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

photo of trash lot on shore
Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

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

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

Untouchable

On my recent trip
To Gujarat

I took
Numerous
Pretty photographs

Of Modhera
Palitana
Dwarka
The White Desert

And other pretty places

But

The image
I can’t delete
From my heart

My hard drive

Is of a ragged street child
At Vastrapur Lake
Who stepped out
From the promenading crowd

Raised
His left
Index finger
Into the stifling
Late afternoon

Air

And drew
A rectangle
To take
An imaginary selfie

With me