

of youthful progeny and marks.

No toys litter the dust-free floor,

no boyfriends clamour at the door,

just the third dog waiting for

a visit by the family throng.

Juicers, used once, electric fans,

artificial flowers, pans,

huddle in the attic gloom,

their ruminations scarce disturbed

by thermal insulation

or new air-conditioning ducts.

Below, the beds no longer creak

with joint or lone furtive desire,

but still bear the weight of sleep

waiting their turn for renewal

of duvets or mattresses

or that last journey to the dump.

When the front door slams one last time,

the empty rooms can exhale 

the final breath of occupation,

and listen to the world outside

for the next engine on the drive

to relieve the sadness of the house. 

Another Light

A single light flares in the night
and the blood singing in the ear
signifies that life persists,
in defiance of that fear
at the corner of the eye.

Why? is the question to avoid
when idle hands take up the pen
and dare to challenge empty time
to yet another duel
on the uncertainty of life.

While breath remains a sighing clock
the count down to the end goes on,
even in sleep, though unobserved,
the contrapuntal rhythms move
towards a deathly coda.

So, make an end, snuff out the light
And dream away another life.

From Whence He Came

The desert in its parsimonious way
divides the dismal rocks by sandy seas:
the miserly sirocco drinks the dew
and locks each drop away from thirsty lips.

Bearded faces, like old myrrh wood resist,
patiently, abrasions of sand and time,
measured by crescent moon and pendant star,
wheeling above the plodding caravan.

Howling in caves, wind and man find their joy,
carving infinite forms in sand and clay.
Sun and moon no longer shall be worshipped,
replaced by spirit’s vast and empty cave.

The Prophet raves of salvation’s gardens,
filled with tinkling water and women’s sighs,
where men may pick fruit and caress houris
without fear of retribution or death.

This grand mirage, beyond the shimmering
horizon, promises the weary soul
eternal life in pleasurable bliss,
or burning Hell for disobedience.

So mused the trader in his lonely den,
bemused by voices roaring in his head,
scrying a bloody future for mankind
within the stony crystals of his mind.

Submission to the greatness of The One
was the only way to freedom and life
for wayward men, women, children and slaves,
all bound by devotion to His new god.

To convince the faithful, there must be Hell
and dreadful torments to persuade them all
to dwell in righteousness until that time
when angels would cast down the evil ones,

and place his followers in the gardens.
So dreamed the lonely scorpion, in his cave
or lying prone beneath the vault of stars,
until maddened to sting the world awake.

Limitless, the desert sands lay waiting
to receive the bloody spate of prophets.
Eyes widened by the poison from within,
the deluded djinn stared into the sun.
Blinded, he thought he was the chosen one,
but returned to darkness from whence he came.

In the Jar Remaining

She opened her eyes and saw
the shining ones, hovering
above her expectantly,  
each wrapped in glory, waiting
for the first of her kind to rise,
naked from the sodden Earth,
arms reaching out,  breathing in
that first breath of birth.

Officiously the fiery smith made haste,
hands weaving mystic gestures in the air,
he added voice to tongue as well as taste,
bestowing strength and beauty with such care
as only his great art, beyond compare,
could bring her forth, live from the sticky clay,
astonishing his betters, by the way.

Once he had perfected her form and face,
two goddesses, the bright eyed and the fair,
adorned his new creation with such grace
that all who beheld her were in despair
as to what finer gifts they could prepare.
While the Graces crowned her hair with flowers
those left out devised more subtle powers.

She felt blood coursing in her veins
smelt sweet garlands in her hair,
bore the weight of golden chains,
knew the  touch of finest cloth
upon her translucent skin;
gentler than the midnight moth,
a lurking evil not yet seen
in that perfect world.

On a golden crown the smith wrought creatures
from the sea, the land and the windy air,
like living things they adorned her features,
each sang with different voices, unaware
that their cold weight was more than she could bear.
To this art the messenger added guile
which formed upon her lips a winsome smile.

When all the gifts had been bestowed on her,
the high thunder said: “let her now be led
to the brother of he who must suffer
such eternal pain, never to be dead,
and in recompense for his theft she’ll wed
this worthy Titan, and take with her a gift,
this jar as dowry and my secret grift.”

She looked at the fateful jar:
fear and dread swelled in her heart
as she clutched it to her breast
and wandered through the wilderness
seeking the one named Afterthought,
but was rejected with mistrust
after travelling so far
to do what she must.

She cried, and beguiled Epimetheus
forgot his brother’s warning to take care
to spurn all gifts from high Olympian Zeus,
and soon was overcome by beauty’s snare.
Enjoying the woman, he did not care
for those who spin, measure or cut fate’s yarn,
or heed the pain of him chained to the skarn.

Left alone, she spied the jar
and felt curiosity:
what fine joys might it contain?
The lid was stiff, and furiously
she pulled hard to get it free.
When all terrors had fled the house,
with the lid safely shut again.
What else, she wondered, might remain?

Requiem

Death passes daily, touching whom it may
but today I felt its shadow, coldly
falling on one too young to pass away.
What injustice, then, that the old boldly
dare to live on, breathing life's morning air,
so heedless of the lonely cares of youth,
hoarding ill gotten treasure, unaware
of your struggle with as yet unknown truth.

You, bravely, did not cast off innocence
but carried its bright banner as a sign,
to those ground down by life's intransigence,
that beauty casts out all that is malign.
Too late to tell you of your worth or say
in comfort that your life was not in vain,
Untimely, your escape into death, Lethe
but let these poor words signify my pain.

Love Parade

Pan blew the pipes but Mammon called the tune,
In Duisburg, not Hamlin the love rats danced,
all eager for the press of flesh, entranced
by hopes of sweet joy in the afternoon,
driven on by the techno beat, they soon
faced concrete and steel as the flood advanced

Children of a hopeful generation,
yearning for a country where they could feel
the beating of freedom's drum, elation
not guilt borne by a defeated nation,
grandparents ground beneath the Nazi heel,
quick slaughter in the night by air force steel.

Parents, behind walls in separation,
long languished in guilty isolation,
even before they had torn down the wall
and Duisberg heard the Turk's Muezzin call,
the urge for peace and love was a siren
calling youth to cast off their country's pall.

Of earth, nourished by iron and bloody bind
where hot metal and war had formed the kind
of trading cities all along the Rhine,
rebuilt by sweat, slaked by Pilsner or wine,
from office space and steel mill, surged those blind
rustic passions that will not be confined.

Crammed like lemmings they found their way into
the concrete entrance and were forced to go,
between the walls of that fatal tunnel
crushed and ground together in a funnel
like discarded litter in a runnel,
until some climbed out but fell back below
and lay crushed beneath fear's stampeding flow.

Now guilt of a lesser kind has decreed
Charivari will no longer proceed
along the dull graffiti covered walls,
for fear joy unconfined again will breed
the dithyrambic madness that soon calls
for youth's sacrifice in Valhalla's halls.  

Entropy Knows Best

Fragments, shards and raindrops
shatter, splinter, fall,
a scattering destruction,
an ever present pall
covering the sad remains
of life's weakly constructed hall.

Mountains, rocks and pebbles
become sand between the toes,
and after that who knows, who knows
where the world will go,
as the wind blows and blows
away the fruits of accidental love.

The greedy eye informs the brain
of this infinite illusion,
and makes all things whole again,
which adds to the confusion
between the living and the dead,
between fulsome heart and empty head.

Build up, assemble and repair
all that was ever made
but the destroyer will not despair,
entropy, remaining unafraid,
will take it all apart again
until the last atom is mislaid.

Love and Time

Love and time may not be commensurate:
the first, blazing fiercely, may die away
as plodding time rakes ashes from the grate,
leaving but few embers to warm the grey
remains of passion's quick declarations
of undying love, never yet made good,
but only transformed to emanations
of the soul's longing to be understood.
Where now the flames ascending into air,
soon cooled by volumes of the worlds cold breeze?
Love cannot be conditional on fair
faces, words, acts or that lustful disease
that makes us dance to natures merry tune
beneath summer's sun or cool winter's moon.

Night Visitors

The starlit sky is dark with hungry hordes,
gliding as silent as the looming clouds.
How well you see the midnight gold gleaming
on my tree, a feast for furry bellies,
drooping clusters of fine orange berries.

How many crops have you destroyed tonight?
Peaches, bananas, figs and soft mangoes,
torn and shredded beneath the gibbous moon,
soon to be abandoned for some new food
or fancy of your predatory brood.

By day you hang out in chattering hordes,
inverted, viewing the world upside down,
or sleeping after fertilising trees
or sowing swathes of half digested seeds
regardless of whether they're crops or weeds.

Naturally, you've acquired a bad name,
accidentally scratching some poor humans,
infecting them with Lyssavirus or
a horse with the deadly Hendra strain or
worse, killing a vet after months of pain.

Despite these faults you are charming creatures,
perhaps even distant cousins of ours,
living a life of freedom and plenty,
we should not begrudge payment for your toil
by sharing a few products of our soil.

You're welcome to berries from my branches,
but please don't touch my Paw-Paws when they're ripe.
Meanwhile I must clean the driveway again,
and cut down all the berries from the tree,
since my drive has become your lavatory.

Old Merlin

I

I sit restless as the wind, unsatisfied,
Winter's days garnered in an old grey hide,
Puckered and tucked up in a wrinkled rind,
The oldest and the wisest of my kind.
Floating and listing after every thought,
Not weaving or dancing as I ought, caught
In love's webs, spun from Arachne's mind.

Pain of birth, joy of love, fear of dying.
Rain of water, flame of fire, clod of earth.
But of the free air I was born, flying
On dragon's quintessant wings without sound,
Adviser of kings, no subject of Earth's round
Of sufferings, I had a virgin birth,
In past days when of gods there was no dearth.  

I wander among the trees, no sapling
Now, as when I first learned their alphabet.
Beth, Luis Nion; Birch, Rowan, Ash; yet
Now I know them all, like fingers on my hand,
The meaning of dog, roebuck and lapwing
Escapes me, like leaves blown in the wind,
Or souls drawn to heaven, having never sinned.

The last of winter's frost lies on the tree,
White fingers pointing to the wind and snow,
As quietly I sit within life's lee,
Warming myself with thoughts of coming spring,
Wrapped in black cares and robe, a winter crow,
Dark winged with only a harsh song to sing.
I wait for her to come again to me.

I thought that I had learned of all her ways:
Of winking eye, of rounded thigh, of lips
Parted, arms raised, dancing with swaying hips,
Of nimble girls running with little skips,
Of full-blown maids, wide eyed with loosened stays.
To each enticement I had become inured
But in her ancient web still lie ensnared.

These new priests with belted knout, dressed in grey,
Told me their new god had a better way
To deal with the baneful bliss of woman's kiss.
But, it seems to me, he was another Atys,
Who, had kept his balls intact (unlike me),
Crowned with thorns and whipped on the pillory,
And killed after the ides of Hilary.

My first love was a kind of Cybele
And I too hung upon a sacrificial tree,
Swinging, with my head hanging upside down.
The lady of life and death came to me.
The harvest of true love she reaped away,
And with the man in red I went to stay,
Until in the Druid's lore I was full-grown.

When I think of later days my heart grows cold,
Of songs and laughter floating on the breeze,
Of times past remembering for one so old.
Those times have become as fabulous as Troy,
When I was middle aged and Arthur but a boy;
Days of love, riding through the apple trees,
Sighing after ladies, hearts full of ease:
Too many stories never to be told.

So, I wait here for her to come to me,
Wrapt in icy wood by her sorcery.
I see in the dull mirror of my mind
Her fair but fickle face and subtle charms,
Unbind the spell and take me in her arms,
A lover at last loved by his lady,
When she glides through the trees to set me free.

What poor fool has hopeless dreams of this kind?
Filling up the empty cave of his mind
With fleeting phantoms of long lost love,
Waiting expectantly for some sweet dove
To come at last and soothe away his cares.
That fool is me, the oldest fool of all,
I sit and wait release from lover's thrall.

Little gods of love there have always been,
Cosseted and loved by their mother queen.
Venus' naughty boy was known to trample
On lovers' bleeding hearts, for example.
Jealous of his psyche, this goddess ample,
Locked her up in dim halls of jewelled gold,
Hoping that her boy's love would soon grow cold.

She should have known that he could never flee
From his own darts of burning ecstasy.
No more could she give up her lover shared
With dark Proserpine, in that yearly round,
When she took Adonis with her underground.
Nor can I expect to escape the bonds
Of loves dark spell and burning lover's wounds.

When gold mates with lead and silver with tin,
Iron and copper in love bind and leave twin
Mercury behind lay within the twain.
God or man who understands this quatrain?
Saturn falls below bright Sol rides above,
Chaste Diana is hunted by great Jove.
Mars with Venus lies; Hermes dies of love.

II

Lost in the weeds and briars of my mind,
I stumble hither and thither, half blind,
Searching round for another of my kind.
Why do I waste my time with this and that?
Looking in the still mirror of this pool,
I see, staring at me, another fool,
White beard tangled beneath a wizard's hat.

Now, at the end of all my wandering,
Counting the sacred trees on my fingers,
I know when winter comes, why spring lingers.
Waiting for her return, flowers bringing,
Painting the face of the beloved earth,
Stirring the air with shouts of youthful mirth,
Filling the land with the boon of birth.

Once, by the sea, I rode to Cornwall's wife,
In the body of another nobleman,
And filled her up with seeds of golden rain.
I remember now her wild face and clan,
She was Arthur's mother, the fair Ygraine.
And I his magical father now remain,
Tangled up in this web of kingly strife.

There, too, I met swarthy Morgane, my fate.
A little girl she was then, full of hate,
When I came to take away her brother
And replace her father with another.
In a year or two, this father was dead,
Against the Dane in battle Uther led
His men, and dying from the field had fled.

When Arthur was near full grown, with no beard,
I saw her again, this woman; she came
To me for instruction in all things weird.
Morgane the raven; wide mouthed, squint eyed and lame.
I took her in and taught her well my craft,
Of bird, bush and tree, and the secret name,
But when she'd learned it all she left and laughed.

With pallid Christian priests she did consort,
And plotted with the knights of Arthur's court
To adopt this dead Saviour as their own.
Forsaking her allegiance to old gods,
She accepted the rules of their synods
And persuaded Arthur to wear Christ's crown,
To love the Saxon and not put him down.

She knew I loved her but opposed her plan.
With spell and deadly counter spell we fought,
This black lady of death, sweet Morrigan,
Who became the Magdalen of Camelot.
She, with Arthur's foul enemies did plot,
To remove king and queen from Albion's throne.
So that her bastard son could rule alone.

Lancelot to Guinevere she did bring,
Estranging this knight from his lawful king,
Sowing discord among all and everything
Bound up in the lore of the table round.
Agrevane betrayed the Queen's courtly love,
With faithless knights he hunted her to ground
And closed the trap to catch Lance with his dove.

I had seen this foretold in wayward stars,
When the moon eclipsed Jupiter and Mars
In Orion's wake: the scorpion brings war
And famine to the land where Venus' Law
No longer holds sway over kingly might,
Where Mars rules beneath Moon's deluding light,
and brother with brother contend and fight.  

Half mad and sick from the loss of his queen,
Arthur lay down, until a vision seen
Of his new god's glory, shaped like a bowl,
Appeared, shining before his weary eyes.
He called upon all his brave knights and squires
To go on a quest and find out who stole
This reliquary, bright with holy fires.

Once there was another bright sacred bowl,
A womb of poison brimmed with all things fowl,
That stained the fingers of a youthful bard
When to his lips the poison he transferred.
It sent him mad with the moons delusion,
He ran amok inspired by the confusion
Between what is seen and what is heard.

When love dies, in its place rise awful sighs,
Rending the heart and filling it with lies.
The sadness in Arthur's breast filled his bowl,
Which overflowed into his sickly soul,
Flooding it with this Saviour's bloody rain,
Poisoning the old world with Christian bane,
Replacing queenly love with nails and pain.

And so they all rode out to look, in vain,
For love's source and the cause of Arthur's pain.
When coin beats club and cup replaces sword,
Old gods become deaf to the wise man's word.
No longer does the bard persuade the king
But priests bend his ear about everything,
And force the world to kiss the Pontiffs ring.

III

I stand alone, arms stretched between two worlds.
Crystal spheres, singing their eternal song,
Impose on the sublunary whorls
Refrains of good and evil, right and wrong.
With supernatural might I set the scene,
In between what is and what might have been,
And stick my head right through the starry screen.

What I saw was a place of emptiness,
Holding in its embrace the firmament
On which we stand and bear unhappiness
Or joy, depending on our bent.
No god or saviour I found out there,
Beyond the Scorpion and the Bear,  
Only utter darkness without compare.

And in this dark womb of Earth I lie, caught
Like a fly in amber, or a ship in port,
No longer free to sail on life's adventure,
Or to believe there is a joyful shore,
A land where youth, love and beauty endure;
Unhampered by the ravages of time
Or the moans of priests in God's pantomime.

When young, the world shows us the face of youth,
When old its face is lined with snaggle tooth
And each day becomes a weary winter
Drying out the bones until they splinter.
Here, in the dark labyrinth of the Earth,
Where roots hang down and body worms inter,
I wait alone for my release from birth.

I lie uncared for by the goddess wild,
My cleverness with cleverness beguiled.
Arthur too lies Wrapt up in dreams of yore,
Buried on some imaginary shore
Or drifting forever to apple Isles,
Tended by triple queens whose wily smiles
Trouble the hearts of poets evermore.

The quiet water drips and builds with lime
Cold cathedrals of iridescent time.
Stalactite and stalagmite bear the load,
Where dwell hanging bats and squatting toad,
Worshiping the dark demons of eternity,
Before light tripping gods with bells did climb
From the ogdoad of Hell's paternity.

Saturn begot her by Harpe's timely slash,
Sister of furies, giants and nymphs of ash,
With shells and bells she came, down with the rain
Of Uranus' blood, born foaming from his pain.
And where she trod and in the air flowers
Rose and fell, roses and primroses; showers
Of love and joy filled heaven and Earth again.

What need have I now for such a fantasy?
Seeking rest in the arms of ecstasy
Or in the tangled webs of poesy;
Woven by desire to trap the lover
In nets of gold, where we soon discover
That love and freedom cannot be sundered:
Love soon leaving when its fruit is plundered.

The sword has done its work; Arthur is dead
Or lies in limbo, struck down by Mordred.
Father with incestuous son entwined
In an embrace of hate, eternal bind,
Signed in blood and the movement of the stars
They turn yearly with Sol and Luna's cars
Until born again to fight in future wars.

On Snowdon's peaks and in valleys of the Dee
I wandered terrified, a broken man,
Fleeing death, from the Battle of Camlan.
Taking refuge in these woods and caves
I live with wolves and crows, thinking of she
Who will come to me, like Venus from the waves,
To wake again my passion, if she can.

She came to Arthur's court from Orkney's Isles
And beguiled us all with simpering smiles.
The daughter of a petty king was she,
Too young to outsmart a demi-god like me.
With secret sighs she promised her favours
To none but me, an old fool who savours
Soon enough the rapture of a woman's wiles.

Once, from oak and apple, mistletoe I fetched,
Out of Diana's woods, to wield my power,
But now in Saturn's wintry grip I cower,
Like a broken tree, with arms outstretched:
Its trunk Hollowed out by Thor's thunder cracks,
So long protected by the Roman Pax,
Now felled from sacred groves by Saxon's axe.

Now I must go where none can follow,
Bound up in this hollow log I will stay,
Staring at the sky, waiting for Nimue
To fly to me, like summer's first swallow
Or wisdom's queen, piecing her king's body
Together from bits buried in that hollow
Tree, told about in Egypt's prosody.  

A Poem by Tony Thomas