(no title, c. 1947)
Today,
From the clanging and lurching
And listless eyes of a workers' tram,
I saw
In a garden softly green with life
An aged chinaman raise
A crowded arm of flowers to the sky,
And in their glory
Match the blaze of dawning sun.
Pause
The dark air is still,
The full moon star bright,
All’s silent as if
The world’s drawing breath.
Disagreements
Sadly, too often in life,
Prayer-time
Nothing’s more holy
Than the sight of a
Small child sleeping.
The Nature of Courage
It’s been said it took courage
To destroy the Twin Towers.
Those who brought them down wanted
To die in the act, and so
Gain entry to martyrdom.
That’s dedication.
For Mark Donaldson, VC,
Death had no charm whatever.
Yet under enemy fire,
To save mates and an Afghan
Helper, he diced with it twice.
That’s courage.
Short-term Peaces
I have a shrubbery.
It’s a war zone.
Each bush intends murder
(By smothering)
On all of its neighbors,
Tiny and large.
I’ve stepped in to impose
Peace by way of
hedge-cuttered frontiers.
But ending the
Battle (as UN shows)
Does not end the war.
Romance
The Celtic Sea, the Celtic Sea,
The long forgotten Celtic Sea
Between Land’s End and Brittany.
Oh, what joy it would surely be
To sail across that storm-tossed sea
Aboard a Celtic coracle:
Provided all was trouble-free
As in a mythic miracle!
Fault by Design
‘To God alone belongs perfection’:
My Death
Haikus for ME
i.
Dainty blithe lady,
Elegant and powerful,
Who reigned by laughter.
ii.
Gifted to uplift
Every spirit that strayed
Into her domain.
iii.
Other-regarding,
Firm faith steeped in compassion,
She shone like a star.
On the Very Young
The wonder of a small
Perambulating child,
Clear-skinned, pure and dreamy,
A blossom in the spring.
On the Very Old
I have been well informed
That as dog-lovers age,
Their dogs get smaller: a
Familiar progression.
Gardens
Once places of constant peace,
Their silence gentle broken
By bees, the scrape of a rake,
Rhythmic hissing of a broom,
Soft whirr of a hand-mower.
But now the machines are come:
Gardeners don earmuffs to
Survive in a raucous world
Of chain-saws, motor mowers,
And terrible leaf-blowers.
Enchantment
Small girl dancing,
Oblivious,
Smiling inward,
Pleasuring the
Swish and swirl of
Light pleated skirt;
Graceful, controlled
As if inside
Her head there’s a
Mastering tune.
.jpg "Degas dancer")
To LP
Dear youngster (your senior by four
Weeks, I got used to pulling rank),
Though newest of close friends, you came
To know my interior life
Better than any other man.
The day after you died I dropped
Into ‘Louie’s’, ordered my quiche
And pot of tea, remembered the
‘New Yorker’ open grill, the way
You decarbonated your Coke.
Held a silent, solo, goyisch
Minyan for a decent, humane
And modest (high-achieving) man,
Painfully honest with himself
About historical regrets.
But then good fortune brought you so
Much peace and joy in latter years:
Rena, loved daughters re-gathered,
The family beyond and small
Folk, especially Arielle.
My good fortune was to know you,
Dear youngster, for a little while.
For TP
I’ve always believed that the
Ultimate affirmation
Of the depth of a man’s love
For his woman is when he
Cheerfully does her laundry.
Regret
The White Russian lady,
Darting out into rain,
Refused my umbrella
Retorting with disdain,
‘I’m not made of sugar!’
A bit sadly to say,
I ne’er saw her again.
The Peerless Pair
Long ago, they set the mental
Parameters of our own time.
Each rejected the black thread of
Magic, fixed Reason in its place,
But thereafter went their own way.
For Plato, true Reason was ‘pure’
Like maths, the mind an isolate.
His argument champions the
Red thread of religion and all
Authoritarian regimes.
Aristotle’s Reason, marked by
Respect for the sensory world,
In time begat modernity’s
White thread of science; and ever
Supported the democratic impulse.
Magical, one’s tempted to think
Of this amazing conjunction:
Two utterly epochal minds
Flowering in the one puny
Town, in the same flicker of time,
Like orchids in an Arctic clime!
An 84-year-old Male Reflects on the
Current Surge in Cleavage
It’s well-attested that breasts have been a
Masculine obsession since ancient times.
Why is it then, in this aggressively
Feminist age, they’re now sudden displayed
In the fashion of high-born Georgian
Ladies pandering periwigged masters?
For example, you go see your doctor.
You lean on the counter, then back-off quick.
The young receptionist, sitting low-down,
Proffers her cleavage, almost to nipples.
But frank admiration is not for you.
That’s a colt’s privilege: old guys just ‘perv.’
Same issue confronts us elderly chaps
At smart social events where, nowadays,
Deep cleavage abounds like blossom in spring.
We live and die by one rule: engage with
Eyes, lips, nostrils, but never with bosom.
Oh, pity us agèd sinners, dear Lord!
On Being an Alte Kaker*
As one gets older ,
However you rage,
The pills multiply
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Joints get more creaky
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Memory dupes you
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Peeing’s more frequent
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Talk is of ailments
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Breathless is normal
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Sleepy’s a constant
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
The young condescend
In this day and age.
Yet, getting older,
It’s true at your age,
Imports a wee calm
That tempers the rage.
On Dithering and Ditherers
One thing about dithering
Is few care to confess it,
But it happens all over,
From big guys doing a deal
(‘Let’s get another report’)
To small guys re-checking their
Bootlaces before once more
Trailing the team to the field.
Knowing sympathizers say
That non-ditherers tend to
Be unpleasant and are not
Invariably winners.
But most ditherers dither
On the issue, suspecting
Such advice has kind comfort,
Not reality, in mind.
Soccer Sucks
The ‘world game’ is a bore.
Even cricket, birthed in
In the same Anglo womb
And afflicted by the
Same leisurely manners
(Relying on sparse bursts
Of action, so often
Fruitless, to entertain),
Provides more interest.
Cricket’s runs are gen’rous.
Soccer’s scores are stingy
(One goal’s a sensation,
Two is bliss and three is
A blessing from heaven).
Cricket, to its credit,
Calmly accepts all draws,
Against soccer’s wretched
Lottery-type ‘shoot-outs’.
Compare, if you so dare,
Our dear old Aussie Rules
With its infinite skills,
Its unrelenting pace,
Its volatile scoreboard
(Oft recording the thrills
Of come-from-behind spills),
As a far sounder source
Of foot-balling pleasure!
To AP
2014
Long ago we timid two dared
To clutch and set each other free.
Since then, ’tis true, things have turvy
Turned, but never have I ceased to
Bless your courage, warmth and light heart.
An Old Man’s Take
On Innocence
2014
I have the impression
That there was a lot more
Of it going around
In the days of my youth.
But I have to confess
I am not now convinced
That this circumstance was
Really such a good thing.
The dark air is still,
The full moon star bright,
All’s silent as if
The world’s drawing breath.
Disagreements
Sadly, too often in life,
The argument becomes more
Important than the issue,
And winning more important
Than the truth.
Prayer-time
Nothing’s more holy
Than the sight of a
Small child sleeping.
The Nature of Courage
It’s been said it took courage
To destroy the Twin Towers.
Those who brought them down wanted
To die in the act, and so
Gain entry to martyrdom.
That’s dedication.
For Mark Donaldson, VC,
Death had no charm whatever.
Yet under enemy fire,
To save mates and an Afghan
Helper, he diced with it twice.
That’s courage.
Short-term Peaces
I have a shrubbery.
It’s a war zone.
Each bush intends murder
(By smothering)
On all of its neighbors,
Tiny and large.
I’ve stepped in to impose
Peace by way of
hedge-cuttered frontiers.
But ending the
Battle (as UN shows)
Does not end the war.
Romance
The Celtic Sea, the Celtic Sea,
The long forgotten Celtic Sea
Between Land’s End and Brittany.
Oh, what joy it would surely be
To sail across that storm-tossed sea
Aboard a Celtic coracle:
Provided all was trouble-free
As in a mythic miracle!
Fault by Design
‘To God alone belongs perfection’:
So enjoined, medieval craftsmen
(Supremely confident of their art)
Piously ensured that all their works
Embodied a single wilful flaw.
My Death
I warmed both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.
(Walter Savage Landor)
There are powerful reasons to regret death:
Above all, finally parting from loved ones.
Blessed with a really decent innings like mine,
I see no good reason to fear death as a
Slipping into sleep for the very last time.
But I must confess to recurrent tremors
About the way in which death may come to me.
My deep fear: a vegetable ending; pain,
Failing bowels, urine-soaked sheets, pitying
Looks, and child-like heed in palliative care.
My hope: a mindful, settled, and drowsing end
With hands held, kisses and soft words of farewell
From dearest belovéds recently nearby.
Painless and calm, no Dylanesque heroics:
I plan to go gentle into that good night.
Haikus for ME
i.
Dainty blithe lady,
Elegant and powerful,
Who reigned by laughter.
ii.
Gifted to uplift
Every spirit that strayed
Into her domain.
iii.
Other-regarding,
Firm faith steeped in compassion,
She shone like a star.
On the Very Young
The wonder of a small
Perambulating child,
Clear-skinned, pure and dreamy,
A blossom in the spring.
On the Very Old
I have been well informed
That as dog-lovers age,
Their dogs get smaller: a
Familiar progression.
Gardens
Once places of constant peace,
Their silence gentle broken
By bees, the scrape of a rake,
Rhythmic hissing of a broom,
Soft whirr of a hand-mower.
But now the machines are come:
Gardeners don earmuffs to
Survive in a raucous world
Of chain-saws, motor mowers,
And terrible leaf-blowers.
Enchantment
Small girl dancing,
Oblivious,
Smiling inward,
Pleasuring the
Swish and swirl of
Light pleated skirt;
Graceful, controlled
As if inside
Her head there’s a
Mastering tune.
.jpg "Degas dancer")
To LP
Dear youngster (your senior by four
Weeks, I got used to pulling rank),
Though newest of close friends, you came
To know my interior life
Better than any other man.
The day after you died I dropped
Into ‘Louie’s’, ordered my quiche
And pot of tea, remembered the
‘New Yorker’ open grill, the way
You decarbonated your Coke.
Held a silent, solo, goyisch
Minyan for a decent, humane
And modest (high-achieving) man,
Painfully honest with himself
About historical regrets.
But then good fortune brought you so
Much peace and joy in latter years:
Rena, loved daughters re-gathered,
The family beyond and small
Folk, especially Arielle.
My good fortune was to know you,
Dear youngster, for a little while.
Why Does the Buddha Smile?
In Christian paintings,
No sense of humour
From Mary’s baby
To suffering Christ.
No sense either in
Rarer portraits of
Muhammad, younger
Prophet and soldier.
Hindu goddesses,
Never gods, sometimes
Wear the bland smile of
A Bombay hooker.
Only the Buddha,
Most ancient of them,
Smiles light-hearted and
Even sometimes laughs.
And his belly’s vast,
Unlike Muhammad,
Christ and Vishnu, all
Fashionably lean.
He alone, too, has
No cross, horse or throne
To elevate him,
But squats humble-like.
In Christian paintings,
No sense of humour
From Mary’s baby
To suffering Christ.
No sense either in
Rarer portraits of
Muhammad, younger
Prophet and soldier.
Hindu goddesses,
Never gods, sometimes
Wear the bland smile of
A Bombay hooker.
Only the Buddha,
Most ancient of them,
Smiles light-hearted and
Even sometimes laughs.
And his belly’s vast,
Unlike Muhammad,
Christ and Vishnu, all
Fashionably lean.
He alone, too, has
No cross, horse or throne
To elevate him,
But squats humble-like.
And there is, in his
Demeanour, no sense
Of challenge or of
Striving for glory.
Could it be then that
Buddha’s smile reflects
Nothing more than a
Smug complacency?
Demeanour, no sense
Of challenge or of
Striving for glory.
Could it be then that
Buddha’s smile reflects
Nothing more than a
Smug complacency?
For TP
I’ve always believed that the
Ultimate affirmation
Of the depth of a man’s love
For his woman is when he
Cheerfully does her laundry.
Regret
The White Russian lady,
Darting out into rain,
Refused my umbrella
Retorting with disdain,
‘I’m not made of sugar!’
A bit sadly to say,
I ne’er saw her again.
The Peerless Pair
Long ago, they set the mental
Parameters of our own time.
Each rejected the black thread of
Magic, fixed Reason in its place,
But thereafter went their own way.
For Plato, true Reason was ‘pure’
Like maths, the mind an isolate.
His argument champions the
Red thread of religion and all
Authoritarian regimes.
Aristotle’s Reason, marked by
Respect for the sensory world,
In time begat modernity’s
White thread of science; and ever
Supported the democratic impulse.
Magical, one’s tempted to think
Of this amazing conjunction:
Two utterly epochal minds
Flowering in the one puny
Town, in the same flicker of time,
Like orchids in an Arctic clime!
An 84-year-old Male Reflects on the
Current Surge in Cleavage
It’s well-attested that breasts have been a
Masculine obsession since ancient times.
Why is it then, in this aggressively
Feminist age, they’re now sudden displayed
In the fashion of high-born Georgian
Ladies pandering periwigged masters?
For example, you go see your doctor.
You lean on the counter, then back-off quick.
The young receptionist, sitting low-down,
Proffers her cleavage, almost to nipples.
But frank admiration is not for you.
That’s a colt’s privilege: old guys just ‘perv.’
Same issue confronts us elderly chaps
At smart social events where, nowadays,
Deep cleavage abounds like blossom in spring.
We live and die by one rule: engage with
Eyes, lips, nostrils, but never with bosom.
Oh, pity us agèd sinners, dear Lord!
On Being an Alte Kaker*
As one gets older ,
However you rage,
The pills multiply
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Joints get more creaky
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Memory dupes you
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Peeing’s more frequent
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Talk is of ailments
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Breathless is normal
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
Sleepy’s a constant
In this day and age.
As one gets older,
However you rage,
The young condescend
In this day and age.
Yet, getting older,
It’s true at your age,
Imports a wee calm
That tempers the rage.
* A Yiddish term, it translates literally as an ‘old farty-type person’.
On Dithering and Ditherers
One thing about dithering
Is few care to confess it,
But it happens all over,
From big guys doing a deal
(‘Let’s get another report’)
To small guys re-checking their
Bootlaces before once more
Trailing the team to the field.
Knowing sympathizers say
That non-ditherers tend to
Be unpleasant and are not
Invariably winners.
But most ditherers dither
On the issue, suspecting
Such advice has kind comfort,
Not reality, in mind.
Soccer Sucks
The ‘world game’ is a bore.
Even cricket, birthed in
In the same Anglo womb
And afflicted by the
Same leisurely manners
(Relying on sparse bursts
Of action, so often
Fruitless, to entertain),
Provides more interest.
Cricket’s runs are gen’rous.
Soccer’s scores are stingy
(One goal’s a sensation,
Two is bliss and three is
A blessing from heaven).
Cricket, to its credit,
Calmly accepts all draws,
Against soccer’s wretched
Lottery-type ‘shoot-outs’.
Compare, if you so dare,
Our dear old Aussie Rules
With its infinite skills,
Its unrelenting pace,
Its volatile scoreboard
(Oft recording the thrills
Of come-from-behind spills),
As a far sounder source
Of foot-balling pleasure!
The Shadow in the Park
London’s Ravenscourt Park:
Elegant tree-rich sward,
Swift-darting grey squirrels,
Water-doodling brown ducks,
Crows and pigeons swirling
Above playing children.
A care-free world, it seems,
Until one chances on
The presence at its rim:
A single huge plane tree,
Solitary, looming
In baleful majesty.
So ancient, scarred, so gnarled
And bulbous, so reeking
Of hoary power and
Worship - you can feel the
Sacrifice once offered
Under its sombre boughs!
London’s Ravenscourt Park:
Elegant tree-rich sward,
Swift-darting grey squirrels,
Water-doodling brown ducks,
Crows and pigeons swirling
Above playing children.
A care-free world, it seems,
Until one chances on
The presence at its rim:
A single huge plane tree,
Solitary, looming
In baleful majesty.
So ancient, scarred, so gnarled
And bulbous, so reeking
Of hoary power and
Worship - you can feel the
Sacrifice once offered
Under its sombre boughs!
Michelangelo’s Discomfort
Years ago (a weary tourist
In yet ‘another bloody church’),
I looked on the distant ceiling
Of the Sistine Chapel and oohed
Along with all the gawping rest.
Tonight (internet-admitted,
Close-up) I dwelt on each fresco
In that majestic multitude
And seized at last the wonder of
The passion and the genius.
Also the patience and the pain!
As he told it, five years upright,
Beard turned to heaven, aching back,
Shoulders, squinting brain and eye; face
Bedewed with brush-drops thick and thin.
Years ago (a weary tourist
In yet ‘another bloody church’),
I looked on the distant ceiling
Of the Sistine Chapel and oohed
Along with all the gawping rest.
Tonight (internet-admitted,
Close-up) I dwelt on each fresco
In that majestic multitude
And seized at last the wonder of
The passion and the genius.
Also the patience and the pain!
As he told it, five years upright,
Beard turned to heaven, aching back,
Shoulders, squinting brain and eye; face
Bedewed with brush-drops thick and thin.
To AP
2014
Long ago we timid two dared
To clutch and set each other free.
Since then, ’tis true, things have turvy
Turned, but never have I ceased to
Bless your courage, warmth and light heart.
The Saga of Little
Voyager I
Voyager I
2014
Eleven billion miles!
After thirty- six years
NASA’s pet has left the
Solar System behind.
A mission to Saturn
Took only four years, then
The plucky mite set off
To escape from the Sun.
Primitive- tech, it still
Talks (on 23 watts)
To Earth as it races
Through interstellar space.
While vaunted Jade Rabbit
(High-tech to the minute)
Stumbles and bumbles on
A wee trip to the moon!
Eleven billion miles!
After thirty- six years
NASA’s pet has left the
Solar System behind.
A mission to Saturn
Took only four years, then
The plucky mite set off
To escape from the Sun.
Primitive- tech, it still
Talks (on 23 watts)
To Earth as it races
Through interstellar space.
While vaunted Jade Rabbit
(High-tech to the minute)
Stumbles and bumbles on
A wee trip to the moon!
An Old Man’s Take
On Innocence
2014
I have the impression
That there was a lot more
Of it going around
In the days of my youth.
But I have to confess
I am not now convinced
That this circumstance was
Really such a good thing.
In Praise of Sam Kinross
2014
Dour-seeming Scot, taught maths
(Most precise of subjects)
And English (least precise)
To testosterone-stoked
Classes of teen-age males.
Like all good teachers in
Those blackboard days, had eyes
In the ‘back of his head’:
Was admired as a dead
Accurate chalk-chucker.
Showed his genius by
Steering a maths dunce to
A pass in a dreaded
External exam I’d
Thought insurmountable.
And reading poetry,
Made words sing, set my world
Alight: I can still hear
Him relishing ‘beaded
Bubbles winking at the
Brim’ - seventy years on!
Hurrah for the Arabs
2014
In this time of Jihad,
It’s well to recall that
The Arabs long ago
Gifted the West those neat
Numbers they garnered from
The inventive Hindu.
Imagine having to
Deal today in clunky
Roman numerals!
Don’t Depend on Doha
2014
Deep in the Gulf, tiny Qatar,
On the desert’s edge and stern ruled
By hard-faced Wahabis, is the
Wealthiest state on the planet.
Towering steel and glass city;
Plush global airline; World Cup
Bribed for steamy Doha; billions
More paid to Islamic fighters.
Its citizens, much like those of
Old Athens, lean on imported
Slaves to exploit their oily wealth
And maintain their creature comforts.
But in sad contrast to Athens,
There is in Doha (so far) no
Sign of a capacity for
The same civilising return.
A Reflection on the 25th Anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall
2014
The Soviets had all
Of seventy-two years
To achieve Marx’s dream
Of uplifting the lives of
Simple folk, by way of
Five-year plans and Gulags.
But when the Wall crumbled,
The rubble-leapers came
Entirely from the East
(As they have ever since),
Lusting for a world where
Walls mainly keep folk out.
Free-market polities
(Through booms and busts and wars)
Have endured far longer,
And throughout remained a
Golden magnet for the
Luckless of other lands.
In November 2014, the Sweetest of Unintended Consequences
2014
Once it was enough
To clear out beggars
And fence shanty slums
When political
Bigwigs came to town.
But China’s upped the
Ante with a week’s
Shut-down of Northern
Industry so as
To greet world leaders
Under smog-free skies.
What leaders made of
This charade’s unclear;
Not so the children
And young adults in
The village of Gao,
Some way from Beijing.
For one glorious
Week, it’s reported,[1]
They looked with joy on
The stars – for the first
Time in their lives!
[1] By Nicholas Dwyer in a limpid letter to The Age newspaper, from Gaocun, China
‘At My Back I Always Hear Time’s Wingèd Chariot Hurrying Near’
2015
Sly Marvell’s wheedling lines
Sidle through my mind in
Silly, surly moments
When I stoop to rail at
Shrinking time that seems so
Like to leave me, at the
Utter end, with love I’ve
Still to give, words I’ve still
To settle on the page.
But I’m not yet so sunk
In senile grizzle that
I do not surface soon,
Look aloft and bless my
Stars for gifting me such
A long, rewarding life -
Though, I must confess, I
Still cannot repress a
Sneaky greed for more!
Observed Beauty
2015
In my early teens, a teacher
(Whom, I confess, I neither liked
Nor, more unusual, respected)
Invited my class to suggest
A synonym for ‘beautiful’.
My hand shot up, he gave me the
Floor: my answer was ‘glamorous’.
He guffawed, the class followed suit,
But he did not explain why my
Answer was silly: I puzzled.
I now believe he was flustered
(This was in the nineteen-forties)
By my implicitly raising
The vexed matter of sex in a
Class of testosterone-stoked boys.
My answer was neither idle
Nor intentionally sexual.
All my life I have felt there’s a
Singular connect between the
Beautiful and the feminine.
Observable beauty, of course,
Is to be found elsewhere: as in
Men’s and animals’ movement, in
Birds flying, in landscapes, sunsets,
Night skies, clouds and little children.
But in the end (though gender-blind
Philosophers proclaim man as
The measure of all things), for me,
The measure of observed beauty
Will always be in woman’s gift.
The Most Wondrous of Birthday Presents,
or:
At Last, I Know I’m Being Read
2015
In the old days, you wrote, then
(If you pressed the right buttons)
You published your article
Or book and, in the fullness
Of time, reaped a few reviews
And a reference or two.
All gratifying enough;
But you had little inkling
Of your readership reach.
My net-savvy daughter filled
That gap when she gifted me
(To mark my eighty-fourth year)
A loving long-laboured blog
Of my then-poems - added
Illustrations of wit and
Beauty; and claimed the title
Of ‘blog-editor’ to deal
With all forthcoming verses.
So now, thanks to her and the
Data-rich net, I know my
Homely verse is read from end
To end of the western world
(Plus bits of the eastern) by
Virtue of thousands of ‘hits’
Which persistently mount, day
By amazing day, in a
Seeming inexorable way!
2014
Dour-seeming Scot, taught maths
(Most precise of subjects)
And English (least precise)
To testosterone-stoked
Classes of teen-age males.
Like all good teachers in
Those blackboard days, had eyes
In the ‘back of his head’:
Was admired as a dead
Accurate chalk-chucker.
Showed his genius by
Steering a maths dunce to
A pass in a dreaded
External exam I’d
Thought insurmountable.
And reading poetry,
Made words sing, set my world
Alight: I can still hear
Him relishing ‘beaded
Bubbles winking at the
Brim’ - seventy years on!
A Domestic Truth
2014
How often it’s seen!
Work woman does as
A matter of course
Gets deeply admired
When done by her man.
How often it’s seen!
Work woman does as
A matter of course
Gets deeply admired
When done by her man.
Hurrah for the Arabs
2014
In this time of Jihad,
It’s well to recall that
The Arabs long ago
Gifted the West those neat
Numbers they garnered from
The inventive Hindu.
Imagine having to
Deal today in clunky
Roman numerals!
Don’t Depend on Doha
2014
Deep in the Gulf, tiny Qatar,
On the desert’s edge and stern ruled
By hard-faced Wahabis, is the
Wealthiest state on the planet.
Towering steel and glass city;
Plush global airline; World Cup
Bribed for steamy Doha; billions
More paid to Islamic fighters.
Its citizens, much like those of
Old Athens, lean on imported
Slaves to exploit their oily wealth
And maintain their creature comforts.
But in sad contrast to Athens,
There is in Doha (so far) no
Sign of a capacity for
The same civilising return.
To HTT
2014
2014
Many
years past, you contrived to
Pair
wary lady with wary
Male,
each profoundly marriage-burnt.
The
connect was strong and instant,
But
for a decade turbulent
Until
commitment won at last.
Two
further decades on, the twain
Still
fond recall your crafty care,
And
ever bless you for it.
A Reflection on the 25th Anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall
2014
The Soviets had all
Of seventy-two years
To achieve Marx’s dream
Of uplifting the lives of
Simple folk, by way of
Five-year plans and Gulags.
But when the Wall crumbled,
The rubble-leapers came
Entirely from the East
(As they have ever since),
Lusting for a world where
Walls mainly keep folk out.
Free-market polities
(Through booms and busts and wars)
Have endured far longer,
And throughout remained a
Golden magnet for the
Luckless of other lands.
In November 2014, the Sweetest of Unintended Consequences
2014
Once it was enough
To clear out beggars
And fence shanty slums
When political
Bigwigs came to town.
But China’s upped the
Ante with a week’s
Shut-down of Northern
Industry so as
To greet world leaders
Under smog-free skies.
What leaders made of
This charade’s unclear;
Not so the children
And young adults in
The village of Gao,
Some way from Beijing.
For one glorious
Week, it’s reported,[1]
They looked with joy on
The stars – for the first
Time in their lives!
[1] By Nicholas Dwyer in a limpid letter to The Age newspaper, from Gaocun, China
‘At My Back I Always Hear Time’s Wingèd Chariot Hurrying Near’
2015
Sly Marvell’s wheedling lines
Sidle through my mind in
Silly, surly moments
When I stoop to rail at
Shrinking time that seems so
Like to leave me, at the
Utter end, with love I’ve
Still to give, words I’ve still
To settle on the page.
But I’m not yet so sunk
In senile grizzle that
I do not surface soon,
Look aloft and bless my
Stars for gifting me such
A long, rewarding life -
Though, I must confess, I
Still cannot repress a
Sneaky greed for more!
Observed Beauty
2015
In my early teens, a teacher
(Whom, I confess, I neither liked
Nor, more unusual, respected)
Invited my class to suggest
A synonym for ‘beautiful’.
My hand shot up, he gave me the
Floor: my answer was ‘glamorous’.
He guffawed, the class followed suit,
But he did not explain why my
Answer was silly: I puzzled.
I now believe he was flustered
(This was in the nineteen-forties)
By my implicitly raising
The vexed matter of sex in a
Class of testosterone-stoked boys.
My answer was neither idle
Nor intentionally sexual.
All my life I have felt there’s a
Singular connect between the
Beautiful and the feminine.
Observable beauty, of course,
Is to be found elsewhere: as in
Men’s and animals’ movement, in
Birds flying, in landscapes, sunsets,
Night skies, clouds and little children.
But in the end (though gender-blind
Philosophers proclaim man as
The measure of all things), for me,
The measure of observed beauty
Will always be in woman’s gift.
The Most Wondrous of Birthday Presents,
or:
At Last, I Know I’m Being Read
2015
In the old days, you wrote, then
(If you pressed the right buttons)
You published your article
Or book and, in the fullness
Of time, reaped a few reviews
And a reference or two.
All gratifying enough;
But you had little inkling
Of your readership reach.
My net-savvy daughter filled
That gap when she gifted me
(To mark my eighty-fourth year)
A loving long-laboured blog
Of my then-poems - added
Illustrations of wit and
Beauty; and claimed the title
Of ‘blog-editor’ to deal
With all forthcoming verses.
So now, thanks to her and the
Data-rich net, I know my
Homely verse is read from end
To end of the western world
(Plus bits of the eastern) by
Virtue of thousands of ‘hits’
Which persistently mount, day
By amazing day, in a
Seeming inexorable way!
Of Waste
2015
Two basic marks of
A civilised life:
Possessing access
To a flush toilet;
Creating trash that
Others dispose of.
Two basic marks of
A civilised life:
Possessing access
To a flush toilet;
Creating trash that
Others dispose of.
The Stunting of Autumn
2015
Once, all was delight:
Trees like torches of flame
Or of gold; and then
Crackling leaves, swishing
Brooms, fires and the braw
Burnt scent of Autumn.
Colours still glory
And leaves still crackle,
But brooms and fragrance
Are fled: in their stead,
Howling leaf-blowers,
Huge vacuum cleaners.
Once, all was delight:
Trees like torches of flame
Or of gold; and then
Crackling leaves, swishing
Brooms, fires and the braw
Burnt scent of Autumn.
Colours still glory
And leaves still crackle,
But brooms and fragrance
Are fled: in their stead,
Howling leaf-blowers,
Huge vacuum cleaners.
When it Comes to Basic Chivalry
2015
There are two kinds of chaps:
Those who leave the seat up,
And those who put it down.
Location, Location, Location
2015
Imagine, oh, you fortunates,
Being born in a Brazilian
Favela or a Bombay slum;
Cowering in Aleppo while
Barrel bombs drop, fleeing tribal
Killers in new-found South Sudan,
Or waking in Nepal to the
Thunder of ’quake-induced rock-falls.
The list of unfortunates is
Endless: how come you’re not on it?
Doesn’t do to plead virtue: Old
Nick called it right as Fortuna!
There are two kinds of chaps:
Those who leave the seat up,
And those who put it down.
The Luck of the Draw
2015
Mother discovered sculpting
On the lip of old age and
Wrought at it, blissful, for years
Until frailty drained her strength.
The sadness never left her.
I, in turn, late discovered
Poesy, do it with equal
Delight; but since I deal in
Wispy words, not clunky clay,
Have a happier prospect.
For, until my mind shuts down,
I own all time for poesy.
That leaves no space for sadness.
Mother discovered sculpting
On the lip of old age and
Wrought at it, blissful, for years
Until frailty drained her strength.
The sadness never left her.
I, in turn, late discovered
Poesy, do it with equal
Delight; but since I deal in
Wispy words, not clunky clay,
Have a happier prospect.
For, until my mind shuts down,
I own all time for poesy.
That leaves no space for sadness.
Location, Location, Location
2015
Imagine, oh, you fortunates,
Being born in a Brazilian
Favela or a Bombay slum;
Cowering in Aleppo while
Barrel bombs drop, fleeing tribal
Killers in new-found South Sudan,
Or waking in Nepal to the
Thunder of ’quake-induced rock-falls.
The list of unfortunates is
Endless: how come you’re not on it?
Doesn’t do to plead virtue: Old
Nick called it right as Fortuna!
Of Paedophilia and Priests
2015
The most sickening aspect
Of revelations about
The abuses, cover-ups
Of the last half-century:
The clear implication that
An institution claiming
Transcendent moral standing
Has tolerated sexual
Predators in its ranks for
A thousand years and more.
On Losing Friends
2016
So sad if from death, as
I’ve too often been shown;
Sadder still though, I deem,
When one’s dropped like a stone
For reasons unstated,
And otherwise unknown.
The most sickening aspect
Of revelations about
The abuses, cover-ups
Of the last half-century:
The clear implication that
An institution claiming
Transcendent moral standing
Has tolerated sexual
Predators in its ranks for
A thousand years and more.
It Happened near Kalkallo
2016
Everyone’s seen a fallen tree;
Many have seen a tree as it’s felled.
But who’s seen a tree at the instant
It falls due to natural causes?
A howling westerly cuts across
The Hume, a bit south of Mount Fraser.
To the east of the highway, a row
Of great gum trees sidles into view.
Grey sky, eerie light: ripe for drama.
On cue, a single gum leans leeward,
Almost lazy, and crashes to earth.
Only the sight; my ears hear nothing.
It’s so quick, so noiseless, like a dream.
But, no dream: as I thunder on by,
I see the foliage shuddering
While the trunk settles on the hillside.
Everyone’s seen a fallen tree;
Many have seen a tree as it’s felled.
But who’s seen a tree at the instant
It falls due to natural causes?
A howling westerly cuts across
The Hume, a bit south of Mount Fraser.
To the east of the highway, a row
Of great gum trees sidles into view.
Grey sky, eerie light: ripe for drama.
On cue, a single gum leans leeward,
Almost lazy, and crashes to earth.
Only the sight; my ears hear nothing.
It’s so quick, so noiseless, like a dream.
But, no dream: as I thunder on by,
I see the foliage shuddering
While the trunk settles on the hillside.
Urban Gazing v. Rural Gazing
2016
Urban gazing: what’s worth a look?
People walking, waiting for trams?
Sleek cars in endless procession?
Massed buildings of dubious charm?
Skies slitted by day, blank by night?
Sometimes, a bird on a lamppost?
Anyway, everybody’s
Far too busy being on time
(Bumper-to-bumper, strap-hanging);
Working under ceilings; shopping,
Chatting, dashing home for dinner.
Time, like space, hostile to gazing.
Rural gazing: so different!
Arching sky of far horizons;
Shape-shifting clouds, calm or stormy;
Blazing sunsets and stealthy dawns;
Star-spangled nights, or fullmoon-raped;
Heavens graced by soaring eagles.
Lower down: hills gold, green or blue,
Even jet black under lightning;
Valleys deep morn-misted, with great
Gums poking through to greet the sun;
Paddocks tilled or sedately grazed;
And always birds, swirling, dancing.
Then there’s rural time to notice:
Less pernickety than urban,
It allows eager gazers to
Linger longer at their fancy.
And so … the case is crystal clear:
Rural gazing has no peer!
Urban gazing: what’s worth a look?
People walking, waiting for trams?
Sleek cars in endless procession?
Massed buildings of dubious charm?
Skies slitted by day, blank by night?
Sometimes, a bird on a lamppost?
Anyway, everybody’s
Far too busy being on time
(Bumper-to-bumper, strap-hanging);
Working under ceilings; shopping,
Chatting, dashing home for dinner.
Time, like space, hostile to gazing.
Rural gazing: so different!
Arching sky of far horizons;
Shape-shifting clouds, calm or stormy;
Blazing sunsets and stealthy dawns;
Star-spangled nights, or fullmoon-raped;
Heavens graced by soaring eagles.
Lower down: hills gold, green or blue,
Even jet black under lightning;
Valleys deep morn-misted, with great
Gums poking through to greet the sun;
Paddocks tilled or sedately grazed;
And always birds, swirling, dancing.
Then there’s rural time to notice:
Less pernickety than urban,
It allows eager gazers to
Linger longer at their fancy.
And so … the case is crystal clear:
Rural gazing has no peer!
On Trust
2016
Without doubt
(Love apart),
Trust is the
Most precious
And most moot
Aspect of
All social
Connections.
Without doubt
(Love apart),
Trust is the
Most precious
And most moot
Aspect of
All social
Connections.
On Losing Friends
2016
So sad if from death, as
I’ve too often been shown;
Sadder still though, I deem,
When one’s dropped like a stone
For reasons unstated,
And otherwise unknown.
Requiem for Anna
2016
Vladimir Putin’s friends murdered Anna
Politkovskaya on his fifty-fourth
Birthday: she has haunted him ever since.
A journalist focussed on the horrors
Of the Chechen war, she became a deep
Thorn in the tender flesh of two tyrants.
When the death-threats failed, an assassin put
A bullet in her brain as she came home
On an autumn evening in Moscow.
Vladimir Putin’s friends murdered Anna
Politkovskaya on his fifty-fourth
Birthday: she has haunted him ever since.
A journalist focussed on the horrors
Of the Chechen war, she became a deep
Thorn in the tender flesh of two tyrants.
When the death-threats failed, an assassin put
A bullet in her brain as she came home
On an autumn evening in Moscow.
The Politics of Bigotry
2017
‘People have the right to be bigots’,
The Attorney-General remarked.
In the perfect storm that erupted,
His fiercest critics implicitly
Denied rights to bigots and took it
For granted that bigotry was a
Singular failing of the Right.
A pretty clear-cut example, one
Would think, of Left-wing bigotry!
Aristotle, Three Honest Scholars,
And the Liberation of the West
2019
The High Middle Ages, a millennium
After the death of Aristotle; he is
All but forgotten in the ravaged West;
His works survive only in some Arab
Libraries; it is a time of murderous
Faith in the authority of sacred books.
Averroes of Cordoba, a Muslim
Writing in Arabic, starts a subversive
Hare: he publishes Aristotle’s account
Of human reason as a source of truth,
Argues the need to modify reliance
On faith alone – and suffers for that.
Maimonides, a Sephardic Jew also
Of Cordoba and well versed in Arabic,
Quickly picks up on Averroe’s text and
Accepts his assessment of Aristotle’s
Significance: writing in Hebrew, he too
Puts a case for re-valuing reason.
Christian scholars (Hebrew their mother’s milk) are
Soon alerted but slower to act until,
In Paris, meticulous Aquinas has
Aristotle translated into Latin.
On reading him, he is as shaken in
His faith as the Muslim and the Jew.
For each is intellectually compelled
By Aristotle’s words to honour the
Explosive implication that a truth of
Reason might rightly challenge a truth of faith.
The power of his words is shown by the fact
Aquinas could contemplate a ‘two-fold truth’!
It is this brave, unwitting partnership that
Was to transform the world by breaching the
Great, bland wall of faith, so setting Western
Thought on the long and bloody road to the
Enlightenment, economic liberalism
And constitutional democracy.
To Lena, at 83
2019
I have, as you know,
Loved other women -
But none as profoundly
As you, my wife of
Thirty golden years,
Lover of more, and
Still the prime source of
My happiness in
These dour, failing times.
‘People have the right to be bigots’,
The Attorney-General remarked.
In the perfect storm that erupted,
His fiercest critics implicitly
Denied rights to bigots and took it
For granted that bigotry was a
Singular failing of the Right.
A pretty clear-cut example, one
Would think, of Left-wing bigotry!
Salute to Ben
2018
At fifty, when the wind
Hurled you against that cliff,
You were playing a game
Of the kind that most
Consign to jaunty youth.
But you’d stayed in thrall to
A passion for hazard that
Compelled you, now and then,
To close-court danger in
Tests of muscle and mind.
Your reward? A tall sense
Of sturdy endeavour
And sovereign control,
Plus an occasional
Flash of quiet glory.
On this one measure, Ben,
I know you like a brother.
I wish that we had met.
At fifty, when the wind
Hurled you against that cliff,
You were playing a game
Of the kind that most
Consign to jaunty youth.
But you’d stayed in thrall to
A passion for hazard that
Compelled you, now and then,
To close-court danger in
Tests of muscle and mind.
Your reward? A tall sense
Of sturdy endeavour
And sovereign control,
Plus an occasional
Flash of quiet glory.
On this one measure, Ben,
I know you like a brother.
I wish that we had met.
Of Dithering and Dreaming and Time
2018
I don’t mind all that much
(Sans illness) becoming
‘Old and grey and sleepy’,
As the poet put it.[1]
But I do bitterly
Resent the dithering
And the dreaming that have
Invaded my dotage.
As a moderately
Industrious codger,
I retired with modest
Plans of things to do in
Foreseen oceans of time.
But since then infinite
Oceans have dwindled to
Little more than puddles.
Laxly enforced snoozing
Rules have a part in this,
But more fundamental,
I now realise, is the
Stealthy way in which age
Has been messing with my
Mind and converting it
To meandering mush.
Continually now
I catch myself dwelling
Unbidden in the past,
Over-pondering trite
Decisions, forgetting
Reasons for moving and
Taking forever to
2018
I don’t mind all that much
(Sans illness) becoming
‘Old and grey and sleepy’,
As the poet put it.[1]
But I do bitterly
Resent the dithering
And the dreaming that have
Invaded my dotage.
As a moderately
Industrious codger,
I retired with modest
Plans of things to do in
Foreseen oceans of time.
But since then infinite
Oceans have dwindled to
Little more than puddles.
Laxly enforced snoozing
Rules have a part in this,
But more fundamental,
I now realise, is the
Stealthy way in which age
Has been messing with my
Mind and converting it
To meandering mush.
Continually now
I catch myself dwelling
Unbidden in the past,
Over-pondering trite
Decisions, forgetting
Reasons for moving and
Taking forever to
Complete routine tasks.
So my golden time is
Daily devoured, flashing
By on hurricane wings.
Though mostly mourning in
Decent silence, I must
Confess to hazy dreams
Of fighting back betimes,
As if the foe were me!
So my golden time is
Daily devoured, flashing
By on hurricane wings.
Though mostly mourning in
Decent silence, I must
Confess to hazy dreams
Of fighting back betimes,
As if the foe were me!
And the Liberation of the West
2019
The High Middle Ages, a millennium
After the death of Aristotle; he is
All but forgotten in the ravaged West;
His works survive only in some Arab
Libraries; it is a time of murderous
Faith in the authority of sacred books.
Averroes of Cordoba, a Muslim
Writing in Arabic, starts a subversive
Hare: he publishes Aristotle’s account
Of human reason as a source of truth,
Argues the need to modify reliance
On faith alone – and suffers for that.
Maimonides, a Sephardic Jew also
Of Cordoba and well versed in Arabic,
Quickly picks up on Averroe’s text and
Accepts his assessment of Aristotle’s
Significance: writing in Hebrew, he too
Puts a case for re-valuing reason.
Christian scholars (Hebrew their mother’s milk) are
Soon alerted but slower to act until,
In Paris, meticulous Aquinas has
Aristotle translated into Latin.
On reading him, he is as shaken in
His faith as the Muslim and the Jew.
For each is intellectually compelled
By Aristotle’s words to honour the
Explosive implication that a truth of
Reason might rightly challenge a truth of faith.
The power of his words is shown by the fact
Aquinas could contemplate a ‘two-fold truth’!
It is this brave, unwitting partnership that
Was to transform the world by breaching the
Great, bland wall of faith, so setting Western
Thought on the long and bloody road to the
Enlightenment, economic liberalism
And constitutional democracy.
To Lena, at 83
2019
I have, as you know,
Loved other women -
But none as profoundly
As you, my wife of
Thirty golden years,
Lover of more, and
Still the prime source of
My happiness in
These dour, failing times.
On Making 90
2019
Getting here was,
On the whole, a
Barrel of fun;
But, honestly,
Being here is
Not all that flash!
On the whole, a
Barrel of fun;
But, honestly,
Being here is
Not all that flash!
The Dangers of Hugging: A Few Rules
2023
The Very Best Hugs, of course,
Are impromptu, unpremeditated.
They’re also the most problematic -
Especially if the Huggee is enfolded
In the Hugger’s arms, with whole-body
Contact, and squeezed at more than
‘Light-medium’ on the warm/chilly scale.
This may complicate
What happens inside a hug.
That should be up to the Huggee;
Given their free hand or two.
So, if the Hugger usurps this role,
The Huggee may at once
Break the hug, even with violence.
Disengagement is always difficult,
Especially in the case of VBH’s.
The most poignant problem is
Posed by the Farewell Squeeze.
Should that be light, risking ‘too casual’,
Or strong, risking ‘presumptuous’?
Better to drop FS’s altogether.
Finally, the problem of Huggee-Passivity.
Avid, hug-seeking Huggees
Sometimes put decent, well-meaning
Huggers under intolerable pressure
By either neglecting or refusing
(In the warmth of the moment) to sign off.
Violent disengagement is justified.
Ed. Note: By the way, none of the above strictures, warnings and cautions apply in cases where the Hugger and the Huggee are in love with each other.
