me, the bow,

like the one you boughtall those years agoto build a bridge –now you realise –a warm reassuring bridgebetween school and homewith its firm hand-railat both ends;the river flowing so fast,so powerful,so beautifulbetween those different banksin the blank pagesof that book with its reassuring tableson the back cover which speak of lawswhich you may never readthen…

for the mind: oh look Dad,there’s a scarecrow in that fieldthat looks just like a man, does itreally scare crows?Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the streetwho looks just like a scarecrow,I wonder if the same crowssee him too?But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:explanations don’t quite explain it:you see something; it brings to…

magical landfall, full of strangeness,there it wasacross the path,brownish, yellow and green markings,waitingadrenalin poured through the body,waking instinct, emotion, thoughts;possible next moves racing manifold through the mind,uncertainties, no previous experienceof quite this situation to rely onin our relatively snake-free neighbourhoodand it was big;the body froze,the eyes just lookedat the branch, covered ingreen moss, yellow lichen,brown…

why do I feel I’m in the dockof some unauthorised court of moral judgmentwith the prospect of spending New Yearin some condemned cell ofpersonal opinion remarkably similar toa Dickensian prison now electrified in just one wing…?Forget the whole giving-presents thing – that’srelatively simple – it’s those bloodyChristmas cards. Sent yours yet?I’m with the angels on…

by one poetin, uh, an hour plus,which is a stupid thing to donormallyto any poetand insultingif you think that wayat least when you do thisyou get an aftertasteof a sort – you gettired beyond boredom, orthe guy has only three things to sayagain and again orhe’s posing as a poet orsubtly unloading his negativityor his…