Deserts of Vast Eternity

 

Deserts of Vast Eternity

 

Most fighting fish are stupid –

yes, they are stupid.

 

Swimming in deserts of vast eternity,

except, you associate deserts with sand

and fish swimming on land

are, on the whole, scarcely found.

 

But, define stupid and you may conclude

that these are fish holding views

in conflict with you

 

and yours. Frustrating, is it not?

Here comes a steaming great polyglot

of aquatic subrational species

swimming in and amongst the intellectual faeces

that serves as a subsurface pelagic zone

they are pleased to dub home.

 

I speak not to disprove what it is you deem

logical – you may think that to me they seem

unworthy of gills – but this is not ethics

when I caution you they keep having sex.

 

Maybe, like me, you feel pathos pull

at you - a new and inexperienced school

swimming enraptured into our aforesaid pool –

perhaps let’s call it their induction,

for argument’s sake – or preparation –

really, it is all one.

 

But there are some who say: ‘come, come,’

and with oxidised fins beckon,

then pack them all on

a multi-coloured, sub-surface contraption

that will convey them to meeting on meeting

in order to knock out invention

and pack them with stuffing.

 

Why, some become nothing but teddy bears!

I have seen it and I swear

it confounds all rationality. Only yesterday

I was trapped. A flying fish  who stayed

atrophied in thought some 40 years too long

found her way onto the quarterdeck.

 

Her words, such as they were,

belied a life that, to her, was full - so sure

she was. ‘I have seen such worlds

since I retired, and filled my belly

with meat and drink, I slept

in the finest hotels and met

such celebrated fish as turn out on pitches,

and there I took these pictures.’

 

And soon she swooned

for she had stayed out of her pool

so long – no listeners there had heart enough

to throw her back amongst such stuff

as dreams are made of.

 

But yet – who is to say that such piscation

does not bring the shoals elation?

There is validity in the common view

and safety in the cluster -

any ideas to the contrary will not pass muster

and can safely be dismissed –

 

Afterall, most fighting fish

are stupid. Yes, they are stupid to swim 

just deserts there

and find nothing

but the opportunistic predator.

All The Way Down

 

All The Way Down

 

I first flew with the butterflies,

taking to the skies

with trepidation – there were flowers below,

the names of which I did not know,

never would, could not taste them

or leave wing-prints behind.

Nor did I have an inkling

of anything approaching destination.

She gives me a sultry wink and sighs:

‘All the way down there?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, uncertain inside,

as she stabs at an imaginary map,

stamps the passport, all hijab and official cap.

Stewardess shepherdess, I think,

but she will not be taking the flight.

Ten years have passed since that

happened – Emirates, and how it was,

closing the door on one life,

opening onto another chance - because,

well, that old story had ended in tragedy.

I did not know it then,

and thought you could revisit books,

return to the library for another look,

once you’d paid the fine.

But it’s not the case – they rip up pages,

rewrite chapters, only remember haphazards,

or come travellers, come blizzards -

and the title is buried.

So here, on this 11^th time around,

I’m different now, familiar sights and sounds.

The capped attendants have changed,

the wink and stamp the same

but they can spot shook pepper pots of seasoning –

some depression and foreboding, too,

but at the same time know that you

are part of the furniture

that completes the room –

all the butterflies have long since flown.

Those? My prints after thumbing down corners

but what chapter this is or in what order

I cannot say. They say I will be seeing

the final chapter as it comes into being –

I did not flit, look, leave - but left imprints on it,

all this, I did – today en route, I saw a car flip:

it hit the hedgerow, A392,

cut across the bus and pancake tossed.

I prayed they were safe, no life lost,

but, at the same time,

clutched my flight ticket and left it behind,

prepared to do - and be

my little bit of feng shui.

It Brings You Together

 

It Brings You Together

 

There once was a donkey

who guarded a thistle – it’s true –

nurtured purple, bruised blue,

clopping daily from her barn

to the Sky Glass widescreen –

rating all crime dramas ever seen,

‘I feel depressed, distressed;

there ain’t one of these I’ve missed.’

He nods; clears away the mess.

 

In another place not far away

which abutted, they had a power-out.

Is that actually a thing? No doubt.

Anyway, they’re watching

when, suddenly - Pif, Paf, Poof –

the cathode ray tube pops;

fades to grey, hits black.

 

Huddled around a candle,

casting jittery shadows,

with a sweet smell of waxy wick

he’s hurdling steps, double quick,

finds a couple of torches, kept

for such occasions as this,

rare as they may be –

 

She considers, and declaims: ‘funny how

it always brings you all together.’

There’s a hole while

they consider empty spaces –

then the light comes back

and he’s off upstairs to pack.

Only the Strong

 

Only the Strong

 

Take weeds – no, take mosquitos,

nipping at your heels;

your ankles – how often you feel them

kissing hairs just above –

ah, it must have been love

but it’s over now

and even though you dealt her a death blow

there’s snowdrifts more coming through.

 

Once a flea thought he was not a flea

at all, and jumped, maybe

150 times his relative size

but, alas, he was not king all he surveyed.

His was a schoolboy error, made

landing, as he did, on sticky tape.

You folded him inside

like amber, but on contraction he popped

and what a lot of blood he’s got –

yours, probably.

 

Back to weeds, this summer’s heat,

relentless, the burning sun scalded the lawn

crispy brown until grasses being born

gave it up as a bad job. Still, patches of green

are dotted hereabouts, like bacteria

thriving in a Petri dish that time you warmed

your coughs and sneezes -

thistles, docks, dandelion clocks, riding breezes

and thriving.

 

Why? And the brambles

abseiling your fences, downward spears

tooled up with thorn, there’ll be tears

if you pluck what sour fruit is on offer –

you scowl, make busy with the Roundup or Raid,

but it seems they like the taste –

that or greet you from some other place.

 

Sneaky bastards – they’ll gouge out your eyes

given half a chance – they despise

your weakness – you can’t articulate why,

what it is that’s needling you,

nor can they put it into words,

how they keep just ticking along,

how there’s nothing here wrong,

mate, holding out hands that if bitten

become feeders, suckers, creepers – give nothing

unless you’re counting bees -

even these seem to tuck tail and flee.

 

You could argue,

the more you cultivate, the more the risk,

while sheering wool, you’re fleeced –

but take out the mower, attack at least:

while down on the line, you spare a copper, Guv,

salve your soul or do it for love,

making measurements of how strong

by the frequency in which you're preyed upon.

Moving On Up

 

Moving On Up

 

Some songs sting more than most,

but not for those reasons:

 

not love, not hate,

never the changing of the seasons

or the guard - the rennet’s set them hard -

coagulated whatever stirred.

Some songs sting because they’re heard.

 

I speak not of loss but something’s lost:

they’ve done us wrong,

moving on out, your time is up –

some bland playlist drops,

Falconer and Garraway rap

something milquetoast, rock your baby,

but I’d rather jack than Fleetwood Mac

and I always hated crap like that

 

And so say all of us, or should –

but no – so smooth, you’d gag

like you did when they served semolina.

 

One day, I predict, you’ll rue

lack of potholes, bumps in the road.

Dreams? Means nothing now.

Somebody to Love? Broken vows.

Baby Can I Hold You? You did.

It Must Have Been Love? I fled.

Moving On Up? But where?

What have you found that counts?

 

Join me, if you will, but won’t,

burn an ear, if you do, but don’t,

pardon my misgivings

but set my face in stone,

I’ll walk on, walk on, alone –

 

There’s part of me keeps on wishing

while the nation congeals,

and it grieves alongside Curtis Mayfield.

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

‘You disappeared from view.’

And – on cue –

Mylor Harbour fading out like Layla,

and other assorted love songs

‘And we were worried about you –

but, moving on…’

 

Simon’s got the helm,

steady as she goes -

you could trail your hand

and stroke the mirrorlon below,

break blue borders,

to send ripples to shore’s far corners

imperceptible by the time

they make landfall

and comb the grains,

but they’d be there, just the same.

 

‘Those are oysters,’ he reports,

his voice cutting through their small talk

like a short bladed knife -

each hiding a pearl,

cufflinks for boys, strings for girls.

 

You wonder if he now wishes

he’d stayed below to steer

from within the cabin, not here

on the quarterdeck.

That’s me escaped up the fo'c's'l

by the bowsprit,

but I can still hear it:

their talk a sink full of greasy dishes.

 

I remember we had adjacent offices,

I hadn’t stayed in touch –

such things become too much

like most people are -

the latest flatscreen, the newest car:

 

‘And then we stayed at the Hilton,

Singapore, and at the bar, guess who?

Lionel Richie with the forward row

of England’s starting 15, true –

and that's Ben singing 'Nessun Dorma',

just over there, by the corner...

but, you know,

we were worried about you…’

None shall sleep.

They don't know; the idea creeps

that you could dip them both in Carrick Roads,

trail them behind the boat

to see if its glistering wake could soak

through; make them gleam.

But the only bubbles blown

are the ones they call their own

and trapped within

they push outwards at that thinning skin,

a long way from here to home.

 

Simon grunts while I make clear

there was one boat deploying forwards,

and another abandoned here;

tied to that pontoon;

you don't want to make a splash,

just a dash for new horizons

or sometimes you just get drafted

and there’s no raft back –

 

Or - if there is - it just exists

drifts and drifts, screwing cork into itself

crewed by two by twos

dipping and pulling on opposing oars –

just flotsam from wrecks, 

lashed together

with creepers for the deck.

Coming Round Again

 

Coming Round Again

 

Belts and braces – literally –

let’s not try metaphor, hide meaning,

instead, let’s feed on feelings

either eat or be consumed

because sometimes they take teaspoons,

tap your head,

crack you open like an egg.

It’s coming round again,

tonguing your belly like fire,

moving up through guts to heart

and we all have guilt. For a start,

your sending him to school in trousers

tied around the waist with string

and I have pain about similar things:

Belts and braces – don’t fade.

Children can be cruel at that age,

I remember my own drubbing,

those second tier bullies rubbing

my youngish nose in it -

and a coat unpicked,

stich by stitch, at the seams,

every night trying to avoid another clubbing

by concealing more leaked stuffing.

But, you know, you slough

your chrysalis and make it to man.

These days, I’m old – I can

reach in my pocket, shell out a few shekels,

after all, it’s only what life has dealt,

so, let’s go to buy the boy a belt.