Two Poems in Spanish

Santa Vida (3rd April, 2012)

Sobre la casa del olvido

Las aves hacen ruido

Porque, Papa querido,

Quisieran fiestar en tu nido.

Toma este rosario, es tu día.

Buen aniversario, santa vida.

Mercedes Sosa sings Violeta Parra’s “Gracias A La Vida”

Gracias (2014)

Gracias a la vida

Que no dura solo un día

Gracias al anochecer

Que nos enseña

Gracias a la alegría

Del amanecer

Y para la sonrisa

Del baile creer.

Thanks to life 

That doesn't last just one day 

Thanks to the twilight

That teaches us 

Thanks to the joy 

Of the dawn

And for believing

In dancing with a smile.

—okei

3 Childhood Prose Pieces

A Day in My Holiday (22nd August, 1993)

I was awoken early in the morning by the song of the hoopoe and other birds excitedly twittering in the trees. I soon remembered that I was not in England any more, but in Ampurias in Spain. As excited as the birds outside, I jumped out of my bed and, after a little while, the entire family was awake, apart from my brother of course. He is a deep sleeper. When I finally woke him, he complained that he had been in the middle of a fantastic dream. He tried to continue the dream, but in vain.

We made our way to the beach through the ancient pine wood. The waves curled over, foaming at the mouth, attacking, then from high up they tumbled at our feet; endlessly continuing, their wrath never ceased. When we entered the sea they towered above us. We decided to go to another bay which was much calmer, but we were soon put off by the sight of jellyfish. They lay white, mauve, wet and slimy upon the beach – dead. So we decided to swim in the endless charge of water, travelling over it and not through it, like my little brother. I did a few strokes, then stopped and started again. I came out of the water shivering, my ears blocked. I had once read that the temperature of the Mediterranean Sea never falls below 12˚C because the water has a higher concentration of salt than the Atlantic Ocean, but I do not believe this now!

Whilst wrapped in my thoughts, the wind had increased and blew blankets of sand all around. I walked, looking down to the ground, my back to the gale which cut across my bare legs. Nothing could be heard except for the endless swashing of waves breaking on the shore and the howling of the wind as if it were travelling through a hollow tube…and then there was the endless ticking of time on my watch. That never stopped either.

There was not a single cloud in the sky because the wind had blown them far away so it was a pure and utter blue, but the sun was still orange upon the horizon and I anxiously waited for it to rise and warm me. But this cold sphere gave off no heat. It was as bitter as an orange from our orange tree — the only one in the whole village. 

We were just about to leave the beach, when we met a man who taught us to skim stones. He took a flat pebble and threw it horizontally on to the roaring waters. It hit the sea with a splash, then jumped up and, like a bird of prey, it pounced down into the waters as if to catch a lonely fish. Twice more it soared and then sank into the depths of the sea, as if drowned by the surge of the enemy’s horsemen, where it probabily still lies now. He repeated these actions again and again, but told us that they skimmed better on calm water.

On the way home, we met a French lady with two of her companions from L’Escala. She talked so fast that I could not follow her conversation, but I picked up a few words here and there and tried to make sense of what she was saying: “drapeau jaunt - yellow flag, danger - danger, deux allemands noyés - two Germans drowned” At this point, I lost the thread of the conversation. My father explained to me later that they had been sucked in by the sea in the bay which looks calm and where we found some dead jellyfish. She told us that her name was Esmé, a very rare name, only found in the works of Victor Hugo. My mother thought that it was a good opportunity to practice my French. “What should I say,” I thought to myself. I uttered the first words that came into my head, “Est-ce que vous faites de la planche à voile? - Do you do windsurfing?” At first she just stared in amazement. She then replied, “Eh ben! À mon âge! - Oh my! At my age!” My parents later told me that she was eighty-seven.

We had an enormous breakfast with lots of cereals, croissants and a baguette. Then I went for a walk on the arrow-shaped groyne. It is made of stone. The waters in that area were filled with sand and then huge boulders were placed there to make it. The sea had miraculously calmed and the wind was not nearly so harsh. I was just starting off when a man selling coconuts and shouting at the top of his voice in incomprehensible Spanish intercepted me and I bought a coconut from him. He held an extremely sharp knife with which he cut the white of the coconut with amazing speed. He slashed the coconut a few times and then gave it to me. It took over five minutes to chew only one piece because two of my milk teeth were wobbly. 

My brother and I clambered over the rocks. He treated it as a race and boasted how good he was at what he called ‘rock climbing’. At the end were a handful of old fishermen patiently waiting for a catch. We met one Belgian boy who had just caught an octopus which he was going to eat for lunch. His bait was sardines. He had learnt how to catch octopus at a nearby port. He held them by the tentacles and told us that the only dangerous part was the mouth which he pulled out and threw into the sea. 

I then started counting the waves to see if the seventh one was really the biggest. I found that this was true. When I told my brother, he quickly scribbled it down in his secret notebook which he carries everywhere he goes. It probably also contains some poetry written on the sly.

My parents had ordered some paella at the restaurant in the village square. It is a Spanish dish which is very salty. It contains rice, a fish called 'rapé’ and shrimps. My father once said that I would be put off eating paella if I saw the ugly fish they used for it, but I doubt it. It is a flat fish which lives at the bottom of the sea and is probably very hard to catch.

While the paella was being cooked, I went for a walk by the sea. I noticed that near the shore the water was a turquoise colour. Further on, it was a light blue. Even further, it was a darker blue and on the horizon, the sea was a very dark deep blue. After about fifteen minutes, I came back to find that M— had gone off looking for me. 

I had once told M— that I had a secret hiding place and he had obviously run off determined to find it. After half an hour, he was still not back. We looked for him, but in vain. He had gone as far as the ruins to look for me: a twenty minute walk. When he finally did arrive after an hour, he was panting, out of breath. His cheeks were red and his face was dripping with sweat which reflected the light of the sun and the sky. He was both hungry and very thirsty. For lunch he drank gallons of coca cola.

That afternoon we went to the Greek and Roman ruins. When my brother was little, he used to say, “Why such a fuss about a heap of broken walls?” But now that he has studied the Egyptians and their pyramids, he wants to become an archaeologist. He is especially interested in the Egyptian news and always wants to look at the newspaper to find out the temperature in Cairo. 

This year more excavations have been carried out in Ampurias, but the archaeologists cannot dig under our village, although it is believed that the temple of Venus is beneath the medieval church. In the ruins we saw the great forum, beautiful mosaics and I took a photo of a copy of the statue of Escalapius. The guide told us that the Greek ruins were not as grand as the Roman ruins because the Greeks who lived there were very poor merchants and sailors, but they were rewarded with money for supplying the Romans with food and arms at the time of the Punic Wars. It was after these wars that they became rich enough to build the ‘agora’ and ‘stoa’. My brother found some pottery and the handle of an amphora. He claimed it was made of copper, but I told him that copper oxide was black.

When we arrived home, we picked all the ripe oranges on our orange tree, but unfortunately they are bitter. M— had the scissors and my hands were getting pricked. I found it very slow just to turn the oranges round and round until they came off. As I knew he liked collecting shells, I said, “I’ll give you three nice colourful shells if you let me borrow the scissors.”

“All right,” he replied. But when he realised how much his fingers were being pricked, he briskly returned my shells and grabbed the scissors. Altogether on just one tree there was a total of seventy ripe oranges. Not thirty as I had predicted. We gave them to an old woman to make marmalade. She used to live in the farm opposite, the only house in the village which has not been renovated.

We decided to go to Figueras to play chess. The car door would not open. Somebody had tried to force it open with a screwdriver. The policeman said, “A crime is reported every day. There is over 20% unemployment in Spain, the worst in Europe.”

While the car was being mended, I read in a nearby wood. Half an hour later, my brother found me and said, “The car's been fixed. Come quickly, but be careful of snails. They are everywhere.” On the way back, he said, “I bet you crunched a snail.”

“I bet I didn’t,” I said.

“But you must have,” he replied.

That evening my father read ‘Ash on a Young Man's Sleeve’ to my brother and me. It brought back memories of the smell of burning pine cones and olive wood in the cold spring evenings, when my father used to read to me by the blazing fire. Half asleep, I could hear the voice of my brother saying, “One more page. Just one more page.” Then my father turned off the light and went upstairs. I could hear the distant sound of eggs being beaten for an omelette; loud Spanish pop music; a woman’s voice shouting something incomprehensible. I then fell fast asleep.

I dreamt that I was travelling out to sea in a boat to what had looked like an island rich in vegetation from the shore. When I reached the spot where the island lay, I found a circular ring in the water like a stationary ripple. In this ring were four ducks. When I looked at a detailed map of the area, I found it uncharted. I then sailed back to the shore as fast as I could. I thought over what I had seen, wondering why it was visible from the shore and not from the boat. The island of Atlantis which sank under the sea many years ago crossed my mind. “Perhaps it is a ghost island,” I thought. Suddenly monkeys started entering the room, followed by ducks. At the end of the procession was a hoopoe who was calling to me and I woke up to meet an equally exciting day. 

Ampurias (9th December, 1995)

        Hidden away in the north-east of Spain, in the land of the hoopoe, a few feet from the yellow sands of the hot beach, bursts forth a habitat of trees and wildlife. Listen now, and you can hear the sea. Except in the hush of night or when the Tramontana wind blows south from the Pyrenees, its sound ceases to register in the mind, for it mingles with the other changing sounds of the day and forms an omnipresent background, a piece of canvas on which to paint my picture.

In this landscape moulded by the sea, numerous kinds of life abound, plants, birds, reptiles and insects. The tall pine trees whose proud trunks have been beaten into submission by the merciless winds from the sea, turn their broken backs over the path towards the fields beyond. Within the shade of these trees, protected from the powerful heat of the sun and cooled by the strong sea winds, the ground is almost moist. Unlike the open fields and suffocating streets, where the heat is intense, soft ferns and weeds have scattered themselves. Settled, united with the sandy soil, they thrive. This carpet of green merges intermittently with spiky nettles camouflaged with grass, which grate at the ankles of unsuspecting tourists. Snakes are not uncommon hiding in the blades of grass, smooth, black and poisonous. High up in the branches, the cicadas rub their legs in quick succession, the sound, erupting, sweet, discordant, a melodious cacophony of notes upon the air, reaching a climax at midday. Swallows fly seawards, surfing on the air currents, free from everything. 

At midday, you can see the crowded beaches. The sea attracts tourists from afar, and most who come return again the following year. They sit under the brilliant sun throughout the day, sweating in the heat, a delightful form of self-torture. They then fling themselves into the sea to cool off. Some take advantage of the warm sea winds to surf on the surface of the water. Flapping triangles of colour stretch into the distance, bobbing up and down as the waves rise and fall. Others are fishing from the rocky promontory beyond the Greek breakwater or from the new arrow-shaped pier.

Behind me are the Greek and Roman ruins of Ampurias. The massive excavated walls have withstood the ravages of time. Some are made of large rectangular rocks, neatly placed in rows like Roman legionaries. Within a fenced off area is the statue of Aesculapeus, the god of medicine, overlooking all, white and inaccessible. The museum holds mysterious coins, sculptures, vases and a vessel made for funeral tears. The first Greek settlers came by ship and founded the town of Ampurias. They were traders and during the Punic Wars, they carried arms for the Romans in their ships, and so helped defeat Hannibal. They were richly rewarded and built a new 'agora'. In Roman times, Ampurias continued to be a market place and people from surrounding areas came to sell their goods in the forum. Hence Ampurias from 'Emporium’ meaning market-town. 

I turn my head and I can feel the sea wind blowing at my hair and my shirt pressed against my back. Across the dusty path, beyond the withering fields, stands a large mansion surrounded by a forest of eucalyptus trees, a painting of such beauty, colour and imagination that I have taken photos of this view on every holiday. In the distance and surveying all like deities, stretch the pale blue, snow-peaked Pyrenees. Rivers pour down these mountains in their v-shaped valleys. They then slow down as they flow through the Ampurdan plain and finally empty their silty waters in the salty sea. In the summer when the campsites are full, the mouth of the river Fluvia is no longer translucent but polluted by sewage. This may explain why jellyfish, semi-transparent and mauve, whose tentacles sting careless swimmers, are sometimes found floating just below the surface of the sea until they are washed up and lie lifeless on the beach.

The waves are gradually eroding the sea shore, slowly advancing up the beach, mercilessly destroying all in their path. The old Greek wall, made of huge boulders, is now completely surrounded by water. Two thousand years ago, it had protected the ships in the Greek harbour. Now it is a place from which fishermen can caste their lines. And perhaps in two thousand years the sea will have advanced further, and this special place will cease to be because specialness is but a temporary quality.

The Leaving (17th February, 1996)

        The curtains billowed in the wind, the curtain rings rubbing against the rails with a discordant screeching sound. I shut the open window. The noise died down to murmur. The crisp brown leaves rustled along the hard stone cobbles. It was not late, but it was already dark outside. The trees were not yet bare of leaves, their outlines visible against the clear and purple sky overlooking everything. In the daytime, hundreds had picnics under the wonderful display of yellow-brown leaves, short-lived, sparks of brilliance and wonder. Then nothing would be left behind.

The wind grew stronger now, the windows shaking in their wooden panes. I decided to leave the warmth of the house and take a short walk outside wrapped up in my anorak to feel the cool wind upon my face, the sweet night air. I moved almost effortlessly, the wind continually driving me forward on a blanket of air. The few lights that were still on were now disappearing into darkness. Then all the houses were black, bowing down in obedience to the night. The noise of my shoes upon the ground seemed to carry along the whole length of the tree-lined avenue, like a tunnel, the trees bending over my head on either side. The wind echoed and the leaves scraped against the hard surface, making a crunching noise as they were trodden on.

“Time to go back before the wind gets too strong,” I thought to myself. I turned my back to come face to face with the merciless force of the rising wind. I put on my hood, but it was little use. I turned round and began to walk backwards. I kept on looking round, but despite this, the slight changes in direction of the wind left me knocking into flower pots, walking into parked cars and on one occasion stumbling on an empty Coke can in someone’s front garden.

Suddenly I felt an abrupt pain from the back of my head. I seemed to be encircled, surrounded. I could no longer move, trapped in my position. I tried to free my arms, but all I heard was the crunching of leaves and the noise of the wind, tearing at my face. I was surrounded by leaves. They grew higher and higher. I tried to lift myself out, but to no avail. I did not have my portable telephone so I could not call for help. I was drowning in a flood of leaves. They poured all over me like waves in the sea over a drowning man. I could not swim in leaves and my body was numb from cold. I breathed heavily and after one final attempt managed to climb on to the leaves. I started to crawl over them, a wave of relief now passing over my body. The trees seemed closer to me now, still bending, but this time lower, swaying downwards, staring thoughtlessly, staring mindlessly, as if about to grab me. All I could see in the sky was a mass of black, a thunderstorm of leaves, no longer beautiful, but menacing. They were falling around me, swallowing me up. “Where am I going?” I thought to myself.

Houses trapped me on either side. My only path was forward. Then suddenly the leaves seemed to give way, leaving no escape route. There was a loud crunch as I fell through the leaves and more leaves fell on top. I was buried. I held my breath for what seemed an age, struggling furiously. Suddenly, it was light. I saw myself through the leaves lying still, motionless. The image became smaller and smaller and then completely disappeared into a vivid white.

I had left the Earth far behind and all my neighbours, a sudden departure, a vivid farewell and then there is a blankness in my memory. I was nowhere and yet I remember once drinking from a well. I was in a queue waiting to get my share of water. My two next door neighbours were behind me. They must have died in that same thunderstorm of leaves.

The picture grew larger, I saw a tree and I entered that tree, became innate with it. My arms were turning into branches, my fingers into leaves. I turned my head to see my old neighbours on that same avenue, their actions identical to mine. Then my head sprouted leaves and I became a tree. We were the homes of the new birds and since we died in autumn when the leaves died, we became creators of leaves ourselves and servants of the spring. This was the leaving of my former self and the leaving of my body.

22 Childhood Poems

Planet Earth (~1987)

It has five blue oceans of water and sand.

It has seven continents of beautiful land.

It needs the sun for heat and light,

Otherwise, it would snow all day and night.

It goes at 66,000 miles an hour around the sun.

It takes 365 days on its yearly run.

It has one moon and it borrows its light,

Which is sometimes crescent and always white.

The biggest creature on Earth is the whale,

As big as a cargo ship from head to tail.

The smallest, I think, is the ant in the ground,

Which existed before dinosaurs walked around.

Man is the cleverest from birth.

He can kill everything on this planet Earth.

I Wish (~1990)

I wish I could drive a spaceship in the sky

To Jupiter and other planets.

I wish I had wings to fly,

But not to another planet.

But only like a bird beneath the clouds,

Or like the powerful Archaeopteryx.

I wish I could run as fast as light.

I wish I could draw perfect circles.

I wish I could measure a thousand galaxies at night.

I wish I knew how many degrees of heat are in the sun.

I wish I could do difficult equations.

I wish I knew how black holes were discovered by someone.

I wish I could stop wishing

Because it makes me sad.

Train to the Olympics (18th September, 1992)

The train gathers speed and hurtles on

Past beaches and straggling rocks.

A flash of red poppies and gone

Are the factories and tenement blocks.

The moon looks down on lakes and lands,

Flooding fields and flowers.

It scatters pearls in thousands,

On streams and fountain showers.

The monstrous trees with outstretched sleeves,

Wave and whisper in the breeze.

The glow-worm lights up the leaves

For the engine that groans and heaves.

The birds tremble when they hear the cries,

Of the train that hoots at night.

I have now closed my eyes

And dream of Olympian heights.

An Alien in London (1st Dec, 1992)

One by one, the lights turn on,

After a second, they are gone.

The message that the lights had shown

Is turned to blackness, still unknown.

Yellow, green, and Martian red

Pierce my eyes and hurt my head.

Crowds are rushing as if in fright,

But all ignore the winking light.

They walk upright, some black, some pale,

Or drive machines with a smoking tail.

Bound to their seats, buckled and strapped,

They curse and scowl like creatures trapped.

They feed their machines from an Ess

Through a hole in the right-hand flank.

They stop dead when the red lights shine;

To dash wildly on, green is the sign.

Many are tethered without a rope,

Whether or not they are on a slope.

The tethering posts make a ticking sound,

Which I can hear with my ear to the ground.

The food they eat is called Big Mac.

The names they use are John and Jack.

They drink Coca Cola through long straws

And greet each other by touching paws.

They gyrate round a boy carrying a bow,

Aimed towards an invisible foe.

Amidst the traffic he stands alone,

In Piccadilly Circus, a figure of stone.

Foaming Horses (9th February, 1993)

Then they receded

Once again

And with all their force

Thousands of horses

With foaming mouths

Galloped down

The wide expanse

Of the roaring sea

And flung their bodies

Onto the beach

To flood the path

And me

Heaven & Hell (March, 1993)

I enter bed and close my eyes;

In the darkness, there she lies,

A strange phantom with hypnotic powers

Leads me through the land’s great towers.

And while beneath the gates I walk,

I hear the beings of both lands talk:

In mine, the sounds of sorrow and sin,

In hers, of happiness among fellow kin.

I enter her land and amazed I behold

The colors, the riches, the gold,

Astronauts, pilots, sailors, and all.

But there in the corner I see a monster so tall

Guarding the Field of Black Living Sand,

The one evil thing that man dreads from this land,

That makes him with utmost haste depart.

In my adventure, I was the hero, central part,

But then through the gates I wandered afar

Into my monotonous polluted world, a scar

To nature and the universe.

Questions and Answers (23rd April, 1993)

Why is the moon so white?

The moon is so white

Because it’s a diamond to light up the night.

Why is the night so dark?

The night is so dark

Because all things must sleep, including the shark.

How can the shark see across the vast oceans?

The shark can see across the vast oceans

Because in its eyes are magic potions.

But why are the oceans so deep?

The oceans are so deep

Because...oh! just go to sleep.

Who am I? (25th April, 1993)

I am the Holy, Mighty, Everlasting One.

My body is of a kind that glistens in the sun.

It is composed of two gases, one the kiss of life,

The other is as deadly as a laser knife.

I am born in the mountains of the Himalayas

From a hole between permeable and impermeable layers.

I jump up and as fast as the wind I fly

Past where a sleeping fakir does lie.

Then I turn a bend and over a cliff I stumble,

I hit the hard ground with a slap and a grumble.

I swirl a pebble, forming a hole in my V-shaped bed

Rushing over a cemetery, I bless the unfortunate dead,

And quench the villagers from their thirst.

Then my body rises and my sides burst,

My body flattens, to a man I have grown,

The green fields around me are sown

With cereal crops, spices, rice, and tea.

Many others of my kind join into me,

We dance as one and sing one song.

We create and destroy and can do no wrong.

More and more join me and then I am old,

Wider is my bed and broader my land,

Stretching for miles there is fertile sand.

Once I heard a man say to another with such cheek,

“This thing pollutes us. It makes such a reek.”

They drink my blood and wash in it as well

And blame me for my mud when it starts to smell.

I then divide myself and multiply.

In the Bay of Bengal I die,

But I do not die. Who am I?

Night & Day (23rd May, 1993)

The moon and stars were out and bright,

Were holding hands and shining through the night.

There they shone on sky and sea,

And lit the earth resplendently.

The sun was out and shining gold,

Was sitting in the sky so bright and bold.

There she shone on fields and flowers,

Painting roses and peering through bowers.

The mountains were tall, were stretching high,

Peeping over clouds and touching the sky.

The rivers were reflecting the sun and the sky,

And flowing through fields of barley and rye.

The moon and stars were out and bright,

Were holding hands and shining through the night.

There they shone on sky and sea,

And lit the earth resplendently.

Henry & The Lion (2nd October, 1993)

Henry, duke of Brunswick, was a knight in the second crusade.

The eyes of his wife were blurred with sorrow as she watched him fade

Over the horizon in a boat with a thousand men or more

To fight like a good crusader and spread the Christian law.

Their ship ran aground on the African coast, only Henry survived.

The rest wore heavy armour and from the ship they dived;

Struggling for life; beneath the waters of existence they were drowned;

Trapped beneath Death’s black cloak, the Devil looking greedily around.

Henry found a deserted coast and rested in a cave.

He awoke when something touched his face. A lion he saw, but was brave.

The lion did not attack him, so he removed a thorn from its paw.

He dressed this wound with a piece of his own very shirt which he tore.

The lion was so grateful that it always followed him everywhere,

Hunting for him every day and feeding him with wild rabbit and hare.

But despite all this Sir Henry found the food monotonous

And thought of the roasts and pies he had at home: delicious.

One day, sadder than ever and giving way to despair, he wept.

Then the Devil told him that his wife was to remarry that day. Up he leapt

In fury and despair and for the Devil’s help he prayed.

The Devil said he’d take them home if he gave his soul and the deal was made.

When at home, the lion roared: all fled,

And Henry cut in half the man his wife would wed.

At the death of Henry in 1195,

The faithful lion kept watch at the foot of his bed, alive.

The Devil then entered on his cloven hoofs, tip-toeing.

He picked up the lion thinking, in the darkness, the knight he was holding.

When the Evil One realized his error, he let it go in the sky and went back.

That is how the constellation of Leo, the Lion, became part of the Zodiac.

Bannockburn (3rd October, 1993)

Brave Wallace is hanged and dead,

So by Bruce the army shall now be led.

“We shall capture the castle of Stirling

And the Stone of Scone back we shall bring.

The English we shall conquer this Midsummer’s Day,

In these lands they can no longer stay.”

Thus spoke Bruce with a voice so stern

Beside the wet banks of Bannockburn.

The Scots made a hedge of spears, it is said,

And the purple heather became deep red.

Ten thousand of the English perished that day

And four thousand of the Scots, or so they say.

Though the Scots were outnumbered three to one,

They stood firm and fought on until they won!

Never has such bravery ever been seen

As in the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

A Childhood Memory (4th December, 1993)

Six years old and spring in Ampurias.

Cold blustery winds from the Pyrenees,

Still snow-capped, not like the hot July days.

Olive and pine-cone fires in the evening,

Glowing, exploding with a sizzling smell.

On the deserted beach soon after dawn

The feeble orange glimmer of the sun

Peeps through the snowy curtain of white cloud.

The pale blue sky stares down upon the sea,

Watching its slowly changing mirrored face.

It was April then. The waves curled over,

Mouths frothing, galloping

But all fell down before me, receded

Into the dark deep, reincarnated,

They rose to try and conquer once again,

Again, but every single time they failed.

My brother and I entered the waters

Of the cold Mediterranean Sea

To swim breast-stroke, to race, to play, to splash

Each other’s faces, while two tall Germans,

Goliath-like in strength, flexed their muscles

And did several press-ups on the beach.

Seeing us, children, swimming in the sea,

They dived in thinking the water was warm,

But charged out, shivering, shouting, swearing.

“Achtung! Achtung!” they screamed in unison.

They asked my father, “How do they do it,

Those skinny boys in these icy waters?”

“Enthusiasm,” he replied.

Highest of the High (25th December, 1993)

The highest of the high, its peak above white cloud.

The bells of Fryman’s church ring out to all aloud

To villagers from Fryman to sing and pray to God,

To fishermen in lakes below waiting for their cod,

To bakers, beggars, builders, butchers, everyone,

Even little children in the woods having fun.

Up the steps to the church a shoal of people hike,

The people of Fryman, big and small alike.

UFO (25th December, 1993)

I was sunset then, the sky was slowly fading

Into the orange horizon. Clouds hung low,

Mountainous grey over the lonely park.

Black soldiers slowly oozed out of the pores

Of the sky and merged with previous blue.

I heard a plane, flying in the distance

And looking up to see its flashing light,

Another light, above I saw,

From oblong object, silence moving,

It split in three and vanished

No plane, it made no sound

No firework, it traveled long and high

My mind could only say, “A UFO.”

But still I do not know.

Insecurity (4th February, 1994)

Five p.m.

Walking home from school

In rushed blackness swarming 

Hiding all the blue.

Changing was the sky. 

Greyish blue it stood.

No moon, no stars, no clouds, 

No spears of drizzling rain

Which drenched the playing fields, 

Whose scars now still remained

In dark grey fiery puddles 

Waiting on the street.

Menacing.

Loud and slow and clear,

The steady sound of footsteps

Approaching from the rear.

I saw not a man in front 

And dared not look behind.

I dared not run.

I dared not shout.

I shuddered,

To the echoing, deafening, loudening

Ghostly footsteps behind.

No foliage to hide in,

But leafless ogres towering. 

Vulnerable.

A house with open windows,

A mole upon the ground.

My mouth was dry,

My throat was sore,

Air no longer sweet

Against my frozen tongue.

Thoughts rushed in of warmth,

Laughter by the fireplace,

Snuggled up in bed.

A cold hand touched

My shoulder.

A friend 

Just passing by.

The dark no longer

Was a fear.

The dark I feared no more.

Love and Death (5th May, 1994)

Though I am young and cannot tell

Either what Death or Love is well,

Yet I have heard they both bear darts,

And both do aim at human hearts;

And then again I have been told

Love wounds with heat as Death with cold;

So that I fear they do but bring

Extremes to touch and mean one thing.

—Ben Jonson (1692)

Love would mould the world together,

For its grasp abides forever,

But, alas! Touched not are some hearts

By wily Cupid’s poisoned darts.

Death is the fate of all living things:

Plants, birds, fish and creatures with wings.

I believe it not to be so cold,

But new life: a cure for the old.

From His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough and time, 

This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

We would sit down, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 

Of Humber would complain. I would 

Love you ten years before the flood, 

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews. 

My vegetable love should grow 

Vaster than empires and more slow; 

An hundred years should go to praise 

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 

Two hundred to adore each breast, 

But thirty thousand to the rest; 

An age at least to every part, 

And the last age should show your heart. 

For, lady, you deserve this state, 

Nor would I love at lower rate. 

 

But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And yonder all before us lie 

Deserts of vast eternity. 

Thy beauty shall no more be found; 

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 

My echoing song; then worms shall try 

That long-preserved virginity, 

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

And into ashes all my lust; 

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace. 

 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 

Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 

And while thy willing soul transpires 

At every pore with instant fires, 

Now let us sport us while we may, 

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour 

Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 

Let us roll all our strength and all 

Our sweetness up into one ball, 

And tear our pleasures with rough strife 

Through the iron gates of life: 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

—Andrew Marvell (1681)

If only you would bide your time

And serve me well with faith sublime,

Then I would banish all your fear,

Dispel the doom approaching near.

“Please,” you would say, “don’t go away.”

And I would say, “Another day.”

When your love is truly tested,

Then, like birds, we would be nested.

But never would I wish to stay

And watch love grow and then decay.

Why do you fret about the time

And try to tempt me with your rhyme?

For if I made you stand and wait,

Your fiery love might then abate,

And into ashes all your lust

An emerald with a coat of dust.

Now, therefore, quit your verse untrue.

Oh why pretend I don’t love you?

But bear in mind I serve the moon

And cannot marry you so soon.

The Eagle (21st May, 1994)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

—Alfred Tennyson (~1851)

 

The sky falls not upon his head,

The sea with Death dissolved like lead

Coats not his body fatal red.

He soars above both hill and vale,

Plunges—all forest birds do wail

Its living prey it doth impale.

Lament for Hyoi (11th June, 1995)

Neither the grass grows here,

Nor the flowers bloom;

Even the sky looks down

On the mountains’ gloom. (Anon.)

The shining sun descends in haste;

From Hyoi’s death it turns away.

The divine witness of a tragic waste

Offers not a single hopeful ray.

Under moss and leaves his body now lies,

Lit by the stars and pale Thulcandra.

Over his heart an eldil flies,

Above the expanse of the broad harandra.

To all our hearts Hyoi was dear;

He became hnakrapunti, this warrior so great.

He slew the mighty monster with a ferrous spear,

But then with hmâna he met his fate.

Yesterday the river was a sapphire blue,

Flowing but never reaching the sea.

All the hrossa were singing and Hyoi too.

But today there’s no poet to go fishing with me.

Spinning Coins (1995)

The world holds a thousand coins that spin.

Mortal islands moving with free will.

Predestined, power of choice and sin.

Values change. Every day lives fill.

All equal spinning dust: king, serf, clown

Waging war against the clock was killed.

Deepest thoughts and actions written down.

One page of eternity is filled.

Though by Nature’s laws mankind is spun,

Society gains, when each man joins

Knowledge, science, thoughts, all arts in one.

The world is a thousand spinning coins.

Le rêve (15th May, 1994)

Il y avait un homme qui a rêvé

Qu’il était en train de se lever

Mais il a pensé que c’était

Un rêve qui était

Un rêve dans un rêve qu’il rêvait.

Approximate Translation: 

There was a man who dreamt

That he was just getting up,

But he realised it was a dream

That was a dream in a dream he was dreaming

La Vie (3rd September, 1995)

La vie est un rêve du seul et unique ciel:

Aussi amer que le citron et aussi doux que le miel,

Une chaîne de choix ou une série de problèmes.

La Terre est un paradis perdu mais aussi même

Un paradis retrouvé où on passe

Nos jours de joie sur sa jolie face.

Quand nous mourons, nous nous réveillons

Et voyons le vrai monde où nous habitons. 

 

Approximate Translation: 

Life is a dream under the one and only heaven:

As bitter as lemons and as sweet as honey,

A sequence of choices or a multitude of problems.

The Earth is a lost paradise, but equally

A paradise re-found where we spend

Our days of joy upon its pretty face.

And when we die we shall wake up

And see the true world in which we live.