LORD, HOW?

Turquoise has visited this island and spread its table in a lagoon

of fish and turtles behind a coral wall,

nourishment for the bodies and souls of the dying.

The clearest possible skies invite speculation and at night,

beyond the moon in hiding and absent city lights,

the same skies allow starlight unimpeded access

to respond with more questions, deeper inquiries born of quiet grief,

to the questions asked by those whose time is short.

For this is the island of palliative care with cushions for the weary –

a slow and gentle ride (no speed over twenty) –

for those whose illness has taken command,

boats for slow rowing across quiet waters inside the coral reef.

There’s nothing to do without a mobile phone,

life without email. This is a place where slow cycling

and recycling claim the hour, mutton birds and woodhens and palms

indifferent to the passing of those on vacation –

two weeks, then home after tasting the disengagement of the terminal. 

The airstrip is not well suited for landing in a storm.

iROBOT

This morning on the TV I watched

an intelligent machine the size of a curling stone.

It vacuumed hands-free, sensing where it was,

on the floor, reversing on collision,

diving under beds and lounges in search

of roach bodies, desiccated cat piss,

toast crusts and babies’ lost single socks.

The device, the salesman said, was an iRobot

selling at a low price for Christmas,

the season when gravity is especially strong,

and the need for machines that will suck up

what the dogs leave is at its peak

as families meet amidst repulsive dynamics

and spilled food, drink, urine, dribble

of old farts and the puke of young.

This was the ideal gift, the salesman sang,

for the woman or man

who has everything.

Imagine a nano-version of iRobot

stronger than Satan

that I could inject

that would vacuum up the stinking sludge

and slop that I slip in on the floor of my brain,

remove my need to seize a semi-automatic gun,

search out a classroom full of little children.

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.