CALL FAILED

Damn it, we were like gorillas,

vision reduced, tripping on tangled vines,

shouting and cursing in the mist;

gorillas, hulks, arms hanging,

dull brains firing off

random instructions to limbs

that did not connect.

Gorillas in the mist:

we missed as though miles apart

for all the good our shouting did.

Instead, let’s shed this fur,

enough of these make-believe uniforms –

remodel our jaws,

let human talk begin

and textured skin shine.

Be mysterious if you will,

but speak your mind! 

THE LIGHTENING

Among the pleasures provided

by my father, Suddhodana,

to keep me captive and distracted

in his palace in Kapilavastu,

in the foothills of the Himalayas,

in winter he lit fires

of the finest aromatic

sandalwood from Benares

and in summer

sent me concubines who

danced and taunted

through nights of music

beside pools

of white lotuses

and of blue.

My father sought to spare me

from the realities

of suffering, age and death

but drove me to escape.

My journeys over years

were as a common man.

I was drawn to Benares,

a colosseum of steps

flanking the arena of the Ganges,

smoke of sandalwood pyres,

smell not as in my father’s palace

but of roasting ghee and flesh.

Each day I saw the ashes and bones of

one hundred men and women

scattered on the river

and each evening

souls set afloat

on leaves with candles

as the river drifted towards morning.

So I chose Benares

as the place

to preach my sermon.

THE PASSING

By about eleven it was clear

that another day was improbable.

On Friday he appreciated

the huge moon rising

and likewise the sun

on Saturday morning.

Being on the fourth floor

heightened his perception

of these natural things

and of course

the clearly recognised end.

Under the plastic mask

bubbling oxygen by-passes

his closed eyes. He mumbles,

coughs, automatically readjusts

with his right hand

the IV line:

She responds,

plays a little

coaxes him –

cat with

captured sparrow.

We’ll all

feel differently

tomorrow.

SALVE MATER MISERICORDIAE

The final kiss:

the tearing viscera -

he never fully

left my womb:

it came to this.

His generous smile was

his and only his:

nineteen years:

gorgeous teeth and lips:

his company’s been my bliss.

Well, he went away

with guys like him

a sporting team

to fight in Afghanistan

God knows why.

Stabs me to picture his face

torn to splat and gore

last week by a roadside bomb.

Two mates died beside him

in that lunar landscape.

I knew that there was trouble

when a car pulled up

and an army chaplain stepped out.

My womb bleeds to death:

I choke under rubble.

THE STROKE OF ONE

2011 Nobel Laureate Tomas Tranströmer - 1990

I woke that spring morning

happy to hear birdsong

but disconcerted:

the long shadow of a headache

stretched as far as I could see.

Beyond the woods

beyond words

a wintry sun was setting.

These dissonant things –

spring and winter,

sunrise and sunset,

song and pain –

were omens of cold chaos.

In a flash my spirit

was caught like a fish in a net,

my flesh pulled and spun

through an unfamiliar deep.

.

I awoke three days later –

Jonah on an alien shore –

unable to speak:

half my body was an exhausted traveller

heaving the other half,

an inert brother,

over one shoulder

searching for a door

among splintered forests

polluted streams and rivers

in the war-torn country

of my mind.

In weeks scarce words

returned in a haiku, thus:

So my thoughts struggle.

My ideas suffocate

my Hiroshima.

Then, sufficient for a short paragraph of prose,

after months, staccato conversation,

two years and the piano,

left hand only.

Sonatinas, ostinati.

My dear, dear Fibich and Mompou…

I fear this resurrection of the body:

raised in the image

of a left-sided hemi-god.

‘For in the twinkling of an eye

we shall all be changed…’

and I was.

                  ………………

Three weeks after my event

Sravanthi, a young poet

studying with me,

brought me a stone

the size of a pigeon’s egg –

polished, heavy, ferrous –

a fragment of a meteorite:

uncurling my fingers

she nestled it in my palm.

‘As your hand warms it,’ Sravanthi said,

‘at the stroke of one each day

for two hours its power will flow

along your meridians to your soul.’

A word was inscribed

upon it in Sanskrit:

Akhanda – whole.

When later I could feel

and roll Sravanthi’s gift

images came to me –

of summer sunlight filtered

through tall trees,

green pastures,

Manhattan sky-scapes

and grand canyons of its avenues:

I hesitated beside still waters.

With time I learned the lavish comfort

of the soul for mind and body.

As my soul healed I found

it shared its strength

to urge me back

and haltingly I followed.

HAPPINESS HAPPENS MONTH

                                      I

Sextilis was the name of the sixth child

in Romulus’ family of ten months

then Popilius produced two more month-babies –

January and February – in 700BC.

Popilius decreed that Sextilis had 29 days

to do its business but out of kindness

Julius Caesar added two in 45BC.

Sextilis’ name was changed to August in honour

of Octavian who conquered Alexandria

in that month in 30BC. Octavian went on  

to change his own name to Augustus

pursuing propinquity and pride.

His conquest of Alexandria

gave Augustus such joy

that August is now the month

we celebrate how happiness happens:

no one is certain, it’s true,  

but for various reasons

we presume the creative method  

has to do with the moon and in 2012

August began with a full

and ended with a blue,

so happiness may be

doubly abundant this year.

                             II

How happiness happens

is a peculiarly American industry.

There are questionnaires about sex,

happiness-enhancement classes,

positive thinking courses,

biblical quotes to memorise,

smiles to learn alone or with

Norman Vincent Peel in the mirror,

hand-clasps to practise in company and

many happy-making things to buy.

For those itching to know

things that explain

how happiness happens

comes to be celebrated in August

include August being

Psoriasis Awareness Month

and Goats Cheese Month.

Its first week is World Breastfeeding Week

so a choice of dairy is available:

August is also

Get Ready for Kindergarten Month

for those who have finished with the breast

and whose psoriasis is no longer contagious.

If you feel you are failing

in your pursuit of happiness

and your brain is disintegrating

here’s your last hope:

August is also Neurosurgery Outreach Month.

DOG

Was it the Bishop of Barking

who announced that Dog is dead?

Was that really what he said

or was he just skylarking?

The dog had strayed into my school

and I made friends with him, or he with me.

I was seven and too enamoured to see

we were each in our way a fool.

He followed me the mile to my home

where I lived with my dad and mad mother.

I thought of him as a possible brother

though I could see he was likely to roam.

Each day I fed him, hugged, had a chat.

I grew much attached to Dog:

a friend to hold in the fog.

I should have left it at that.

He followed me back to the schoolyard.

The principal called the cops who rather

with pleasure shot him, I gathered,

and thus my new-love died.

I watched from afar as they wheeled him

in a barrow, with kids shouting with fun

and buried him in Judd's Paddock. The gun

intrigued the kids and the cop showed it to them.

Later I looked in the tall grass

for his grave with a mouthful of dread.

After three days I saw him in the distance - risen from the dead!

A secret, secret thing that I kept from the class.