Thursday, May 28, 2015

A November Sonnet

It is enough, perhaps, that you are near;
You bring a moist caress, a seeming sweat,
And even lovers loved learn to forget
Those other touches they once held so dear.
But November, my love, believe, sincere,
That it is you, your dusk, your always wet
That pains me most, once gone, ensures regret,
And makes of festive dates an empty cheer.
So, ninth month in name, eleventh in time
May you always remain, embrace with chill;
And if your weeks should pass, your days should end
Leave something of your cold, your damp sublime,
That mortals, such as I, might live until
You come again, return to me, my friend.

Friday, May 22, 2015

Flight from Manchester

It cost a fortune to be there, flying from
Manchester's airport. I paid in soul first. Pangs.
Birth. Growth. Reluctant ageing. Reluctant age.
And I carry my payment all about me.
Signs of Dublin, other streets, daily trodden
On, leaving memories and forgotten things.

And afterwards, other charges, more, unseen.
An airport tax, a security guard, proud,
Friendly in his voice, eyeing the suspicion,
Offence of water. Recently bought. Caesar
Paid a fortune to buy this unwelcome thing.
"I'm afraid you can't take that liquid through, sir."

Water is no terrorist. Freedom fighter
Rather. Liberating flesh, keeping it young.
But, Judas without a kiss, I leave its crime
Unquestioned. Hand water to death. Its end-time.
Inside, treachery forgot, just memories,
I pay more, more money-fortunes on the same.

The taxi-driver knew this. Cost-a-fortune
Of things. He flew Cheap Air. Paid more to return.
And afternoons drives littered streets, crumpled shapes,
People in theatre doors: 'Best show in town.'
We pass, forgetting now, beneath spring-shine sun,
Talk, Saturday afternoon, a sky-blue team.

He'd "seen it all before, you see. The despair.
City going down. Sold out. In all his years
Can't complain now. Treated well. Fans. Kids go free.
We're not used to success, but". Me neither, I say.
They're billion billionaires own his team.
I sweat, spring-shine sun. Pay a fortune on clothes.

I fly Cheap Air too. Just like him. Jet-setting
As masses do. Save a fortune. Vodka-coke
Ladies, from a bottle, "not his business",
Go to Milan, "mix it in toilets", giggle
Without water. I travel on to Dublin,
Loud holiday hats, girls in pink, boys in black.

They talk numbers: one; two; three; four; five; and down
In one. Loud talk of youthful pleasures, their own.
I age. I do not eat in Hard Rock Cafe
And afters of lager-beer. Always comes up
In morning. I think rather, cost-a-fortune,
Of Dublin streets, long trodden, daily cleaned.

Until we're there, passenger scramble. Bend. Wait.
Race start. I might spend a fortune of time, sat,
Cool in my seat; and might save a fortune too,
No energies spent. But I observe, aged soul,
That cost-a-fortunes, save-a-fortunes still cost.
And thought-done, collect things, forget much, go home.

Boscean Birthdays

Alexander, tall, proud, pronounced in green, brown
Off-white; the yellow-flowered gold of prickled gorse;
A free-singing, morning thrush, antheming; and fairy-
Robins, tits, sparrows, flickering bush to bush,
Playing hide-and-seek with black, invisible
Birds; chough, gull, soaring, calling. Such is the
Decoration of fields, fields in which white-tailed
Bunnies skip, cows, black, brown, speckled, moove,
A lone white horse - much helloed - stands indifferent.

All of these, and more: Hello Bulls; Hello Pony; Hello
Fabulous Day; I would gladly gift to you.
I would wrap them in skies: blue; grey; grey-clouded;
Misted and unseen; seen, removed from our eyes.
I would sound your birth in rough gale or silence.
And toast it, white foam, or stillness of the sea.
But it is enough, you say, as with me
That I am yours - we love; and this being so, this day
Our days, Boscean Birthdays, are forever glorious.

Bleak Beauty

Mine was no tin-mine. Nothing grand, stark,
Brazen autumn red, evening sun aglow.
Brick upon stone upon stone, high rise
Above gorse, tawny fern, Cornish cliff.
As if briefly infinite, eternal.

Mine was just a path, an ordering of mud.
Unearthing stone. Shifting, straining unearthed stone
Inches, feet, yards. A tiny expanse unending,
Ended. And digging, the fertile give, orange-brown clay,
Through worm-aired muck to ungiving, granite-stop.

And it was not mine then, just earth. Silent.
Noise teeming. Life-teeming. Above, below, within.
Atlantic storm sound, galed. Bending, bent life
Answering, however silent, however noise-rich
The question that I, mine, miners, builders ask

As children, guardianed, 'don't touch', touch.
Fingers immediate touching, taste, foul-taste, sweet.
Shifting grains of land, building stone-paths, brick mines
And passing on. Built beauties present, fading,
Untouching. The bleak beauty. Remain. Weather on.