forever,
the heaviness of devil-darkened thought,
death in some disguise yet to be called out,
threatened grey ruin to the day
which is not mine
as that same devil, named, will not be mine –
so pushed aside my dinner plate
and read a poem
and rejoined the world of now
of sunshine, families, all
the heart loves
and mind turns grey
and into devil’s grey, and death and life
stepped gratitude.
ordinary, butthe pavement in front of ithas been carefully swept this morning;you came upon it by chance,but now you’re here, itseems important;an old man – well,old for that part of the world –probably not long to live, buterect, still, extraordinary eyes,they seem to see everything;doesn’t say much, butask him any question in the worldand he…
by disturbing you;Well, that’s me –full of righteous and unrighteous anger;on the other hand,God gets pretty hot in the O.T. –Are there different rules?After all, we both know we’re right.And don’t ask me what ‘religion’ I am, OK?Or I could get really angry…
in the darkened abbey, brother monksstill and silent at the golden altar rail,kneeling there, clearing that inner spaceinto which may enter what God wills –sometimes He takes me unawares;murmurs like a gentle thundersome clear message beyond wordsyet winging into crystal sentences,and that, a treasure-house of joy…why do I call it sweet, this momentsavoured, indescribable? Becausethere…
for its destiny: a dictionary.This warm summer eveningthe dictionary sighsremembering when it was a living tree.
if she or we should choosewhich poems she might read –she who had written on manners…?(and would we then, at question time,dare to ask her politelyto check, maybe agree,her ‘also read’ list? Bukowski, eh? well, well…)The packed room was a little apprehensive:might she have read our own poems here?Though more likely not, we felt –…
there’s a barber whose window decorations indicatethey’re stylists in that tricky, ingrowing black hair;I dropped in there one day; and as the one white facein that busy, proud salon (I took the last spare seat with some relief)spent half an hour or so as a ‘minority’,as images of identity played out some tennis game of…
