for the time we have.
How could I write about this in a year?
the winter will mutter it wasn’t like that,
the spring will demur and the summer won’t care
and the autumn lie back
and ponder what time will there be for it all
in a life? And of course being autumn he’ll sigh
and he’ll write what he writes, as he must, as he will,
while you and I
are gone like the word, who were more than the word,
whom the word couldn’t hold and the word can’t see.
The answer to most of my questions is Nowhere,
the rest Search me.
The Shudder
With you at work and gone for hours I lay
thinking of you. And in that shade of peace
because I wouldn’t dream of it there rose
to mind some monstrous day
of leaving you, just moving on, grim suitcase
packed, the kitchen thrown a final look,
keys posted through, street gone from, all the work
of time and trace of us
discarded to one numb rewritten note
you’d notice on a shelf. – I couldn’t stand
to have imagined this and wished my mind
our brimful cat’s, all bright
eternally with now. And what was now
got better by the hour – this hideous sight
had somehow softened death, relit its light,
its circus act, its bow,
compared to what had crossed my mind. I’d seen
a man there never was, could never be –
while death was local, of this parish, he
and I grew closer then.
Seven Things Wrong With The Love Sonnet
for Anna
Accept this old container from this old
container: Seven Things Wrong With The Love Sonnet.
It’s planned – we weren’t. It’s structured to unfold
in a set time – we haven’t and we shouldn’t.
It lets no silence in – we do and share it.
It boasts it will outlast us – let it try it.
And say it does – we’ll not be here to hear it.
And say it doesn’t – in our dozing quiet
we shan’t miss anything so we shan’t miss it.
It’s pondering how to end – profoundly sod it.
Sod poetry for its nodding little visit.
For the time it’s costing you to have to read it,
for the time it took from me. It’s had its say.
Let it stand guard here, say they went thataway.
Waking
When you’re
not here
and leaving blank the page
would say so better than this groan of waking,
before I
know my
self as stuff at all,
when nothing has transpired, or could, or will
then I’m some
Adam
fumbling in a wood
made for god-knows-what beyond the word
I have
for Eve –
the word I have for Eve
is rising to its place – the word I have
is going
without saying –
now more than sunlight dawns
and more than everywhere and more than finds
the path
in breath,
whatever comes of it –
should the word it mean breath, word, path, or sunlight,
should it
mean what
makes canvas of the dark,
and, of the desolation, handiwork.
Plainsong Of The Undiscovered
You who go in search
with a lantern and a staff
in the dark that you consider
to be dark that wishes only
to be scattered by your lantern
may we ask you to remember you are
visible for miles
have been visible to us
from the dark that you consider
to be dark we are observing
the decisions of your lantern
but what’s scribbled by a sparkler wasn’t
scribbled there for long
like it wasn’t true for long
in the dark that you consider
to be dark we’re all around you
so why don’t you shade your lantern
let your aching eyes accustom to the
peace before the thought
in this peace we congregate
from the dark that you consider
to be dark we wish to tell you
you have no need of a lantern
if you come for us the way we say to
come for us like you
come for us like all of you
for we suffer and we wonder
where we meet we suffer wonder
we have always been the same
and by that we mean the same as always
changing with the light
and we will not come to light
if you come with black-or-whiteness
do not come with black-or-whiteness
come with everything between
come with everything there might have been and
bring some who won’t come
also some who are long gone
bring the jesting and the yawning
and the reckless and uncaring
you have been what they have been
come with everyone you never think of
then we’ll come to light
or what you consider light
come with every kind of colour
colours you don’t think are colours
colours none of you has seen
we shall be where we have always been and
come for us with love
we say come for us with love
if you do not understànd love
it is dark where you are looking
we say good luck with your lantern
in a cell that’s got no doors or windows
we are leaving now
we may never catch your eye
but we bide and we are hopeful
not for anything just hopeful
we’ll be hopeful if you find us
we’ll be hopeful if you never find us
you who go in search
with a lantern and a staff
through the dark that you consider
to be dark we have departed
and we bless your tiny lantern
from a distance none alive can fathom
Death Comes To Everyman
I hie me to the last-night party
show I’d not played any part in
hadn’t even got around to
catching don’t to this day know what
play it was.
Encounter at the last-night party
jubilant and brimming actors
watch them reach the end of jokes they
start to ask me what I’d reckoned
to their show
they’re marking with a last-night party
let’s derail them with a story
all about them they don’t know I
get them clinking in a dream-world
gives me time
to sail on through the last-night party
if I might just there excuse me
you were last to pop the question
in a blue-lit bathroom doorway –
who are you
what brings you to the last-night party
friend of a friend are you or someone’s
other half were you backstage? – I
raise my phantom glass and cry
To Theatre!
Advice To The Players
Don’t play the ending. You don’t know this tale
is written down. You’ve no idea out there
in shadow shadows watch our long travail,
some even care, some don’t
don’t play the ending.
Don’t play the ending. Sure you’re in Act Five
and five is all you get, the time is short,
whenever you’re pretending this is LIVE,
whatever sort of scene
it is it’s ending.
Don’t play the ending though the players you love
are mostly playing bodies now, effects
have
