Here’s four poems altogether, the first two related to New Year stuff, the second one being for a friend of mine, for whom 2015 means the year when he defends himself against a charge of “historic abuse”. His case is one of those where one guy says “I didn’t do it” and the other guy says “yes you did”, and the bemused judge says “well, can either of you actually remember? – well never mind, I’ll flip a coin, but by God the taxpayer’s going to pay for all the fun we’ve had here this week” ….I don’t mind courts – in fact I’d happily advise that the death penalty be introduced (I could say re-introduced, but I’m not sure that such a law has actually ever been on the statute books) for people who knowingly abuse the people’s trust, ie specifically for big business, high finance, politicians, government officials, top brass in health and education etc: that would surely be a sign that we’d at last started to take the idea of democracy seriously, wouldn’t it? – but for many other matters, related to poverty or inadequate education, and especially crimes that involve confusion of mind, courts of “justice” – “high” courts, judges, juries, black caps and white wigs – no, people, it’s time to grow up. So that’s moving on into the third poem, which is about confusion of mind, especially as regards sex. Personally, I’m of the opinion that the thing we call “our mind” doesn’t actually exist – particularly with regard to the “our” bit. Inevitably, that means we spend a lot of our time going round in a fog of confusion – which is all right in itself: it’s just when we think we’ve found the solution that things tend to go tits-up. And the last poem is also a bit about sex – no actually it’s not, it’s maybe more about the bit of us that’s taught to think it’s sex when what’s really at issue something far more deep-reaching. – I think, but whaddo I know. (I am, therefore I am?)
Happy New 2015, Soon It’ll be May-time.
So you’ve joined the party
you tell me, you tell me
the partying was wild….
I see no blood
I say, what are you telling me?
Oh, night-time – you stayed up
all night? You’re brave
indeed you’re wild. Let me tell you
How men partied once
they wore steel gloves then
when they tossed back a draught
it was entrails, still warm
sometimes a heart still
Next time you Join a party
next new year or whatever
keep it to yourself, there’s a lad
leave me in my wood
and don’t invoke me:
I’ve seen wilder parties
wrestling with blancmange
Operation Yew Tree.
It’s the yew-tree’s magic arrows
that brought the mounted nobility down.
Aye right, as we say in the Barras,
that’ll be the end of the nobility, then.
The yew-tree’s roots, were they ever numbered
yet everyone knew there was one
for each mouth of however many hundred
lay in the graveyard all around.
See here, Operation Yew-Tree, what a joy
an open door for the weak-minded
Come unto me, the Saviour cries
I’ll give you rest for your souls, you scumbags
For when we’ve twisted the restraining wire
round those loose corks, there’ll be a celebration
– but nothing grand, for down at the harbour
a ship awaits us: to Palestine and beyond!
For those Nazi Jews and the Prophet’s putrid
rag-tag, they’ve had it coming, and standing idle
is not an option! And then there’s Russia, Putin’s
runaway wagon – oh there’s no end to our goodwill.
Operation Yew-Tree, what a gas. No smoke
without fire, you say. I’ll tell you where the fire is
it’s the poison root that stoppers, chokes down
each and every mouth, down to your oesophagus
You want smoke, put that in your pipe
and smoke it. When we say (in the Barras)
it’s a sair fecht – if that sounds like victor’s hype
then see: the Saviour weeping over his broken sparrows.
In the Tree-Top.
Between the child and the Feminine
there comes the female, a brief flicker
if truth be known, that all men chase after
forever, chase it, our pants down
at the ready, panting and grinning
But as we climb a little higher
up into the hush-a-bye branches
look our pants were down again, and none too
willingly, remember? for her non-stop cleaning
her licking and her wiping and scrubbing
And some, confused, slip down the tree
slithering over the boundaries, and then
guess what? it’s pants down again
to take the public flogging for
being such dirty boys – monsters even –
So sorry your honour I thought it was a vagina
and please your honour I never even look at them
and honestly your honour, those eyes
they’re so…. how can you not….
It’s just the way we’re born….
And some rebel, and avoid her altogether
and leave the tree and think thereby
to have achieved some kind of liberation…
Do you think she cares? do you think
we’re any the less the way we started?
But how are we, you ask
as our little girl flickers through it
– what a queen she becomes as she climbs!
True, there are nasty moments, repercussions
and tears, and bad dogs hungry at the door
But when she thinks it may be the summit
thinks she’s aspiring to the Feminine and all
is ordered by her direction
in fact it’s leading her a dangerous dance
up among the treetops, among the blossoms:
She thinks she belongs here
that it was all made for her to be, when all
the while she’s quite expendable –
you frown at me and your look grows uncertain
and a breeze gets up and all the bees
Surge off and throb in rhythm
while the blossoms shake and was she
you or was it me? Look, there she goes! she goes.
Hers was another tree, did she not know?
the tree of Knowledge that she ignored.
Snow White and the Wicked Prince
Snow White knew. She knew he was a bad man
and she should not go with him into the trees.
She knew he had a sharp dagger
and an ominously-empty satchel at his side.
Against that, she’d been told:
that’s the way the smart girls go
something happens, they change
and they’re all the better for it.
The nature of the Something no-one would say
so she assumed it was something to do with sex.
She’d seen him returning with the satchel
stained with blood. She knew about blood.
Against that, many approved
of the crystal casket, where at will
she could cocoon herself from the world.
She made it one of her lifestyle choices.
Now here’s Mrs Mirror,
she’s very pleased with herself
she turns, and pats herself and strokes
and bunches and pulls her belly in
And little phantom steps she takes
to bring herself full circle.
And the wicked forester hands her a pig’s heart
and here’s another, he says, and here’s another.
Against that, there’s the shivering girl
crawling on skinned hands, raw knees
ragged through the clawing brambles
pushing through the bitter herbs
nose pressed to the mud, to scent out
the faintest of trails, that nobody sees.
she’s there, she may have lost her heart
but not her nose, thankfully not her nose.
They still talk about the wicked prince
who blew the lid and let in the frantic winds.
He’s not there yet
but in a little while he will be.