Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again

Easter Sunday. Warsaw. 2018

Easter Sunday. Poem. Picture

 

they could be a line of Pilgrims

stretched on the flat horizon below

an amorphous sky clinging damply to heaven

back-packs and offerings in step

eager with votive desire to blend into

the city landscape where

everything is closed

except the churches

open minds

and hands

craving chocolate

Later, as night claims the shadows

the municipal facade of a building

is washed in reverent light;

a better man would know the Pope,

so travellers are never left in doubt

the insistent summons

carrying on into the night

Crows feet

Crows feet

 

a bird lays a line against

the blue or grey circumference of doubt

for the sky, it’s sheets draw inexorably

toward the night

and that absence of light

that pulls a curtain on the day

Deep space will offer it’s dome

to those of us who oblige the moon

obeying rituals and cycles

we have come to know

amid those rumours of your day

that heaven steers toward the pillow

The waking dreams will flap

 like washing on a line

hoping to succumb

 to tenderness

in the still and calm of sleep

In that orbit of the resting eye

the universe is brave, unbounded

by superstition

until the day intrudes again

to support some foolish notion of flight.

Writers pique

Writers pique. Photograph.jpg

 

Rejection

and now I am eager to explore

The new. The re-invented.

For that seems to be the future

of where the prizes are.

The fashion now, and it is only NOW

has wrong-footed me.

My words undone, untied or ridiculed

for being out of date.

And so I reverberate

catch-up and perform somersaults

in order to be admired.

How tiring.

A vain pursuit. Smudged face

in a remorseless mirror.

Grow up you fool

don’t remonstrate.

The others have the accolades.

I have the Angel’s share.

Never did

never-did

I never had authority, a uniform

so now, as age advances

and men in suits strut and utter

incoherent commands

I am more, not less confused

Their balance sheets and due diligence

find me straggling in a long column

of easily forgotten figures

wrapped in the inconvenient flag of conscience

But in that too there lacks an impetus

that will to fight has gone

and with it any hope

for the spoils of victory

The swagger of the coming man has gone

like a moon shadow

that softest of forms recedes

ambiguous in departure

from the territories of man and boy

going quietly to a greater dark

Boundaries

Frontier.jpg

A fingerprint of light

nestles in the shadows between cracks

of the slats of wood that mark

A boundary. The marker of territory

And into that imposter, that insouciant glow

alights a butterfly. All white

A peace envoy

Settling for an instant in that pool

before leaving like a ghost

into the alphabet of space

around that zone

And away again unknowingly

into some imagined intolerance

all the while oblivious

Content to carry

that white flag flapping

in perpetual hope.