symphony for stringed instruments

Symphony  for stringed Instruments

 Grey mist creates a smaller world the eye strains

To see beyond the possible, where only the inner

Vision can see the unseen for which it can´t blink

Close an eye, or turn away from disgusting truths.

Dull miasma dreamy as passing melancholy, turns

Angel white burnoose at dawn, with a hint of rusty

Harp strings, a whiff of green straws, full of tears

That will be handed out to children under five.

Aurora, the Roman Goddess of daybreak, when

Natural light puts night in a sack and throws it down

A well where nights of horror dwell but refuse to

Be still forever trying to escape its own darkness,

Longing to be back in some ones head, pining to

Be formidable and strong, but the day will not let it. 

prologue

Prologue

January 1940, the water in the harbour was frozen

The boy was two years old and enemy soldiers

Thronged narrow streets in the small coastal town.

The child seeing the strange soldiers had no fear,

But he absorbed the alarm of the adults and cried.

He remembers only vaguely this war, that have had

So many books written about it, the loud noise

Bombs made and the warm fire of burning factories.

And that was the extent of the boy´s war, he was

Brought to a farm inland far from war and hunger.

He was not to know the place of sedition and had

Become a mascot for treason. Bullets hitting walls;

Other soldiers came and torched the farm; peace.

Indistinct memories and the shadow of remorse.

the Interpreter

The Interpreter

Gently a flake fell past a window, the sign

of winter, but the flake was made of soot

 yet was as perfect as one made of snow.

Snow has not fallen here for years, deadly

crystal, blood diamonds, yet of icy resolve

to eradicate us by volume and greed.

Flakes of soot, false snow made ideal by

a fake interpreter giving meaningless lift

to pompous speeches and sham grief.  

cantata

Cantata

He stood there on a plateau that only had a tree,

And since he had appeared from nowhere there

Was no a past to be lumbered with.

He sat under the tree mainly because it was

Getting hot and the tree had big thick leaves and

Beside the tree there was a barrel of cold water.

During the day the plateau became shimmering

He saw ponies trotting past like a knitted poncho.

Since he had no past only a fragment of a future

Instinct told him they were going to the green vale

That had grass, shade and a lagoon that reflected

The sky, or was it the other way around?

He sat there tried to visualise future where he didn´t

Exist, but he failed, which made him human.

exploitation of a name

Exploitation of a Name

There will soon be a line of ladies knickers coyly called

Mindela, the sanctimonious will deny knowledge of this

by those who care to protest?  The Mandela name is gold

dust and must be exploited before collective memories

 fail and a child will ask: Who was Mandela? “ Mandela!

“Look up Wikipedia”, child. There is good wine made by

an estate called Mandela´s, a relation that has the right

to use the name. (the great man didn´t drink)

Mandela chocolate, sweets and black puddings, all that can

help sell anything, like beer, or booze so fiery it will give you

the courage he had- if not for long. I will write a poem just

 the way the untouchable man would have liked it, of irony

and smiles free of bitterness of the years he had to endure

and still lose his name in the churning miasma of capitalism.  

the gays of India

The Gays of India

In India gay people can´t get married and that is sad for those who think

a ring on a finger is enough to utter love and loyalty. Liberal as I´m I ought

to sign letters an express my outrage against the Indian government,

but my heart is not in this battle of hysterical expression of democracy.

There many inequalities, say, the plight of the Palestinians and now

the dilemma of Negev Bedouins who soon will find themselves flattened

by this juggernaut of harsh, unthinking quest for security and land; it

will not stop, pause or think of a peaceful alternative. How to stop this blitz,

this amoral action before it destroys both perpetrators and victims

in an orgy of bloodletting. Then there is Syria, this intractable problem

this can cast us into a catastrophic null point when someone will use

nuclear weapon they profess not to have, in the name of feverish existential

survival.  So the gays of India can´t for now get married, what can I say?

 Carry on fighting for your right, but do not fall into the trap to think the rest

 of the world thinks your problem is of outmost importance. 

the mare and I

The Mare and I

Georgia on my mind, I remember a song the sweetness of America,

I have never been there but once I was in Huston, Texas, my ship

was there for repairs. I rented a car and drove deep into

the countryside which was hot and dry Just like in a western movie, 

I stopped at a dud farm and they gave an old mare to ride.

When tired of riding the mare and I walked side by side along dusty

tracks and tumbleweeds and I thought of Indians who lived here

and left no history behind other than baddies in western movies.

Both the mare and I knew while there might be historic changes and

upheaval, human nature remains the same; it is about war and peace,

love, hate and jealousy...and finally death. But not quite that, above

all there is dignity and respect for life.  Texas has a big sun and it was

setting. “Home on the ranch” a song remembered. Time to get back

to the ocean and admire the dolphins and listen to their song.

common ailment

A Common Ailment

Eleven o´clock in the forenoon I had been to my

doctor and was going into the nearest cafe for

a coffee, but soon the city dwellers filled the place

with the smell of unmade beds, uncombed hair

and the despair of lonely nights. The fresh bun I was

 eating absorbed it all and I could not eat it.

Many people live in cold rooms, have no gas and

kitchens are full dirty pots and pans.

Apathy sets in personal hygiene suffers, why bother?

Sleeping in the same beddings for weeks, socks and

underwear grimy and soiled, which results in fatigue

of the mind . Self-esteem is replaced by self-loathing,

unless someone speaks up or bangs pot lids together

their life will be short, empty of pleasure and light. 

deception

The Deception

Temporarily we drove through the night

cocooned in its interior nothing could

touch  us here where asphalt and tyres made

ductile, harmonious music. We drove past

many villages half submerged by the night,

yet spoke of peace, work is done, time to

rest and let nature take care, and let dogs too

given the right to bark at the pale moon.

A car overtakes blaring horn and laud music,

Peace is shattered as shards of glass falling off

a towering building shaken in the fatal clutches

of an earthquake. Illusory life is, our hold is as

puny as a baby´s grip on his mother´s thumb or

frail as an old man´s grasp on his walking stick.

seclusion

The Curse of Seclusion

The emaciated dog so lonely it sought company

by looking into a puddle. Afar glittering street light

 It had been there seeking food and shelter, but had

been chased away even, by those who had lapdogs.

 It heard step, an old man walking slowly bent down

opened a paper bag and fed the cure bread crumbs.

The dog thought “apparently he thinks I´m a duck,

that´s ok, I´m so hungry and lonely it will have to do.”

fluctuating fortunes

Fluctuating Fortunes

There was a brutal dictator, a strong man, who ruled a unruly

country with a steel sword that dripped of menaces and blood.

For a while he was our ally when he fought a war with a country

 we didn´t like; and we helped him with weapon and intelligence.

Yet there was another side to him, women were not oppressed

under his rule, they could dress as they liked and seek the highest

education. The Christian community too was accepted, and people

 could walk out at night in peace; but he went too far, invaded

a country that was our friend. Well, we invaded and he was duly

hanged and few tears were shed. For the women the revolution

was a disaster, no longer can they go out without risk being shot for

not wearing a chador and the Christians were falling over themselves

 to flee or risk being killed.  That is the way of the world when there

is a upheaval the minorities and women have to pay the price. 

 

who is a prisoner now

Who is a Prisoner Now

My back yard has high walls and is like sun trap, I sit here and

get a tan in winters... the walls, cracked, need a lick of paint.

I can see a map of Europe, lakes, rivers and open plains

where wolves roam and hunt elk, and man shot wolves.

The map changes I now see the Caribbean and the Islands

dotted about. When I was on a small tank ship years ago I had

a chance to go ashore, visit and explore most of the Islands

.... mainly I fear, my interest was to meet lovely girls, of what

 these Islands have many, and with a few of them swam in

crystal clear waters of innocence.  I also had the sense to see

 those pearls of Islands in early morning haze. 

So many years ago, yet I remember Teresa, in Curacao, and that

is a great recall, as the Island itself is rather flat and has little

 to offer of beauty, its only claim to fame is a big oil refinery and

the largest camp of prostitutes I have ever seen. Anyway the sun is

setting and shadows erase my map, time to go in and lit the fire,

 but reminiscence of a time gone by lingers.    

four senryu

Senryu 4

Is graffiti

A plague in our cities

Or beautiful art? 

 Life in big cities

Is lived on street levels

Not in skyscrapers

Was Jesus Jewish?

Has he got a birth certificate

To substantiate  it?

Most drinking holes

Are on the ground floor

Isn´t that a blessing 

our neighbour

Our Neighbours.

In the darkness of the Ramallah night there is a light

An ember of hope, as the world is lowly and begins

To see that suffering is not one sided.

There is fear on both sides of the eyesore walls one

For losing what they have acquired, the other for losing

The little they have left. The victors are sensing they are

Prisoners too and might be on the wrongs side of

The walls as they sink into the ennui of misplaced hubris

Semitic people they are both Moslems, Christians, and

Jews, not fundamentalist in the rising tide of intolerance

 Both sides in the world of chaos can find common ground,

They share the same culture, relatives lost in history.

May they overcome strife and find neighbourly peace as

The wind blows bitter dust in the Persian gulf.

Tanka

Our democracy,

Bought by the highest bidder,

Is an empty word

We do not need elected crooks

We need a new Mandela

fluctuating fortune

 Fluctuating Fortunes

There was a brutal dictator, a strong man, who ruled a unruly

country with a steel sword that dripped of menaces and blood.

For a while he was our ally when he fought a war with a country

 we didn´t like; and we helped him with weapon and intelligence.

Yet there was another side to him, women were not oppressed

under his rule, they could dress as they liked and seek the highest

education. The Christian community too was accepted, and people

 could walk out at night in peace; but he went too far, invaded

a country that was our friend. Well, we invaded and he was duly

hanged and few tears were shed. For the women the revolution

was a disaster, no longer can they go out without risk being shot for

not wearing a chador and the Christians were falling over themselves

 to flee or risk being killed.  That is the way of the world when there

is a upheaval the minorities and women have to pay the price.  

the system

The System

It was a strange little town every house were five storey tall

 and had the same colour, ochre. The houses were built close

together, giving narrow, dark streets and no room for parks or

green spots. The well to do naturally lived on the top floor and

got some light, but it got darker further down and on the first

floor and basement days were forever evening. The few shops

sold plastic flowers, cheese, red wine, macaroni and a dark sort

 of bread that tasted of coal dust. Once this small town had been

happy place, with tiny houses and kitchen gardens, but a new

leader thought it too chaotic, it also disturbed him that there

were so many dogs barking that he had them and cat eradicated.

 This was a sad town and its citizen had lost the ability to smile,

but this ended when a horse belonging to gypsy trotted through

the town and for the first time the people saw beauty and laughed,

they laughed so much suddenly feeling free, that when their leader

 spoke they laughed at him too and later shot him very dead with

120 bullets. The town is empty save for some eccentric people on

 the top floors who hankered for the old system. People have built

tiny homes just outside the town; they keep dogs, cats and horses.

set the masses free

Set the Masses Free.

The mark of a society’s success is not the employment

 of it population to do mundane and useless work, but

the freedom to pursue leisure. To sit in the park and

read the philosophy and feed the birds. Eradicate work

and set the people free.

We pay people for making useless things like watering

cans made of plastic, a work any robot could do.

For this we continue to produce and deplete the world´s

 natural resources, for if we do not consume the world

will come to a standstill, or so we are made to believe.

However, those who produce our sustenance the poor

farmers in India, Africa and elsewhere and regarded as

the lowest of the low, are the true friends of our planet.

chattering Plants

Chattering Plants.

The fig tree has lost its big soft leaves and looks like a petrified

octopus in the middle of a nightmare.  What the hell happened

to the ocean? It tells itself”, I´m not ugly as almond tree, looks

as rough hewn spider´s web that can´t catch any insects.

 I belong to the family of Moraceae and we produce the sweetest

of fruits, we are the aristocracy in the plant world.”

The almond tree heard this and said: “I will be a bride in February

cast a spell of beauty on the landscape  with my pink flowers. “

“Anyway, I´m a deciduous tree and proud of it, without my nuts

- a hint of a giggle from the fig tree- you can´t bake a good cake.

People ask for almond tarts, no one ever asks for fig tarts.”

A sullen silence falls, then the carob tree, also known as St. John

bread, and bears fruit too; elongated, dark as farm workers fingers,

 judiciously says:” you´ll both be beautiful come spring.” 

the vista

The Vista.

It was a long climb up the mountain, cumbersome too

I used golf shoes, bought in a second hand shop, which

On reflection will endorse, but it had leather uppers

It was tiring, yet had no choice it was my mountain,

there were dark moment when I felt like giving up, but

the alternative was melancholy of the uncompleted. 

 I finally made it the top had no snow and whirling fog

made it impossible to see and hear anything but my

laboured breathing and colourless wind of nothingness.

It the way life is, those on the top see little of what is

going on, one has to go down to ground level to see

and understand that love needs fertile soil to thrive.

love and wine

Love& Wine

How can I forget her, eyes green as spring water cascading down

 a mountain side in Norway. Her skin silky as a morning cloud in June

and her laughter was like chuckling pearls of joyfulness.

So much festivities, wine and song, it took time before I noticed

 anything was wrong. Rages; tears of melancholy, lover of the night

 I became a spectator to a slow downfall. Eddy of too much living

 I could not go there I had my own demons to battle.

How rapid her fall, a woman every man could have and I cursed my

eternal cowardice. At her funeral I spoke to her mother we cried for

a beautiful woman we both loved, but were not able to safe.

lions of freedom

  Lions of Freedom

 Two lion cubs, their parents were smuggled through

a tunnel so the oppressed people could have a zoo.

This little enclave that has shore lines, but cannot use

the sea, which their tormentors claim for themselves.

The lion cubs have become the hope for the future of

 people who, despite the tyrant´s effort to make their

 country ghastly as the ghetto of Warsaw; they shall

 overcome. The cubs will one day grow big and strong,

break free of their cages when the enemy is beaten.

tanka

Tanka

Respect your elders

Mother always told me

But where are they?

Walking up and down the street

I see no one older than me. 

a maritime story

A Marine Story

It was an early evening on the Pacific sea, the skip was sailing

with ease towards San Francisco, the cook was clearing up

In the galley and the chief steward was down in the walk- in-

freezer making a list of food that was left and how much food

he needed when the ship birthed. The ship shock violently it

had struck a mine and the door into the meat freezer was stuck

and the ship was sinking. The cook knew where the chief was,

 ran down to the store and was able to open the freezer door,

they grabbed life jacket each and jumped overboard.

Eerie silence they struggled to stay together, then the unholy

scream from the ship as it was swallowed by the voracious sea.

In front of them the raft used to paint the shipside, scrambled

on to it totally shocked and exhausted they fell asleep.

 At dawn the chief couldn't wake up the cook, an elderly man,

this had been too much for his heart. The chief knew what he

had to do, but waited till afternoon before he rolled the cook

overboard, curled up on the raft and closed his eyes, had seen

grey fins and didn´didn't want to witness his friend eaten by sharks.

The chief was picked by a passing liberty ship the day after and

three day later, he walked ashore in San Francisco.

 A sliver of war´s agony, of no consequence, for its outcome of

the except for the man who had lost a friend.

the nuclear issue

The Nuclear Issue.

 There they sit the high and mighty

And their lackeys it is serious

Business, who can have them and

Who cannot have them.

How important they are these

People who dare not think or whisper

About the elephant in the room, yet

It sits there glaring for all to see.

Confirm or not to  confirm, we know

They have it. Will this conference fail?

Most likely, the enemy of a deal only

 Wants total surrender.  

digits&words

Digits and Words.

Manuscript page 100, a digit of colossal abstraction, 

standing alone, inconsequential, just another zero.

When I was five I could count to hundred, stood by

the window counting people walking by.

It was a small street and not many walked there, so

I learned to cheat, counting people twice.

Sundays was especially difficult I had to count people

three time, when I first saw them, when they were by

the window and when they disappeared.

Then suddenly I was six and could read, and count to

thousand, but by then I lost interest in numbers and

fell in love with words that could create visible beauty.

But there is no getting away from numbers when my  

first poem was published they paid me 5 coronas .

the date

The Date.

Sat in a pub talking to a woman of no substance

other then she wore a skirt and had boobs.

Pub closed, I was allowed

to follow her home

through dreary streets

fine rain and yellow street light.

I kissed her dry, bloodless lips

We parted.

Walking back to the seaman´s hotel

she stood by a bombed out church and had damp hair.

This it too absurd

again I was a place I didn´t want to be.

Money changed hand

and my loneliness laughed hysterically 

food banks

Food Banks.

There is a cloister up north where you can knock on its oak door

and get food parcels. The abbot, a stern man, will give you food if

you are nicely dressed, have a house, band are briefly out of pockets.

 If you are really destitute and dressed in rags- often of Roma

origin- he will tell you no because your need is self inflicted, but you

can, if not too lazy, go to the winter field and dig up roots; he will

 bless you and say you are god´s children, go to heaven without a trial

 and sit by the lord´s side.

  

If you are old he will also say no, because you have money

under the mattress and only pretend to be poor so you don´t have

to spend your own money, but he will bless you before kicking

you down hill with gentle smile. Once there were food banks in every

town, but now they are hard to find and far away, this because

the rich will no longer pay for you extravagance.    

chemist shop

Chemist Shop

At the entrance of the pharmacy a dead sparrow,

no one seemed to notice this tiny death.

The bird just lied there with folded wings and eyes

suitable closed, ready to be put in a coffin.

I told a shop assistant about it, she swept the bird

with a broom, into the tall grass.

There were many women inside, talking about none

prescription medicine, for aches and pain,  they were

mostly middle aged and middle class and had not yet

realised that elderliness comes at a price.... pain.

 Shelves full of revitalizing creams, promising a young

 glow and sagging faces bought this overpriced stuff,

when a bit of olive oil on cotton swab would be more

effective, but not smell as sweetly.

November Wind.

November has till now been mild I had a window open

 suddenly a cold blast entered. I got up closed the window,

which when a strong young seaman called a porthole.

the top of the TV, which at the time, was showing  a program

The cold blast, unfamiliar with being indoors settled on

of old people´s home and how badly they were treated;

abandoned by a family for whom they had become a burden.

 I switched on the heating and cold air soon dissipated.  

Today I bought 100 kilo of smokeless wood, it was a heavy

going pushing the trolley to the car, a young man took pity

helped unload the load and put it in the trunk of my car.

When I came home I sat down and cried a little, this is what

It is coming to, 100 kilo is an obstacle and I have to buy more

before winter is over. Freedom is the ability to move and be

able to look after oneself; I fear for my future, sooner or later

I will be a prisoner of old age, but I will not surrender yet.     

food kills

Food Kills

This is a poetry exercise, write down what´s comes

 into your mind....lobster. What the Hell?

A red crustacean on a bed of lettuce with lemon

and mayonnaise sauce sprinkled with parsley.

Can one taste agony?

Dipped alive in boiling water unheard screams,

 a long tool to retrieve, white meat from claws.

Am I a surgeon now?

The lobster catcher is not guilty of anything he

just catches sells them, but cannot afford to

eat them.... He has a lobster pet at home, it is sort

of brown and lives in tank, calls it Charlie but he

says nothing, this trader of food for the rich. 

loss of innocence

The Loss of Innocence

At a school sports day I was running 60 metres,

 I wanted so very much to win, could taste blood

didn´t quite make it but got a bronze medal,

 which I wore on my lapel with pride.

When I joined the merchant navy and when going ashore

I wore it too; no one else had a medal like me.

Girls in bars admired it and wanted to know why I had

such a splendid medal. I could not tell the mundane truth

being a compulsive story teller I spun a tale.

Alas, women are destroyers of young men’s pride they want

to possess what they can´t have.

It was in Le Havre I met my downfall, she promised me

heavenly delight for the medal, and I succumbed; the delight

lasted a few minutes and my medal was forever lost.

the seer

The Seer

My mother was a utopian communist

or rather a Marxist, she had only contempt

for the Soviet Union which she called

state capitalism gone mad.

 She believed only communism could

bring about democracy where the people

controlled the means of production.

She predicted the globalization   would bring

wars, workers against workers,

on slave wages. A world where the rich

got more affluent,

 and material success meant everything.

 A world where workers believe in their own failure

and deserve to be poor.

And she was right.

We are ruled by corporations and our freedom

have been curtailed, we are consumers

in a world where even art is commerce valued for

its sales potential and not for its beauty.

they have got him now

They have Got Him Now

War is a great adventure, every boy dreams about it. And writers of lies tell

 stories of sacrifices and great feats of courage.

I have done it again being a place don´t want to be, sit seven floors up on

a terrace and all I can think of is falling into oblivion. it only takes few seconds

 the air stream and the noise and the blessed silence.

The failure of many failures and I´m living tomorrows and can´t remember

the way home, the homes of homes where I was born.

The wrapping papers of gifts not opened how I can face tomorrow.

My cowardice is the only thing left I can trust.

Pre dawn and the echo continues, this is not your world it ended years ago when

you knew you are a ghost of childhood past.

the boredom is absolute. Tomorrows I will remember home and safe among

books that I once wrote I shall be safe and relive what I forgot. And wars will go on

as they always have but I will not play a part of lives’ brutal carousel.

Seven floors up, in my house there are no places to fall. 

pegasus

Pegasus

I saw a big plane coming from Lisbon airport flying high

it was a clear night sky

and I could see a horse flying beside the plane.

Did you see that, the chief pilot

said to the second pilot.

 Yes it  is a Pegasus

it delivers books to people who can´t read.

The pilot called the tower, we are

coming back, it appears something is wrong.

The chief pilot lit a cigarette and

the second pilot objected said it was not legal to smoke

in the cockpit.

The plane landed safely and the horse disappeared.  

When the plane was ready

to fly again the chief pilot was not onboard

he had been reported by the second pilot

for smoking on the job. 

time of forgetfilness

Time of forgetfulness  

He had been to my house often likes to come here, stay for a few days,

 because of the nature where he can walk along overgrown tracks and

see how life used to be lived before. Now he could not find my house and

called me told me the name of the cafe where he had stopped.

 After a meal he went for his walk, but didn´t return and it was getting dark.

we found him under an olive tree he was lost, nothing he knew before

resembled the forest of dread he was in now. It took a while before he knew

me and when he did he cried, the game was up he was slowly succumbing to

Alzheimer. In the morning I drove him back to the town my wife was driving in

his car behind us. He spoke little and when he did mixed the past and present.

When we stopped outside his house he thought I was Dali Lama was flattered

to be in his presence; we arranged for him to go into a home, but before it could

be done he had a lucid moment and cut his life short, as he refused to follow 

the lane of the living death, a ghost that had no memories.

the horror

The Terror

Late afternoon they sat on the bus thinking of a good meal and TV.

A man entered knifed its driver and two passengers. The murderer

dropped his knife in the bus and waited for the police to come,

 the remaining passengers stood outside and waited too, they cried

 and were cold.  The ambulance came first, could do nothing; they

waited also.  Finally the police arrived it took them fifty minutes which

must have felt as an eternity, arrested the man and drove him to jail.

 A deadly calm, a surreal scene, but why had the man kill?

The mass murder Breivik´s crime was temporarily forgotten, killer in

the bus was a foreigner who had lost all reason, had been told that

his appeal to stay in the country had been refused. For this and to avoid

expulsion he had done this. He´d rather stay in jail for the rest of his

life than facing going back to his godforsaken country. This type of

crime, however safe one makes a country horror strikes as lightning.

A river of blood, shed by those who just wanted to go home it leaves

 peaceful people stunned and fumbling for an answer.  

more short verses

Senryu

Brave new world

Reduced to a gossiping village

Spying on neighbours

Senryu

Freedom of speech

Everyone demands a voice

Babbles tower

Senryu

Liberty of discourse

Channelled through facebook

Baby picture