Four did die Somebody cut the horse With a detergent as if To cleanse & purify the Veins & arteries of all the Patients of Central station Leaving four bodies in a porch To be covered by the blanket Blank their eyes Carried away on a bumpy Ride to add to all the Bruises A new pollution problem For the city Four the city & the junk who did Not take enough Besides the aches & Zombie look Developed a limp to Complete the pretty Picture Diverse urban life Metropolis of maim & Mayhem... of Me
(This was a real story. I tried & still try to use every situation to sketch with words how I see the world.)
If I find joy & Consequently inspritation In making a cup of coffee -- And I am not talking about THE EFFECTS OF COFFEE ON THE BODY AND MIND -- Leaving all else aside On which I could write: The potential subjects WAR PEACE GREENHOUSE EFFECT INTERNATIONAL POLITICS LOVE Then what does that tell me... About me? If I am at that particular moment Totally, completely & highly involved In scooping the coffee...
(Note: I stopped with drinking coffee altogether for a couple of weeks recently to detox my body. I am now back to only two small cups a day.)
I am a woman I am thirty-five Saw the red roses lose the sap of life Turn into withered blackened shadows of The things they were Saw the big white rose fester with The seeds of canker General decay I am a woman Saw the buds of the waterlilies open Greeting sunlight from the wet In colours white & yellow & pink Yet upon closer inspection the latter Proved to be a plastic wrapper of sweets I am thirty-five
(I vividly remember sitting near the waterside with my best friend during University times. The sun was shining and we were both reading: a newspaper, a novel, or a poem. Then I saw this plastic wrapper spoil the pristine picture provided by nature. I felt angry and sad.)
This evening I met a living American poet No met I saw an American poet Energetically enacting his latest bundle The cowboy and The Indian A dialogue by one performed There were no bars Or strengthened glass No cage With sign that read Endangered species The man had facial hair -- Or should I say a beard -- A stripeless tie & I knew what he was on about The theatre is dead Poetry is dead (Is this a full rhyme sir?) Yet he a living tossler of words A poet gosh a real one Do not resuscitate the dead The penetrating stench... A real one wow!
(In 1991 I was a student at Leiden University in the Netherlands, and the department of English had invited a poet whose name I shamefully have forgotten. Yet, the poem is living proof of the impact he made upon me, this nameless poet. If ever I have the time, I'll try and find out who it was. Maybe send him this poem, and say sorry.)
The irons skate A wrinkled face In the virginal Snow That's on the ice Willingly like a lusty maiden she lets me Touch the frozen skin The face surface And we are all alone The gusts and the rushes Of the arctic wind Have drifted to the back Of my mind Preoccupation now Is with my winterlove My queen of ice The act is done with Gusto And we appreciate the Sense of taste In the Southern park Where rumblings of The city can but just be heard As the metros cross The whitened park The whitened trees I lay me down Upon her now My skates still Awkwardly on My feet The wind increased From gusts to gails Like heavy moans In higher frequency Heaves & Sighs The frozen wet Comes Snows come Refreshingly
(This poem is based on a true happening with some artistic licence to bend the truth here and there.)
