No Pablo Neruda
Essays on life, work and literatureArchive for April, 2010
Blessed
Curled up in pages,
unromantic,
but dim of a future
we have not yet seen,
I see at least,
the sentiment
of no lack of want
and blessings to the other things
which heaven
hangs a veil between.
Consume more
and consume less,
divine a path
to happiness,
or, at least, the sentient
core of human heart
must be nurtured more.
The damning of
our acute mind
is also freedom
from the deliveries
of time,
and the leftover graces
of angels,
may, perhaps, be our
stories and
the passages we share
between unfurled pages.
Terribly Oppressed
A dull dread, an electronic
communication
that sits in bold
by indignation
and hope so winsome
fits and starts
and darkens about
breaking parts.
We won’t win the war,
not this, if we persist
to click
on morning work emails
and doggedly pursue
tough trails
not really looking to
the grail
that is full with happy mess
and gives us all such happiness.
One man there was
who took a job
and sat there til
he grew real old
and when they said
he was let go
he died with dreams
we didn’t know.
We won’t win the war,
not if we don’t realise
that there are things
worth fighting for.
And I can cast a thousand doubts
but ultimately it’s all about
the mistakes we make
in reaching for
belief beyond
the rigors of the law.
Night Thoughts
The smell of steaks being cooked for dinner is in the stair well, travelling from the neighbour’s house. From the roof, the sound of crickets is low and melodious as I test my washing to see if it is dry (it is damp).
Back down the carpeted stairwell the unmistakable sound of the television set comes out in staggers fits and bursts from bind closed doors.
Blinds down, windows shut against the cool night air and bodies reclined in couches, these are all of the things which take place at the onset of the night.
My own apartment is empty, but I similarly comfortable and through my door, if you stood there, an ear cocked, you would hear the sound of the television now that I have finished reading and switched from the digital channel which plays only jazz. I have half a mind to the television set, half a mind to the computer and the flow of words which are dictated by the movement of my fingertips and, at the back of mind, a full but nevertheless desirous want for a rich pasta dinner sided by a forgiving salad.
It is hot between the confines of my apartment walls, but I switch between clear heatedness and a sudden chill so for the time being the fan is stilled and the only sound, bar the television set, is the gurgling of my fish tank in a corner by the kitchen.
I wonder about my sister and what she is doing now and envy her, without any reservation, for the fact that her partner is company tonight, while I am alone.
Now and again, in a house that is big enough to give me privacy when it is needed, I wouldn’t mind coming across an affectionate face just to cast a few words of ease into the terrors and anxieties that so often come upon at me night.
Many years for this, though, I rationalise, and for the time being a movie, my pasta, a salad, a glass of water and, later, a book that will send me to sweet are the unobtrusive, nocturnal companions of my solitary life.
Slump
Well we started with execution
which was deeply profound
she leapt and when she landed
she didn’t make a sound
and the audience held its breath
in a collective gasp of delight
until her legs went spreadeagled
and she tumbled out of sight
now only the shadows
and the things left discarded
can witness her face, which
is so pale and broken hearted.
The shadows can’t nourish her
nor the silence lead her on
but the audience has a harsh glare
when she starts performing wrong.
Her only true companion,
her mistake, time and time again,
by the stage, in curtained darkness
is the empty pillow, the absent friend.
Not so good
in short, not very good
at love and other stuff
make a few mistakes
my skills are rough
but I try, and despite my lack
one day I’ll find
someone trying back.
