Monuments
They have gone now not a trace left but hazy memories.
Leaves are getting yellow there is no denying fall is here.
I’m the sole survivor standing on a plateau of nothingness
where dust of wasted years, blows in the wind. But it was
the wasted years that brought you here, a voice whispers.
I shall not now climb the Eiffel tower from the outside in
honour of the army of welders; whom are all but forgotten.
The name Eiffel lives on, but the man himself lost his crown
when trying to construct the Panama Canal. This long hall
I must walk so many doors on each side, I will not enter any
of them to see what’s inside, my curiosity is gone I need not
know. My object is to reach the end of the corridor where
I see shadows, perhaps the great man Eiffel is there, if not
I hope they are, the welders of the monument made of Iron.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
स्लीपिंग mouse
Sleeping Mouse
In front of me, on the track that leads into the bushes, a tiny field mouse.
Picked it up and put it in the palm of my hand. The mouse was brown and
white, absurdly cute when it curled up and fell asleep in the morning light.
Eyes, lungs and heart, like me, so what’s next? I couldn’t stay here with my
hand outstretched waiting for it to wake up from its slumber, nor could
I take it home. Behind me I heard the shepherd with his sheep and dogs,
Put the mouse in my pocket. When dust had settled and the baaing stopped
I put my hand in pocket to pick it up, only it wasn’t there anymore. To have
a mouse in the palm of my hand, is one thing, but to have it crawling about
inside my pants? I took my trousers off. I took my shirt off. I stood there
naked as Adam in Paradise, no mouse. As I slowly dressed, butterflies flitted
making the woods enchanting.
In front of me, on the track that leads into the bushes, a tiny field mouse.
Picked it up and put it in the palm of my hand. The mouse was brown and
white, absurdly cute when it curled up and fell asleep in the morning light.
Eyes, lungs and heart, like me, so what’s next? I couldn’t stay here with my
hand outstretched waiting for it to wake up from its slumber, nor could
I take it home. Behind me I heard the shepherd with his sheep and dogs,
Put the mouse in my pocket. When dust had settled and the baaing stopped
I put my hand in pocket to pick it up, only it wasn’t there anymore. To have
a mouse in the palm of my hand, is one thing, but to have it crawling about
inside my pants? I took my trousers off. I took my shirt off. I stood there
naked as Adam in Paradise, no mouse. As I slowly dressed, butterflies flitted
making the woods enchanting.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
थे डे इ किल्लेद Jesus
The Day I Killed Jesus
A flock of white doves flew over my house, heading due east, if they were flying to
Israel fat chance, and if they landed on the Gaza strip they would end up in a pot.
Last time I saw a white dove was in 1956, when I accidently killed one, I had made
a bow and arrow and shot into the air and hit one. Our neighbour came, pulled
the arrow out of quivering bird and gave it to me, but kept the dove. The aroma of
roasted bird wafted along the street. We sat eating fried mackerel with turnips,
“why didn’t you take the bird home?” My mother asked. “But it was white and it
might have been an angel” I said.“?Never mind the colour, we are talking about
food,” she said. My sister went even further insisted it was Jesus in disguise, and
I had to give her my chewing gum to atone for my sin. White doves of peace with
a palm leave in their beaks, how romantic, war is undying, peace is just a breather
and festive balloons as military brass bands play.
A flock of white doves flew over my house, heading due east, if they were flying to
Israel fat chance, and if they landed on the Gaza strip they would end up in a pot.
Last time I saw a white dove was in 1956, when I accidently killed one, I had made
a bow and arrow and shot into the air and hit one. Our neighbour came, pulled
the arrow out of quivering bird and gave it to me, but kept the dove. The aroma of
roasted bird wafted along the street. We sat eating fried mackerel with turnips,
“why didn’t you take the bird home?” My mother asked. “But it was white and it
might have been an angel” I said.“?Never mind the colour, we are talking about
food,” she said. My sister went even further insisted it was Jesus in disguise, and
I had to give her my chewing gum to atone for my sin. White doves of peace with
a palm leave in their beaks, how romantic, war is undying, peace is just a breather
and festive balloons as military brass bands play.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Bullfighting
Early morning on the flatland between Portugal and Seville a cockerel crews,
its hoarse wakeup call carries for miles. Vaqueros are already on the grassland
separating bulls form a herd; the bulls are five years old and have been chosen
for the bullfight. Within a week the selected bulls will be dead, slaughtered on
an arena of sawdust and sand, they have been allowed to roam free for years.
Most animals only live a few years, mostly in a pen, and never see grassland
before they are killed. How can meat eaters demonstrate, call for the abolition
of bullfighting? This sport, the only one, where an animal has a chance to kill its
assassin. I’m on a bus heading for Seville to see bullfighting, yes, I do admire bull
fighting; if lucky I might see one of the chosen bulls kills the toreador.
Early morning on the flatland between Portugal and Seville a cockerel crews,
its hoarse wakeup call carries for miles. Vaqueros are already on the grassland
separating bulls form a herd; the bulls are five years old and have been chosen
for the bullfight. Within a week the selected bulls will be dead, slaughtered on
an arena of sawdust and sand, they have been allowed to roam free for years.
Most animals only live a few years, mostly in a pen, and never see grassland
before they are killed. How can meat eaters demonstrate, call for the abolition
of bullfighting? This sport, the only one, where an animal has a chance to kill its
assassin. I’m on a bus heading for Seville to see bullfighting, yes, I do admire bull
fighting; if lucky I might see one of the chosen bulls kills the toreador.
Friday, August 6, 2010
न्यू tanka
Tanka.
Ruby, he gave her
Unclean as coagulated blood
Looked like stones
Rocks should come in a nice box
She gave them to an orphanage
Tanka.
Ruled by the toffs
Social welfare, banks preserve
If you are poor
The state don’t want to know
Find a soup kitchen, my friend.
Ruby, he gave her
Unclean as coagulated blood
Looked like stones
Rocks should come in a nice box
She gave them to an orphanage
Tanka.
Ruled by the toffs
Social welfare, banks preserve
If you are poor
The state don’t want to know
Find a soup kitchen, my friend.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
ascent
The Ascent.
I walked on the vast plateau the everlasting wind of time had blown away
the sand and exposed millions of skeletons and the memory of man from
whence his brain was the size of a peanut. It is bigger now, filled with
images of pornography and war. I came to an oasis, but its water was full
of coagulated blood, but I must drink it or explode into atoms at dawn.
Stronger I walked on, crushing ancient rib cages gleaming in moonlight.
A vast iceberg blocked my way it sparkled as a diamond, decorated with
religious promises of salvation, but I had to climb up and over it if I wanted
to know what was on its other side; emptiness or the final axiom?
Since I’m human, and have no choice, I reluctantly began my ascent.
My hands were cold and my heart fearful.
I walked on the vast plateau the everlasting wind of time had blown away
the sand and exposed millions of skeletons and the memory of man from
whence his brain was the size of a peanut. It is bigger now, filled with
images of pornography and war. I came to an oasis, but its water was full
of coagulated blood, but I must drink it or explode into atoms at dawn.
Stronger I walked on, crushing ancient rib cages gleaming in moonlight.
A vast iceberg blocked my way it sparkled as a diamond, decorated with
religious promises of salvation, but I had to climb up and over it if I wanted
to know what was on its other side; emptiness or the final axiom?
Since I’m human, and have no choice, I reluctantly began my ascent.
My hands were cold and my heart fearful.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
वेयर इस alex
Where is Alex?
He was a famous snooker player, who squandered his fortune
and talent. They all loved him to bits, they said, at his funeral.
His daughter read a poem. Drugs and alcohol had reduced him
to beg, in pubs, challenge amateur players for a game, getting
enough money for more booze and cigarettes.
A free soul, or a man ruled by his vices? A happy go lucky chap
who did as he pleased? Not a man beset by his failures, alone
on the darkest night? Five hundred mourners, florists made
a killing. He had lain death for a week in his flat, and no one
had bothered to ask: “Where is Alex?
He was a famous snooker player, who squandered his fortune
and talent. They all loved him to bits, they said, at his funeral.
His daughter read a poem. Drugs and alcohol had reduced him
to beg, in pubs, challenge amateur players for a game, getting
enough money for more booze and cigarettes.
A free soul, or a man ruled by his vices? A happy go lucky chap
who did as he pleased? Not a man beset by his failures, alone
on the darkest night? Five hundred mourners, florists made
a killing. He had lain death for a week in his flat, and no one
had bothered to ask: “Where is Alex?
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