Flying South Read online

  in a corner bread and biscuit cake room

  with their nephews David, Clive and Andrew,

  who cling to the expectation of a quick death

  for their sedentary aunts stuffed with scones

  and honey, a life of unbending virtue

  and enough of proper things to fill

  many books with their tedium, Te Deums,

  and memories of an occasional wayward hand

  dismissed with anger but some regret.

  The Miss Browns are certain of their final journey,

  no slight misgivings here but rude and vigorous

  acclamation with their favourite cleric Eric,

  he of scrawny neck and sweaty palms but equal

  faith in life’s misery but joyful end.

  ‘Pass the jam’ David, Clive and Andrew utter in unison,

  teenage throats clearing, piggy eyes and pointed

  heads watching and counting the slow decline and

  money shed of the two snug, smug Miss Browns.

  Another Friday spent in frugal contentment and

  spite as out the window they comment on less worthy

  souls passing with hunted looks and faded

  frocks of white and strawberry of older time.

  No clients of cleric Eric, these poor souls are of

  little money or belief or want to take each

  day as crossing the vale of tears to a happy

  side where kith and kin are said to wait.

  The knowing all, the happiness of truth,

  the respect and perhaps love in this bread

  biscuit and cake room, fill the Miss Browns

  with an unknown, unfamiliar warmth

  and affection for David, Clive and Andrew

  who continue to count down slowly, lovingly,

  the time to their just rewards for these

  Friday afternoons wasted with old maids

  and scones and honey.

  Handing Down

  One generation begets and beguiles

  one generation flowering in splendour, before

  one generation neglects the dreaming

  wisdom of old men, their knowing smile

  of knowing all.

  Heroes

  This is no land for peaceful heroes intent on

  living dreams beyond a reach; here

  there is no space to see and feel the silence

  of the stars, the inky gloom of night,

  the majesty of frigid dawn and

  cry of break of day.

  A falling off from heaven, a lazy slide

  into a black hole of nothingness;

  must this be my fate and by extension

  those great of deed called heroes

  or can I explain my plight with age

  and body blight or foolish lust?

  I have never wanted the tedium of our days,

  smelled a rose but felt a thorn,

  held a child and looked at death,

  glanced upon falling stars

  spread across the Milky Way and

  wished and wished to stay in

  a land of heroes, a country of smiles,

  no pulling together the dismal solidity

  of generation on generation,

  no gold, frankincense or myrhh

  crawling to a stable to be born.

  I am of my time and falling out of my time

  into this nowhere I cry to you

  help me, help me, help me’

  In Dreams

  We coupled feverishly during the night,

  awake yet dreaming of unknown days

  between the waking and the struggling.

  You at a party long ago, monstrous beings

  dying on marble shining, me in a vacuumed

  sports car hurrying nowhere until

  in the coupling a peace of sorts fell on our

  restless minds released now from time and space

  into dreams of endless joined bodies.

  Killing

  The felled palm trees are dying on the

  Paseo; sand encrusted from African

  levantes they lie upturned in brown dirt

  open to the air, the sap and moisture

  hoarded for years fleeing from a shade

  less intense, more frugal in its offering.

  Victims of their own prosperity, earlier

  growth snaking under baking streets

  erupts in the carefully placed brick

  promenade and pushes up through

  walkways now hazardous for all.

  Silent retirees shuffle by scarcely

  noticing the death struggle of these

  ancient trees; gaping holes left

  by their felling, the wool jacketed

  spaniel’s cocked leg pissing on

  the dying trunk, ultimate indignity

  in a proud life of majestic leaves made

  huge and hanging by eked out water.

  The verdict being handed down to end

  their existence, lessen the destruction of

  success, they are killed in their prime,

  stunned by the gentle saw of the executioner.

  Lady Of My Waking Dreams

  Oh I could love you my distant woman,

  in your voice the insouciance of youth

  grinds into my soul, mocking my being

  making you seem nearer, more desirable.

  But, if you like, I can put on a new skin and

  morning coated walk to an old ceremony

  where under a buzzing humid light

  with crowds of fervent believers and their

  anxious trainers I could recite

  ‘Reach out my lady of waking dreams

  kiss and tell of sweet love

  visible in the fire of my eye

  sleep in my dreams of dreams

  rest in my time and shade and all.’

  let me put my cards on the table

  I am a worn out old randy poet

  still turning a phrase or two to

  beguile older women than you.

  But my time is running out, like

  a bagpipe shorn of wind waiting

  to be coaxed back to life I want

  your youth, your soft voice singing.

  Although I cannot understand what

  you sing I know the rhythm of love,

  I know you are reaching out to me,

  coaxing me into to you, making me

  come alive again.

  Leavings

  My end may be in a strange place, perhaps

  in a Solomon Trench five kilometres drifting

  down, the light on the ocean fading as I sink

  amidst startled creatures of the deep.

  I may evaporate in a cloudless sky, journey

  to a sun touching heavens on the way

  and see stars grow dim at the going down

  of final evening.

  But if you have my body wake me in a house

  far from tea and biscuits, surround

  the coffin with family and friends,

  dress me shoeless in my wedding suit and

  thus attired I will accompany you, my bride,

  groomed to an altar of your choosing.

  There they shall sing the ‘Ave Maria’

  and speak these words pondering on the

  odyssey of a sceptic soul now released

  to traverse the universe.

  In the singing of ‘Going Home’ take my

  body to our place of rest and lay me down

  with loosening ropes. On a stone, cut to lean

  into pitiless winds, carve my name and the

  instant of coming and going.

  Afterwards speak of me as one who loves you,

  leaves no lasting monuments but a legacy of

  words, a roaring water of ideas, bound in modest

  pages, yet open to all who seek to know the

  sealing bonds of a once turbulent life.


  Little Death

  We worked harmonious in black bag rhythm

  packing memories into small openings, vessels of

  loss, sides pierced by emerging hangers and other

  detritus. Then a phone call; a girlfriend in trouble

  I think as I dwelt on last night’s rest of bed and instant

  darkness, waking refreshed but no dreams, no shuffling

  or snoring you said, just a motionless body still alive.

  Now for me the unease of a perfect night preparing one

  through a little death for nothingness, no waking awaiting.

  My Beloved Goes On A Journey

  Although gone she is with me in this room;

  in fleecy indentations of silky legs and calves,

  in ankle socks smaller than a marsupial’s arrival

  in the pouch, in shoes left with a message to

  walk with me, in the tidiness of drawers of

  underthings, electric to the touch, in love notes

  scattered like confetti.

  Although gone she is with me in a crowd;

  I see her face in every face, I smell her skin

  in every flower, I hear her in my heart of hearts,

  I feel her touch in every bone.

  Smothering in frail words I am a soul in lonely flight.

  New York City 1969

  My nineteen years are running for life east

  on 52nd Street, the bridge ahead, crowded

  sidewalks and a sweating man behind shouting

  Sonny stop! I want sex, I want sex!’

  Later in the YMCA near Madison Square

  Gardens, a large black man, apprentice butcher from

  Austin Texas, sits on my narrow bed

  and leans across trying to stroke my leg.

  ‘Fuck off, fuck off now!’ I cry trembling

  with fear, reaching for a scissors under

  my pillow, a saviour rescuing me from the

  brotherly ignorance of a christian manling.

  At the Hotel Roosevelt on 6th and 34th Street,

  Mr. John Rosen assures me of a stack of gold

  awaiting new baggage handlers at Kennedy

  Airport and can I start tomorrow early.

  Leaving the hotel, mind filled with a vista

  of dollars, I am accosted by a small mouthed

  man, who enquiring about my new job, threatens

  to crush my legs if I strike break at the airport.

  In a studio apartment on Lexington, with six

  girls lying on the floor, Armstrong says ‘One

  small step for man’ and I turn over trying to

  sleep, moon dust minded until dawn and work.

  And then it is late September and I am flying

  The Atlantic, wishing the hours away to landing

  and the telling of tall tales of daring and

  bravery in a city far across the ocean.

  On Rereading Death Notices

  He died peacefully yesterday at his residence surrounded

  by family, wanting for nothing but life at the end, his spirit

  and the fruits of his earthly work embodied in a real home

  of distinction, with truly stunning interiors, including detailed

  architraves, decorative ceiling covers and recessed lighting.

  He lies now in the magnificent master bedroom, a convenient

  dressing room to the right and a marbled en-suite dripping

  to the left

  His family mourns in their own way in one of the other five

  bedrooms - two en-suite - while downstairs ancient clergy await

  instructions in the formal dining room - leading to a study

  and family room clustered around the double Aga-warmed

  kitchen sensitively fitted with pine units.

  While the rest of his four thousand square foot residence is

  filled with friends and the curious, the play area in the attic,

  the cooling hot tub, the clay tennis court and heated outdoor

  pool wait despondently for the next generation.

  Outside a Mercedes hearse drives sedately up the mile long

  avenue, the smiling, morning suited undertaker clutching an

  account equal to the occasion.

  Once Upon A Full Moon

  In a china shop across the street a hereford bull is examining

  a plate depicting a handsome bald lawyer pleading a case

  to an empty court. The bull is threatening to run amok if a

  second plate, with the same representation, is not found.

  At the busy intersection, alive with car horns, two laughing

  hippopotamuses from the Gambia display their vast incisors,

  conscious of the discerning crowd commenting on their bad

  breath and urgent need for remedial dental work.

  Watching quietly near the spectators is a tiger burning

  bright, his flaming stripes catching a dazzling Sun

  and giving off a strange translucence blinding

  the sullen horde, some of whom are already drifting away

  to O’Reilly’s select bar (‘Best Food and Drinks’) where

  three elephants, trunks in an open beer barrel, are

  drinking to forget an incident of the previous night

  when they trampled to death an old owl who unwisely

  crossed their path as he turned his head to watch an elegant

  horse drawn carriage, filled with cartons of single, double,

  long life and clotted cream, driven by a fat Persian cat,

  slowly make its way to the end of the street where

  a man stood under a full moon, large stone in hand,

  waiting for two unsuspecting birds.

  Physics For Poets

  He was running out of creative ideas in

  an ocean of surplus words in the fifth

  stanza of a Paradelle on the mysteries of

  the universe and the distance across it.

  At the delicate point of eliminating words

  and revising repeating lines the light

  bulb in the sitting room fizzled and died.

  A loud voice from a large stationary object

  nearby bellowed out ‘You good for nothing

  bastard, how many times have I told you to

  buy bulbs. But oh no, you would prefer writing

  rubbish which puts no money on the table.’

  Sighing he reluctantly laid down his pen,

  lifted a gun from a drawer in his writing

  desk and took careful aim.

  Questions

  I probe another lifetime seeking answers

  fastened to future dreams;

  curious we never met and were you

  there too, happy before our time?

  Perhaps we should have had children, the

  statement dancing provocatively, sinuously,

  my mind pondering the colour of their hair,

  age and place in a different past.

  Strange how we are filled with the same

  dismal family histories and stories of anguish;

  lengthy in time and short in the telling,

  their end trailing into moments of silence,

  minds alert to the similar, the hope growing

  the other knows, understands, and is setting out

  to build on fragile foundations a house of joy.

  Impatiently I blurt out ‘I love you.’

  Rhymes Of God

  When I am young I shall mould the fortune

  of my days into meadows of my own clay.

  Donning the trousers my mother wore I shall

  sing of wisdom as I walk and patient be

  the one all will love and looking after aged

  parents in their silent house call the laughing

  children home to tea, tuck them in and talk

  delight; linger in doorways watching eyes grow

  dim and in th
e light of first new morning time

  create rhymes of God and everything.

  Yet in this new skin I can feel the past calling

  from the void of my own creation, the tolling of

  indifference, great songs of nothing from my

  hurrying years, telling of a life laid end to end

  amongst troubled people, and how I must to climb

  the high steps unburden stone at the heart’s core

  Rome

  Across from me two priests sip Tommasi Amarone

  and eat pasta e lenticchie with coniglio bianco.

  Glancing in my direction they speak quietly leaning

  one to the other. Outside Asian and African nuns walk

  by with shiny black briefcases, white veils contrasting

  with their dark features and the black limousine waiting to

  take the feasting clergymen back to the Vatican.

  On Via Condotti the pretty Gucci girl, bending down to put

  shoes on a fur-coated moustached matron, winks at me with

  her pert bottom while over at Brioni a security guard

  theatrically stops me taking photographs of a black raincoat

  reduced to a month’s salary. I want to show this to my mother,

  who tired of life but not money will make more of it than my

  story of gold and silvered sacred vestments in the tiresome

  Vatican museum.

  Near the Borgese a young couple on a bench, she facing him

  on his lap, darkness falling, stop gyrating when we walk by

  talking earnestly about the marble creases in Pauline’s couch

  and how Bernini could have done it, and what time we will eat

  after a rest and a bath, and how to get back to our small hotel,

  and how cold it is in this dim park and what is lurking behind

  the growling bushes surrounding us.

  On the Via Del Curso pretty young things in mini-skirts and

  leg warmers fight their way into overcrowded shops. Nearby

  the smell of chestnuts and homeless in boxes does not detain

  eager Japanese pushing their way to the Trevi fountain, and I,

  imagining Marcello Mastroianni grinning waist high in water,

  wonder was it Candice Bergen or Audrey Hepburn with him and

  are they still alive and smiling?

  At the Piazza Venezia crowds risking death cross to the