I am your light Brilliance in the winter sky Joy in my sister’s face As she giggles Presses on The snowman’s button eyes I am your light Headlamps gently guide Any distance Diversion Spot the potholes in the road We ride together I still know my way home I am your light Your faith Your Christmas tree bulbs Your shimmering crescent Your Hannukah candles I am Diwali Celebrate me Feast with me Shine with me I am your light Moonbeams on the river Rushes quilt the ducklings To Nightingale’s lullaby Beaver starts his nightshift Magic in the air The scene feels like an illusion But trust the owl, she knows It’s real You’re not dreaming Skim a pebble in the moonlight I’ll skim you a precious stone I am your light Your rainbow Seven party streamers Sing across the sky Fly above the jet plane The swallow, the cuckoo Seven vivid colours One for every day That I miss you My light burns eternal I frame the shadow on the wall Create the pixels in the picture The dancers’ curtain call Olympic Torch for athletes Fizzing Catherine wheel Dog’s illuminated collar X-ray to help heal Bulb in your bedside lamp So when drowsiness marks the page Switch me off But remember If your dream’s not the one you wished for Or loneliness gets too much Just reach out I’m close enough to touch I am your light My star A speck across the galaxies To show Without me Your universe Could never be The universe you know
Tag: Poetry
Blithe Spirits
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
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