Category Archives: The World

Presents

When I have given you enough

perfumes (though you always smell wonderful),

scarves (though you are always beautifully dressed),

books (though you are so well-read),

watches (though you are never punctual),

what then?

 

Wine? but you rarely drink;

Clothes? you find bargains where I would never look;

Jewellery? I haven’t the means to

do you justice and

Lingerie is a presumption and anyway

men are crap at sizes.

 

Perhaps all that is left is

presence.

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Inside/Outside

External splendours

Am I inside or

outside? Should I

attend to the meal I

carefully prepared or

gawp at the clouds and that

further beyond that

beckons with a

crooked finger that

never points to anything

definite but

merely implies?

 

Fall Fell

Fridayam's Blog

Fall fell through the

crack in the floorboards, and we

tore them up, desperate to

stave off Winter.

Maybe we could burn them

if we cannot find that

lost shiny coin, our

last memory of Summer?

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Mongrels

We are all mongrels:

our genes all spent time

somewhere else, on

cold tundra, windswept

steppe, damp jungle,

hot savannah, in

bogs or genteel shires,

cantonments or kraals; on

Viking ships or galleons,

slavers or dugout canoes we

spent ourselves about the world so

not one of us is pure.

“Las Meninas”

Perhaps when all is quiet

I can make a start

when the maids have

stopped their fussing and the

Infanta has stopped her tears and the

hangers-on hushed out and the

hound cajoled with a kick from

somnolence to stridour but

whilst I wait for your

Majesties pleasure I can

at least paint that writhing

waiting moment before my

painting is painted.

Vapour

I live in a quiet country so

I’ve never felt an earthquake or

fled uphill from a tsunami

never feared a forest fire and the

ground being so porous here

never fretted about floods

however dense the downpours yet

fear surrounds me like a

vapour I can’t seem to escape or

shrug off like a blanket too many

on a sticky night.

Juliet’s Balcony

Coming through London

I pass those half a

million pound flats with their

Juliet balconies so

beloved of architects

crammed with suitcases,

laundry, bicycles, kids’ toys,

unopened (unopenable) boxes,

rows of ironed shirts

awaiting another

ironed day,

garden furniture with no

prospect of a garden, indeed

no room for a

Juliet to shriek her love

lost in the roar of

London’s traffic from this

ruinously expensive but

well-placed favela.

Cloud-Arks

I want to board those

strange dark shapes of the horizon

those cloud-arks

fully-freighted and

already shipping out south on a

freshening breeze

bearing me

wherever they please.

Candle Break

By candle-light you look like a

mediaeval Madonna, full of

thought, contemplation, perhaps a

little mourning for

what once was.

 

But am I allowed to make such a

comparison in a world full of

thought police, deciding exactly

which words I can safely use to

hymn my love?

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