BBC India reports
The Universe has summoned
Keeley and Kyle
From Nottingham
To The Great Temple of Om
In central India
Where they will truly
Discover themselves
(presumably
The Universe thinks
this is unlikely to happen
in Nottingham)
LOCKDOWN
‘Hell on Earth’
Snaps Keeley
To our reporter
Close to the ground
‘God knows
When the tailor
Will be able
To return my saris
And I can’t even tell you
When I last sipped a latte
And does our government care?’
In the background
Of the shot
Another elderly Indian
Kneels in the dust
Sips water from a puddle
Kyle
(the sleeve of his kaftan
frayed by anxious chewing)
Whimpers
‘How can
Consciousness expand
When a dude’s been abandoned?
And does our government care?’
(he’s always been
a bit of a lingam)
Then one or the other bleats
‘All we want
Is enlightenment
Then to drift down
For a few days
On the beach’
(nearest beach
837 miles)
Just out of shot
Oblivious
To the stranded throngs
A child kneels in the dust
Playing solitaire
Unaware
She can never win the game
Because there are
Cards missing
*
Marquee farewell party
In Mummy and Daddy’s pile
Buckinghamshire
Bucks Fizz
Outside caterers
And so on
‘Long Island in the Bahamas’
Mummy snorts
‘It sounds just like a cocktail’
Tosses back her mane
Did Daddy marry his horse?
Rose-petal speech
‘We’re off to Paradise
But how could we possibly forget you
And we’ll always be on Skype
Of course’
Cue polite applause
Twelve months later
CYCLONE
Rips the roof off Eden
Splinters
In the sea
‘Our boss has done nothing
Though he’s so big in pineapple
London doesn’t care
Although we used to pay our taxes
How could these peasants
Forget
To fix the signal
For the Internet?’
Maybe this poet
Has a chip of ice
On each shoulder
He’s never shaken
Or stirred
With the smart set
But I hope I’m not the type
To pleasure in asking
When you moved into
A cyclone zone
What the fuck
Did you expect?
Did you think
You’d been born
To sleep soundly
Swaddled in the eye
Of every storm?
Yes, there’s a plane overhead
No, it won’t be landing
Be thankful
You’re the chosen
With a bit of your house
Still standing
*
It would be wrong
To add insult
Stick the boot in
But what on earth
Possesses people
To splash thousands on a trip
Scrimp a hundred on insurance?
ACCIDENT
A drunken dive
A scooter ride
Family bereft
‘We might have
To sell the house
The government
Has left us
Hospital cares for nothing
But who’s going
To pay the bills’
I’m truly truly sorry
Nothing is so cheap
As human life itself
Why should they
Make sacrifices
For a complacent
Tourist
When every single day
Hundreds of
Breadwinners
Lie down in their shacks
Die
Of preventable illness?
*
I don’t wear a halo
But I’m touched
By midday sun
When the attitude
Rising to the surface
Is that for all
We should have learned
Countries and their natives
Exist purely for our service
Please do me a favour
Stick to Blackpool
Weymouth
Shanklin
Send me your passport
I’ll refund the postage
Take care of the recycling
Tag: Poetry
Dogfood
Like any faithful hound I scent dinnertime From a country mile Come bounding Sit up Devour my bowlful Slaveringly Slavishly Eternally grateful For a full five seconds So Why Broccoli Leaves me Dyspeptically full Green Begging to get down Is a mystery Of the cosmos I chew over Endlessly While Tim Glowers Over the rim Of his no dessert School ma’am Glasses Mimics ‘I’m full’ Like a whining Whelp Until I skulk off With the dishes Tail between my legs Sneak a Wistful sniff Of the cheese And crackers Leave seizing For a furtive night time Raid Because What garnishes Wistful and crackers If not Fistful And knackers
(belated) Happy Birthday Mr. F
A couple of weeks ago marked the 101st birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, still active activist, resident of San Francisco and writer of my all-time favourite poem, ‘Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes’ (see link below). In the 1950s, Mr. F. was co-founder of City Lights, America’s first ever paperback bookstore and every bit as iconic as the man himself. A champion of those who need champions, Ferlinghetti’s poetry is heartwarmning, honest and, most importantly, accessible. Anyone with a tenner to spend could do a lot worse than invest in his ‘Collected Poems’.
Why is ‘Two Scavengers…’ my favourite poem? It’s an idea of ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ simplicity used to show very deep and complex issues in a way which engages, rather than preaches. Clever, or what?
Enjoy the poem.
Two Scavengers in a Truck
Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes
At the stoplight waiting for the light
nine a.m. downtown San Francisco
a bright yellow garbage truck
with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stoop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
In a hip three-piece linen suit
with shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stockings
on the way to his architect’s office
And the two scavengers up since four a.m.
grungy from their route
on the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
and hunched back
looking down like some
Gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
also with sunglasses & long hair
about the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
As from a great distance
At the cool couple
as if they were watching some odourless TV ad
in which everything is always possible
And the very red light for an instant
holding all four close together
as if anything at all were possible
Between them
Across that small gulf
in the high seas
of this democracy
(Lawrence Ferlinghetti)
Dachau, 1902
Dachau, 1902
At certain points
Of the day
There is no time
Only hues
Which confuse
The seasons
An artist
She drips
Paint, sex, society
Blues, greens
Six-pointed stars
A shepherd boy lamb
No puncture marks
No apple
Just seeds
The Midday owl
Shrieks
It knows
The canvas freshly painted
Is blank
First Letter Home From A Migrant Worker In Mumbai
Dear Mama and Papa,
Despite our differences
It has broken my heart to leave our village
To leave you so very, very far behind
This astonishing city holds many challenges
Yet, you may rest peacefully
I am happy, safe and well
I am writing to tell you of my first great accomplishment
Please excuse my lack of modesty
But I am absolutely sure
Almost sure
You will be beacons of pride
I have visited Chowpatty Beach
And stood shoulder to shoulder
Amongst the elite of Mumbai
On the most celebrated and prestigious
Rubbish dump in all of India
For a poor village boy
It is truly a sea of inspiration
No well, no river
But an ocean of plastic bottles
Stretching further than the eye can see
Farther than the mind can dream
I am so grateful for your sacrifices
Your lifetime of simple meals
Fruit, veggies, dhal, chapatis
To give me this opportunity
This golden wandering
Through potato chip packets
Ice cream wrappers
Even paper plates
This isn’t just trash
This is cash
And you know what?
I couldn’t resist removing my sandals
To feel Lakshmi’s love
Dusting my feet
And the sea
The sea harbours such indescribable smells
No outdated salt
Or bygone fish
But bouquets of industry, progress, exports
I’ve heard it said they’re channelled
In a pipeline from Malabar Hill
To serve as a reminder
Such beautiful pollution
Is attainable for us all
Mumbai couldn’t be what it is
Without Bollywood fantasy fiction
I have heard a most entertaining fable
About a mythical palace called Antilia
A palace of such treasures
It could not exist on this earth
I believe it serves as an inspiration
That no matter how great one wealth
There’s no harm in coveting more
Back in the real world
I am enclosing three hundred and twenty rupees
A small contribution
But Chowpatty has strengthened my resolve
To become more than you or I
Ever dreamed I could be
I am also enclosing half of a paper plate
I took as a souvenir
I was tempted to take two
But wish my successes
To be tempered with the humility
You have instilled in me
Please show it to my siblings and cousins
As the oldest, I need to be the strongest of role models
You have brought me up not to take without giving
So I dropped my bus ticket on the sand
May it serve as a symbol
I am a man of the modern worls
A capitalist, a Mumbaikar
Your loving son
Love In…
Today
At McDonalds
I saw…
A woman
With a face
Like the sludge
On her boots
A man spitting
Into a plastic cup
A man
Chastise his son
With the C word
A woman
Forgotten
By hope
A backside
That never sees home cooking
A couple
Of cracked statues
A guy talking into his phone
As if
He were alone
A woman
Forgotten
By everyone
Their kids all ate Happy Meals
Sweeping
The Sikhs’ magnificent Harmandir, or Golden Temple, is the centrepiece of the temple complex in the holy city of Amritsar. Tourists are welcome, and when i visited, I saw the following act of humility which on the surface looks small, but which is imbued with huge significance.
Auntie
Respected, Rich
Humbles herself
Auntie
Knowing what pride precedes
Hitches her sari above her feet
Auntie
A forward thinking lady
Descends the stairs
Slowly
Clears her mind
Cleans God’s house
For the pious
For the tourists
For the peasants who spend their lives
Swallowing dust
Not born to be a cleaner
She sweeps
Bare-handed
Right to left
Right to left
Gathering tiny piles
Of unholy dust
Each movement
Physically
A speck of dirt
Each movement
Spiritually
A broadstroke golden universe
Of love and hope
Sweeping
Unkind thoughts
Sweeping
Everyday sins
Sweeping
The one thing
No rug is big enough to cover
Outside
Sweet water reflects
Ten heavenly smiles
Nanak to Gobind
Inside
The eleventh
Pauses its reading
And bookmarks
The purity
Flowing in and out
Of four open doors
Jaw
my jaw
is hurting
because
i’ve
too many
thoughts
that are
impossible
to chew
My Second City
My Second City
My second city
Is called the Second City
It’s very different from my first
From date palms
To packaged dates
From cows swishing flies
To a bronze bull
Girls in jeans
I wonder what that word means?
Safe new friends
A school with books
Free bus rides, with unfriendly looks
Skyscrapers
Sky-high prices
Everything’s sort of clean and neat
Just don’t even think of stepping out in bare feet
A sanctuary with a leaky roof
My shiny blue raincoat drips daily proof
My Second City gives me every little thing I need
Except love
When I think of my first city
I laugh and I laugh and I laugh
Until it hurts
In my Second City
Nothing waits
No-one waits
But we wait and wait and wait and wait
For permission to unpack ourselves and stay
I’m really sure I’d like to stay
Perhaps for a few more days
Back to the Day Job
Somebody once wrote that drink was the scourge of the working classes. Then some joker reversed the polarities and got closer to the truth. Either way, it’s the scourge of the artistic ‘classes’ as well. Today saw me reacquainted with the day job, and this evening sees me with distinctly mixed feelings. As a supply teacher, I can’t say I’m truly suffering for my art. The bills get paid and the hours aren’t that long. Compare to Charles Bukowski, who worked in a postal sorting office for ten years before deciding to ‘quit and starve’ before he went mad. Obviously, countless others have laboured, literally, in order to support their literary labours.
After two months of no income, I’m grateful for the job I’ve got. I’m also grateful for having something to do. Nevertheless, the feeling endures that I really shouldn’t be in teaching. It’s not because I hate it, as I don’t. It’s not because I think it’s beneath me, as I don’t (and would deserve shooting if I did). The point is I’m better at writing, I’m passionate about writing and I’m prepared to put in more than the hours of a full-time job.
Intellectually, I get that writing doesn’t, for the vast majority, pay. But in my heart, there’s a glimmer of hope that one day it will and this is what I deserve. Meanwhile, as JM Coetzee put it, there’s escapism and there’s the real world. Now, which is which?…
