Poetry

‘Inspired’ by an old man I spotted sitting on a bench at the corner of George and St John’s Street, soaking up an unexpected blast of sunshine whilst muttering to himself. Image (c) TrekEarth.com; Source: www.trekearth.com The old man sits cross legged in the rain. He bows his head, and wraps his hands around himself and begins to sway. He sings a song and mouths the words from a sombre lyric that only he still remembers. The tears - tiny rivulets of liquid; crystal clear flow down his face, and down his beard as he rocks to the rhythm of his sombre song. I imagine that he remembers and that the tears are tears of memory, of many yesterdays, of loss, of pain, and of nostalgia. I imagine that when his tears cease to fall, and the rivers on his face dry out he will arise in peace until the season of re-memory

I have died- Seven times but one; Crushed beneath the weight- Of pain’s unrelenting Hammer blows. Straight right. Left hook. Right uppercut. Left jab. Right hook. Left uppercut. Cheek bones splintered- Lip leaking blood, Teeth- Bludgeoned until loose. Head spinning. Time, space Distance blending- Into a confused blur. Then over-hand right - And sight mercifully fades- Into blissful blackness. I have died– Seven times but one; But like a rubber ball Squashed flat against a hard place, I rebound seven times, Reborn.

August 2010 to April 2011 Word for word, We beat the love Out of each other * Like hammer - Blows crack rock, And water- Wears granite Smooth- Day by day, Our rage poisons- Everything. Memory is - A wound kept raw; closure is An uncertain salve. The End. Sigh *Line shamelessly purloined from Yousef Komunyakaa’s Once the Dream Begins.

Out of the blue, Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun came to mind this morning. I did a bit of googling and managed to find the full text of the Langston Hughes poem that inspired the title: A Dream Deferred. What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore– And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over– like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

For the prompt Secret, at the Writer’s Island.. Better late than never. Words - More words. Hand motions - Quickening to a blur. Straight faces - Eyes fixed forward - Pretending there is calm; While like a seething, shifting mess Pain hides; Behind bitter sweet memories - Filed away, locked deep - In the dank, dark recesses Of a shattered hope. The lord giveth, The lord taketh We like homing pigeons return; To the same shattered places.

For Gracie, who the genes took… You never saw the thirteenth summer through- before the genes claimed you. You always were - the sallow one, knuckle- kneed, paper thin, but - the lights in your jaundiced eyes shone: through pain and fear, and hope and tears. The strength in your voice never dimmed, never waned, until the genes - like a belligerent marabout’s curse - turned you, to a mound of red- dead earth ...

Source Written in response to the prompt of the week at Writer’s Island…. Gin poured on earth - Salt water, five lobed kola nuts With palm wine. White loincloth over Bare skin, white cockerel held Over head spun- Seven times, Till faint. Water, waist high Dirty brown infused with oil – Coloured sheen. Orange plumes belch- ing black smoke; *Yemanja, the fish have fled; The mangrove swamps have become A deathbed. There is no fresh fish - Pepper soup, no cassava plants Left unshrivelled; No respite From the stench of putrefying life. ...

Do misty eyes mean Pain festering deep Lean souls starved - Hope blithely crushed And purloined? Do memories mean Wounds left raw, rubbed sore, Chafed red - careless promises Blown away like ripples on a lake by a belligerent hurricane? Do clasped hands hide scars And wry smiles hide gloom

It is not what is lost that hurts the most, It is the thing that takes its place - - Jerome Kugan (The Myth of Displacement)* I say the things that try to take the place of what is lost - yet fail to do so, or even come close - are what hurt the most. They bring back memories…..which often are more legend than reality - the perfect bloke he never was, the doting girl she never would have been, the manipulating mofo everyone but you could see….. ...

And I am learning to say no I let out in the night A bitter or a hopeful voice - Montserrat Abello I’m currently reading “Dance the Guns to Silence” a collection of one hundred poems in memory of Ken Saro Wiwa and the Ogoni 8. So far so good, but the poem I like the most is ‘And I am Learning to Say No’ (from which the above quote comes) by Montserrat Abello - its short, simple, resigned and dare I say quietly defiant - which is how I like poems :). I found, thanks to google, some other works by her here. Perhaps I am drawn to it because in many ways toughening up, learning to say no to people, is one of the major failings I think I have had in my life. ...