Who are you, behind your veil?
Your façade, your carapace, your pretense of being
Who they say you should be
Of being somebody, anybody… nobody
“Feedback” they said, will help you find
Your “authentic self”
But it’s a game, don’t you see?
They are no more authentic, no more true
Than a Georgian front on a Medieval truss
Or a beautiful face, hidden behind the slap
No, theirs is a shifting form, a phantom,
Bending with the wind, morphing to resemble
Who they believe they need to be
But it’s never themselves; the truth there
Lies hidden under deep strata, truth told
They may no longer know the truth
Resist: resist the beguiling vortex
Of lies, quarter-truths, the ‘game’
Walk forward securely through life
Let your reflection be of you
And your soul remain intact
Category: Life
Five Pubs
In our village there still survive
Five pubs; one’s gone ‘gastro’, tantamount
To selling out, with ‘sharing dishes’ and ‘mezze plates’
So you must conclude, it doesn’t count
Another, popular in waves
Has changed its décor, a last-ditch attempt
To go up-market, gentrify
But now’s regarded with sheer contempt
The third, you need to be committed
It’s a good way hence, a half-mile yomp
All right going out, but after Three
It seems like Five, a wearisome, beer-fuelled klomp
The fourth is currently the most favoured
One side, low-beamed cozy locals’ den
The other, smartly daubed in ‘Linen White’
Reclaimed oak and wood-fired hen
But the fifth, well, it’s a drinkers’ pub
Worn old flooring, knotty pine
Scratchings, pints, pies and muzzie,
And a chillingly creaky old pub sign
Shadows in time
On the Museumplein, Dutch Masters look down
On beech leaves dancing, drifting in brushstrokes.
Early Autumn sun bathers soak up rays
In jeans, scarves and thick jumpers.
Here, next to memories of sunflowers,
Yellow Houses and starry nights,
There is a shadow of the past
Here, with the city reflected in watery veins,
The broad-minded live on narrow plots
There are shadows in time
Of the little girl, her family, the old man
Friends betrayed, decamped
Exterminated, lost and thousands more
Besides, with no Secret Annexe
No story to tell, other than a whisper
Of twisted crosses fluttering above stepped gables
And a sadness, faintly audible, distantly felt
That washes out to sea
Hatred
I don’t want to feel this way, guilty
Guilty at my thoughts, guilty like a 5 o’clock shadow
On a life lived clean shaven, until now
Now, it feels good, this release
This freedom, this turned tap
Of giving in, pernicious thoughts, darkness
A toxin, a drug, it fires me
Bright-eyed, retina flaring, my blood races
I tingle, shiver, sweat with anticipation
Of venting at you
At pulling you from your comfort wild-eyed
Staring, shocking you with my ire
Stripping you, naked with my spitting invective
Dragging you, tarred and feathered through my streets
Which you corrupt with your very being
Pelting you, dripping, with my vituperation
Egregious eggs, stinking, smeared
Into your snake-like casement
For all to see your truth
And mine too
Kicking up leaves
Swirling vortices through the air
Unseen, searching, pick the pockets of nature
Flinging up debris
Crisp packets, chip wrappers
Pushing a crinkled can towards the drain
A fuss, a flap, a cacophony of chaos
But here, where the wind shakes hands
Or promenades to and fro
As a line dance
The crisp crunch of Autumn’s sweeping
Align, like the planets from the Sun
Or queuing taillights behind a drizzly accident
And me, with carefree guilt
Kicks them up
Scuffs them, swishes them, sweeps them away
Right footed, and my weaker left too
Clears the lines
Swirling vortices through the air
Bow wave
I
First the men came.
Marking out, small stakes, painted tops, nestled in the hedgerows
Barely noticed, walked-past, dogs sniffed and peed-on
Then they posted the signs up
Simple things, black on white, line drawings
Quarrying soon, consultation, hot air
II
Then the diggers came.
Scraped the grass off, ripped away the top soil
Murdered the fields, raped the trees
Millennia old, gone, in a piping whistle
Trill, unheard, silent screams
Heard by millions, but not us
III
Then the bulldozers came
Harsh; spewing; yellow; alarming
Their curved shields, pushed by ten thousand horses
A curving arc of land, my land, rising, gone
In a bow wave of sand, and soil, and grit
Dust, fumes, pain, hurt
IV
Deeper they pushed.
At first three feet, then six
The water rose, gritty, dirty, seeping
Then three fathoms, then six
For what?
For gravel, for roads, for the building blocks of progress
V
But to no avail, we will lose, will man
Soon the ice will come again
Not long now, the glaciers
When the Stream turns, the cold will come again
Ice; harsh, gliding, white, crunching, rock-armed
Its curved shield, pushed by a million years
Will cleanse the land again of us
In a bow wave of sand, and soil, and grit, and man
Flower, ’91
My “Summer of Love”, ha! ’91?
Hardly ’67; capitalism had won
Thatcher’s decade just over, but still Blue
Prospects positive, nerves shredded, no clue
What was to come.
We fired up the Polo with the wonky exhaust
Loaded in ourselves, tents, made course
Down the ’38, over glistening Tamar
To Kernow, through Saltash and a-far.
The tape cassette whined all the way.
Anthropomorphic dance moves
Upper body whirled, feet glued
To the bass line of ‘Flower’ and ‘White Shirt’
No pogoing but still my back hurt
The next morning; I’d slept all rucked up
Dark eyes, small, bleary and shot
Peered out at the world from a blue hooded top
In the days when ‘brunch’ simply meant
You’d been up late and were spent,
Pasties for breakfast; dive-bombing seagulls.
The 7:53
It always seems to be the 7:53
That pauses, downs tools, at Rugby
Along one spur in that early morning sun
Lies Long Buckby, Places Unmentionable, Northampton
But I wait on the carriage with my fellow cattle
Crammed in, stacked up, unable to settle
For all stations to Milton Keynes
Kings Langley, or change for Apsley Guise
And what a hive of buzzing insanity
This longitudinal world, rich with humanity
A cross section of all walks of life
Blazered school kids, striped business-men, portly wives
One old chap, short sighted, I’d wager
Reads the column inches of the sports pages
Right up close, with his half-moons perched on his for’ead
And his armpits humming like a spluttering moped
Two ladies, more girls really
Swap make up tips; though the hour is early
Blink on eye liner, duskiness and kohl
Even through Stephenson’s 3 mile smoke hole
And despite the carriage yawing, despite the crush
Lipstick’s applied with a badger-hair brush
Mr Noisy, puts the world to rights
Preaching to the unconverted in the barely light
Works in Westminster for an NGO
But his opinions are those of my morning Metro
I pity the bloke who reads the script
For the buffet car, disengaged, slightly miffed
Or is it just his Mancunian tones
Spoken through a nose, all hair, snot and bone
“A selection of bacon rolls, croy-sants, hot drinks
Cash only please, our machine’s on the blink“
Dark Oktas
None for a Summer sky, celestially glimmering, lavender, rich with sound
One for the arc of night, moon-lit, a promise of midnight rain
Two for her smudge-lined sketch, high, over a Play School house
Three for an April storm; fast-racing, surging, drench-me-quick
Four for Autumn morn, back lit, burnt umber and red
Five for urban up-rising, flat bottomed, threatening yet bright
Six for the Hammer God, chimney stacked, brooding, looming
Seven for Winter’s warning, a herald, on the very edge
Eight for the blanket, dark as eve, doom-laden, smothering
Pylons
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