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.”