FESTOON (Poems 2013-2014)
we search for crimes in others
to fuel our anger, have it resonate
in us. one embraces politics,
picks sides, fakes righteousness
resentment is a spiral, a snake
devouring its own tail, scaled,
defensive, ear pressed to ground
to measure danger, proclaiming
no good will, only the weal
of victimhood, of misery
and martyrdom, all history
venom in the victor’s speech
which battens poor unspoken men
upon the selfsame dirt,
defamed and torn apart, spoiled
by nothing less than vanity.
close on, the boy
has had enough
of violence,
tear streaked cheeks
his body shutting down
such tiredness
to die as young as this
cut to
an empty room, curtains
search the vacuum
for any sign of life
track back in
to describe this scene
once more,
a woman dying
spread on the floor
across her face
a grimace of disgust,
pearls, lustrous,
her breasts,
full, pendulous, surge
of music, blast
of light, emptiness
to which i said
i know what I’ve seen
but the objects crowded
seemed lesser things
being touched by light
seeking less there came
to mind a symmetry
expressing total love
difficult to judge
deprived of speech, my skin
spilt diamonds
acquainting us with violence.
does such depravity
provide a truce? absurd
as stern and loveless
the wings of moths
sprinkled dust
your breast
seems murderous
your eyes
a visionary path
painful for the novice
they work in darkness
know what is therein
touch is traitorous
none of us
certain what we find
were absolute
best termed wrong or tenuous
always posit doubt
do not say there was
such and such a thing
we cannot know
but step inside this other thing
disturbing to sight
its being inscribed
by habitude
unfeeling to us all
but this trial
remains
dark eclipsed final
then pain
equals what is done to you
food of foods volumes
vials full
what is done is done
disappointment
boarded up in sleep
our derelict heads
split open
riddled with guilt
and memory
may any more be done
to heal this slight
between two friends? assuage
the general torpor
of a day’s events ?
if cruelty were more a friend
with a clap of hands
dusted and forgotten
the world could be absolved
into the beauty
of an argument
tides your muscle
waves your teeth
take what you need
seize it gently
your depths weigh heavy
on me
if i am a wreck
don’t remind me yet
picasso said
the monumental
belonged to ages
which believed
in glory, his age,
he said
might erect
a monument to despair.
puvis de chavannes
in the boston library
murals no one wants today
but his synthesis,
we are told, inspired
the fin-de-siecle artists-
painters like picasso
the glory is there,
though hidden,
it is a ripening, not hollow
but solid with intent
this is the meaning of glory,
not the impetuous blaring
of emblematic stress,
but the quiet conquest
of knowledge and power,
personal or otherwise,
under particular duress.
may one divine a place
for public usefulness,
or must we all remain
domestic curates
or otherwise public fools,
i.e., professional?
certainly, whatever
can’t be listed
in love’s almanac
is spurious.
the best way to proceed
is to reject possibility
no one really
gets to hunt
the perfect mind
but in his spume
you’ll find
the air
to charter fear
let me warn the few
still listening
there is no breach
the world you hoped
to reach
was never
is never
will never
be there
‘life given you in trust,
offered out of love.’
in fluorescent light
he spits:
‘i am an effigy of shit.’
(the trial of the apostate:
man in a lift)
i am after a place, some point
where my soul is not diminished,
the locus from which my energy
may be projected, not wafted listless
through this tide-land of indifference
if you listened you would hear
the argument of patience, where
what is said is equal to its origin.
the company has now
conditionally approved
the terms of your release.
you have agreed to cease
your smear campaign
of certain members of the board.
you have assured us, in writing
and given your word
you will refrain,
as of today,
from any action which would prevent
the implementation of law.
you agree to submit to law;
which is to say, you honour
our commitment to the truth.
in short, your freedom is granted
on strict condition
of you keeping your head down
and being a good chap.
a fox stood
in the middle of the street,
gleering at me.
i say gleering,
as the fox made sure
i saw his gaping
maw of teeth.
then he hissed at me
this fox !
though not much bigger
than puddles,
my jack russell,
i knew instinctively,
it was him or me,
so i scurried home.
i crept in gingerly
and when i reached
the bedroom
you were waiting
up for me
there you were,
your full credentials
on display, gleering,
just like that nasty fox!
who is writing this?
it strains with artifice
i say it and it is
fills the page, exists
to invent a tragedy
requires a parody
harnessing, against will
a confluence of action
the ripening of time
strains a character
to such a point of crises
it is said he dies
why?
the writer
brought us to it
he contrived
the spectacle of death.
but to have us live
eternal yet
went beyond his skill
he must kill
as you are announced
be sure to bow
when the valet coughs
unhand your petition
accept the champagne
pretend to listen
while the king relates
the history of his campaigns.
the shrewd politician,
he’ll remind you of a pledge
you’ll be too drunk
to think upon
he will then excuse you
you will be taken
from the room
into a waiting carriage
do not then
what ever moves you
look above
where you would see
lost in the finestra
her majesty
her gaze as deep
as history.
gentlemen, remember
you are, whoever you are
but poor excuse
for her lost son
who, in her days of youth
she bore, like the sun,
a force of plenitude
which conquered us
with love
this thing of a leg:
its smooth extence:
its vertical function,
the bladed spar of the shin
the power of the thigh,
the gentle protuberance
of the knee,
your delicate feet
spread gracefully,
with effort
we discern a lever,
attendant
of the bodies gravity,
able to leap or walk
great spring to manage force
my body is still strong,
but my mind is almost gone
there is a dullness
in my eyes
they are watery
like the white of an egg.
whats this ?
a picture of your children. you remember kay?
and pina, your youngest, she looks happy
i’m pushing her away.
every spring
you would measure them
against the doorframe in the kitchen
set a ruler on their head
then with a pencil
mark the measurement
i can’t remember doing that, but you have a nice
way of putting things. i have trouble remembering
just now i forgot my name i hope it comes back
i never had a love of certainty though now
I would be grateful to have any.
the sunlight is nice
my hands are cold.
i am surprised it is still me
sitting up in bed
awake
to face another day
before
there was nothing but poetry
nothing but the music
streaming in my head
making me better
making us better
please stop
you’re crying
i know i am dying
stop now please
oh my mind lacks usefulness!
i have only
snatches of goodness
to offer you. no manliness
friendships possess
a propensity for contest
beleaguered friends
try to comprehend
our personal bent
even though
they may not
in the end
perceive us
the world is too mysterious
to insist those nearest
apprehend
our spirit
love is empathy
not necessarily
the comprehension
of a soul.
the night is over,
but this new day
has brought no change
in you, staring at the wall,
sifting through your thoughts
for traces of the one you love.
but all your silent care
cannot yield the spirit
of one gone, and yet
last year, you shared
this bed, your happiness
mirrored, loving hearts
embraced the mystery
which love creates.
as daylight fills this space
even as the shadows vanish,
you are anchored to your place,
emptiness is constantly replaced
the day’s ambition is erased
you let the sunlight trace
your sad, expectant face
staring at the wall forever
hoping tomorrow when you wake
you will wake together.
here’s the scenario:
how do we confront the ex?
not personally,
but how is it expressed?
how do we convey
our emotional history?
most of us bear love
as a trophy or a scar;
compare perhaps
the way things were
with the way things are.
the memory of sex:
how we are still possessed
with how once we were obsessed
with her body, her scent,
the way she dressed; the way
her confidence encouraged
a lack of awkwardness.
you did your best
to open up, to speak about
the rarest thoughts, express
what was deepest in your soul.
how can such happiness
be controlled, or told to stop?
how can two souls intertwine
but then drop off?
it happens every day.
i knew her once,
but just before,
she came sailing through the door.
you look very sad, she said.
no, i said, i’m bored.
i didn’t mean to be like this:-
i even liked the way she looked
there is something good
about the way a woman looks
when she has done her best
to impress their beauty on us.
what beauty they have,
what beauty they miss,
how they enlist
the main lines
of the composition,
as a painter will employ
the play of colour
to indicate the form,
until only the form shines through
and you forget the colour.
it is a subtle show:
subtlety is show, a play
on simple things told differently
to keep the game interesting
and to stop us feeling old.
the swag, or garland,
this is the first étude,
the rough beginnings
of sacrifice. The festoon,
a hanging arch
strung beneath an altar
to inaugurate a feast.
a monument to plenitude:
flowers, fruits and leaves,
the effulgence of the season.
for whom was it offered?
what offerings do we bring
knowing we know nothing,
or pretending we do?
what tinsel of the intellect
to decorate immensity!
at the center of the feast
a smiling god sits-
or a toothless gaping void
but to break apart the seed
as that old brahman did,
one grasps the only certainty:
that which is, is you
to speak of the festoon,
is it safe to assume
to be generous
is the most productive
form of doubt? To give
or even at the last, forgive,
is to interpret the prodigy
of things, to acknowledge
the inexhaustible.