APRIL FOOLS' DAY 1940

 APRIL FOOLS' DAY 1940

The snakes in London zoo have all been killed,

their keepers mourn - but now they're asking why.

A sky of cloudless Air Force blue is filled

with silver porpoises, balloons winched high

against the bombers that may never come.

Gas masks are left behind and ITMA scorns

the Minister of Aggravation, some

evacuees return, the city yawns.

"This is a Bore War," people mutter while

they pin black cardboard over windows, fail

to pump their shelters dry, Silence, fragile

as phoney peace, waits for the siren's wail.

    A child writes home to Stepney: "Mum, down here

     this is called Spring - they have one every year."

THE FALL OF MAN PART V (GOD)

THE FALL OF MAN PART V

GOD'S ACCOUNT

Next time I'll give the screw an extra twist:

all future worlds will be determinist.

 

THE FALL OF MAN PART 1V (THE TREE)

THE FALL OF MAN PART 1V

THE ACCOUNT OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE OF GOOD AND EVIL 

I'm a fairly intellectual sort of cove,

more synapses than any other tree,

I'm strong in each branch of philosophy,

I was the smartest sapling in our grove.

So my opinion is worth listening to,

since I was there right at its genesis:

I watched them fall from their original bliss,

and I have analysed the whole to-do.

Now God is said to have omnipotence,

omniscience too, but no-one that I know

thinks he's infallible; he's too gung-ho,

and I have come to doubt his prescience.

I'd like to take you through a sylogism:

if Adam and his spouse were ignorant

and had no knowledge - just a dose of cant -

it follows that they lacked the scepticism

required to see through Satan's dark intent.

Anterior insight into good and evil

is vital in disputing with the devil -

it seems to me a trifle negligent.

God should have realised free will IS free:

if what he wanted was predestination,

he could have built that into his creation,

or - better still - have left it all to me.

THE FALL OF MAN PART 111 (SATAN)

THE FALL OF MAN PART 111 

SATAN'S ACCOUNT

I reckon it my best job: after that

the tricks were just disseminated spores;

my favourites were the religious wars.

(At times I found the irony too pat).

But Eve! There was a challenge to my skill.

I planned it all: first get her on her own,

then, all mellifluous my honeyed tone,

woo her until, until she says, "I will".

There were a few bad moments when I thought

she'd turn away, and once she answered back

applauding God's commandment like some claque.

But women do prefer "enjoy" to "ought".

I had to win: down there in burning Hell,

my street-cred hung on it; as Lucifer,

I had no need of proof, none could compare,

but now mankind must fall, just as I fell.

I daren't tell Moloch that I'd failed again

and see him gnash and fume - and all the rest,

Belial, Mammon, smirk, claim it was best

to make the most of Hell and say Amen.

Yet, when she bit the fruit, that's when I knew

I'd lost, in fact: I'd stooped, I'd crawled, I'd wormed.

BUT - I could go to Hell, status confirmed.

A snake must do what a snake has got to do.

THE FALL OF MAN PART II (ADAM)

THE FALL OF MAN PART II

ADAM'S ACCOUNT

She came towards me, carrying the fruit,

sparkling, euphoric, high on enterprise,

rebellion sat dazzling in her eyes,

enchantress, temptress, mistress absolute.

Of course I are; I devoured her as well:

such carnal knowledge took us both by storm;

we'd shunned all sin, but when it took this form,

together locked, all wittingly, we fell.

I'd like to take a vote in self-defence,

a referendum of all future men,

and ask them, if i had that chance again

should I have kept us all in innocence?

Think what that means, you heterosexual chaps.

Full frontal nudity! But all the time?

Not spiced by fig leaves, stocking seams, hemline

revealing more forbidden fruit perhaps.

I find her now entirely to my fancy,

my helpmeet then but now my concubine,

and faithful too, my Eve, forever mine -

not so! Till Death - but that adds piquancy.

I like the paradox, the contradiction:

she plays at purity, she leads me on,

her blushes are ambiguous: shame? or none?

there's paradise in her. She's my addiction. 

THE FALL OF MAN: PART 1 (EVE)

 THE FALL OF MAN PART !

EVE'S ACCOUNT

Apologise? No, never! Yet to make clear

what happened, how it seemed, what came about,

that would erase the blurring edge of doubt

concerning motive, the impalpable smear.

Seduced by a snake? You must think me a fool.

Oh, certainly he smarmed and charmed, but I

retained my balance, smiled to see him try

his frauds, those cheats aimed to make me his tool.

By reason led (God-given after all)

I figured that the fruit could not bring death:

the serpent ate and I watched him draw breath;

no apple caused that earth-bound snake to fall.

I weighed it mentally: the proscribed tree

would give me knowledge - worth a risk or two

to Adam's helpmeet, Adam's rib: it's true

 that I was pleased the serpent first chose me.

And what was my restraint? Obedience!

The tamest virtue, bland and ignorant.

I chose to slough my role as sycophant,

flattering by aping his omniscience.

And so I ate and Adam followed suit,

then shopped me straightaway; that's when I knew

woman's peripheral and central too:

she might as well enjoy forbidden fruit.

DEAR MR HOUSMAN

DEAR MR HOUSMAN

This spring I walked, remembering your words,

watching the blossom shadows on the lawn,

then, looking upwards, noticing a bird

amongst etched petals. Perfect. Overdrawn

on time, I left the laden cherry tree

for phone calls, letters, bills and cluttered mess.

I should have stayed, my feet on filigree

of leaf and flower fractals. I confess

I knew its ivy-covered trunk had split

and rotted ... but, "It's been like that for years."

(The trick is in the guessing when to quit.)

It's gone now, axed, but I am sitting here

     In autumn sunlight, waiting for the gold

    of fruitwood fires and winter's silvered cold.

THE SURVEYOR IN BED

THE SURVEYOR IN BED

She's waiting for him nude. His eyes rehearse

her contours, gentle planes east/west/, north/south

and now they angle down on her, traverse

feet, legs, hips, waist, set markers on her mouth

and breasts. She's lying, ready, on the grid

of his desires and he knows her terrain

by  heart and hand: soft, summery, languid,

he has triangulated his domain.

The little copses of dark, curling hair,

meadows of skin and rivers underground

are his and only his - and yet, somewhere,

he hears a jealous Pan-pipe out of bounds.

     A smile plays on her lips: she reaches out

     to touch him with unmeasured notes of doubt.

TERRACING

 TERRACING

A tapestry of plants drapes down the cliff, 

pegged into height by paths, stone platters, beds

hedged by wild lilacs, rhododendrons, stiff

conifers. Start low, press the zigzag treads

with feet that wonder at the kinky climb 

to airborne lettuces and floating sheds,

to cloud-capped bird-baths, parachuting thyme,

azaleas that glide like butterflies.

Listen to the campanulas chime

from towering ledges, where hydrangeas rise

blue against sky reflected in the sea.

The landscaper, Earth-mover in disguise,

has tipped on end horizontality,

lifted our level eyes from now to if,

released for our flat nostrils a fresh whiff

of soaring phlox and dizzy rosemary.

THE RACE TO PARIS 1914

THE RACE TO PARIS: 1914 

The French poilu, foot-soldier, packs his kit

with everything he needs to live and kill

the other man. He forms a pyramid:

spare socks in case his boots chafe - and they will!

entrenching tool, field dressing, bayonet,

his rifle, ammunition pouch. He's filled

his chargement de campagne and so he sets

his metal cooking pot on top - and smiles:

his dinner is the last thing he'll forget.

His brodequins must march for twenty miles

each sky-blue day: he plods on bleeding feet

through heavy August. One warm night he piles

an earthy cassoulet in his marmite,

eats mightily, then scrubs it mirror-clean.

His regiment tramps on; the ears of wheat

rise, hide the men, but shafts of sunlight beam,

reflected on the pots. A sniper shoots,

(it's young Lieutenant Rommel) hits the gleam.

They all marched on their stomachs in pursuit

of schedules that would lead them to Verdun.

Some will get there ... while quick success en route

fires up the junior marksman with his gun

as he reflects on victory in the sun.

WALLED GARDEN

 WALLED GARDEN

This greenlit garden has no room for words,

even the flowers are speechless: dahlia, rose,

whose colours shout in vases to be heard,

subdue themselves and furred snap-dragons close

their muzzles to soft-pedalling ladybirds.

I'll hold a silent party for my friends.

Please throw your voices on the compost heap

where wasted things you might have said can blend

and rot beneath the rhubarb leaves. We keep

our verbiage where the rubbish won't offend.

NATURAL SELECTION

NATURAL SELECTION 

Through Wigan runs a Great Divide:

the slugs down on the Southern side

are subject (as indeed are we)

to unrequited misery

if they can't find a loving mate.

In this pathetic, lonely state

the slug is low in self-esteem

and takes the single life to mean

it has no charm, no winning grace,

no wit, charisma, no real place

within another's heart. And yet

above that latitude, slugs get

erotic satisfaction, joy.

A slug is born both girl and boy;

so sturdy Northern common-sense

finds, in self-love, true recompense.

It reasons thus: hermaphrodites

need never suffer from the blights

of jealousy, rejection, scorn.

It's foolish to remain love-lorn:

there's someone here who thinks I'm great,

who will, always, reciprocate

my passion. Life will be complete -

provided we can make ends meet.

The science behind this is based on evidence. Northern slugs do employ the advantage of being hermaphrodites.

CONTINUUM

CONTINUUM 

All night we lay divided, back to back,

I sensed the careful curve of your cold spine,

six inches distant )( measured, just like mine: 

entrenched, dug in and ready to attack,

the Xerox of each other's line is drawn.

Outside, the curtained sky slides into dawn.

Morning, in seamless change, will move to noon,

fog becomes mist and winter clears to spring.

I told you not to interrupt the string

of functions in my heart - look how the moon

phases itself, and me. Now I grow full,

my blood tides running high from push to pull.

I cannot help myself - the tug's too much,

I turn towards you, flowing into reach

and pluck your arm like wave-tips on the beach

with urgent finger ends. You roll and touch

my shoulder with one hand. Your palm feels rough

but makes a gentle joining. That's enough.

DRESSED TO KILL

DRESSED TO KILL

A kind of inverse vanity: she buys

ex-army combat gear in brown and green

as camouflage. It's baggy, twice her size

but she knows what's dead cool in 'Seventeen'.

She's dynamite, just like the magazine:

slim, self-absorbed, packed full of 'beauty' tips.

She ties a spangled belt round boyish hips,

laces her steel-toed boots, waxes her hair

sticks her tongue out between half-snarling lips,

admires the stud. Her tattooed arms are bare.

When she was nine, she went on shopping trips

with Mummy Dear dictating what she'd wear:

smocked frocks, white socks, soft curls with Kirby grips -

not like the other kids. They'd laugh and stare.

She soon learned not to cry ... then not to care.

The quickest way, she found, was to disguise

herself, pretend, plan, ambush and surprise

them all - now hardened, anorexic, mean.

Yet still she sees through alienated eyes

a small fat girl in pale pink crepe de chine.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

 SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

The genesis of flowers: God let there be

on that third day, ascension of all trees

and plants, each with its own fruit, seeded keys

to future generations, spoken for

and fixed for ever by enamelled law,

a sudden petal burst. He looked and saw

that it was good, gave his great work to man,

the prototype, blue-printed master-plan,

one earth on which all mortal thongs began.

Islands of change, creation splits, divides,

diaspora of species; who decides

which poppy shall grow tallest? Stratified

the fossils mime their fearful narrative;

tortoises, finches, everything that lives

mutates, adapts its newness. Darwin gives

a moving version of that static frame:

divergence, multiplicity ... he names

his great work "Origin". Checkmate. Endgame.

TAKE OFF

 TAKE OFF

Tomorrow night I'll fly: till then they're furled,

my feathered arms with their new elbows, bent

for lift and strong propulsion. Muscles deep

inside my breast have thickened: when I leap

forwards and upwards, they will beat assent

to my dark voyage round the tilting world.

Who am I that my sleep has sculpted wings,

pinions and aerofoils, geometry

to vary with the air? You find me strange,

old friend, I've lost you on the winds of change.

We are all different now and no body

stays grounded after years of moonlighting.

DOING THEIR STUFF

DOING THEIR STUFF 

Between the wars, the painted 'Shilling Sicks'

those fussy Channel steamers, ferried troupes

of families, with pork pies, beer and sticks

of rock, to France, briefly, in raucous groups,

on mini-holidays. They came and went,

folksy and risible as fish and chips.

Yet on a bright June day, the Maid of Kent

and Gracie Field were royal among ships.

June 1940 glared down from the sky

but yachts, tugs, shrimpers crossed the sea by moon,

rations don't stretch to beer or a pork pie.

The troops are waiting at Dunkirk - and soon

the Shilling Sicks arrive, chug to and fro

for silent men with nowhere else to go.

TOGETHERNESS

 TOGETHERNESS

I knew him once, when life was partly spun:

the threads that were allotted us blew near

and wrapped - I thought - together. Still I hear

the lie that we could never be undone.

Through intertwining, do we grow estranged,

in mingling selves, we count each self well lost.

Who now can say which one has paid the cost

when both, unrecognised, have so far changed?

GARDEN CENTRE

GARDEN CENTRE

Dreamlessly wandering down labelled aisles,

the couples - always couples - reach and show

each other baby alpines, heathers, smile

to see the trolley fill up, swell and grow.

He adds a fern; she chooses camomile.

The colours pierce the mesh; the clematis

strikes upwards on its cane; the white rose shoots

its arrowed scent; the lilac damages

their eyes with purple. Stumbling over roots,

they fall, as couples do, her hand in his.

 

THE POSSIBILITY OF ANGELS

THE POSSIBILITY OF ANGELS 
(Derek Walcott)

Perhaps the wind has wiped away their prints,

their heel-marks from the sand - and in the air

above the coast of St. Lucia, hints

of feathered spaces flicker, here, there, there.

Gulls or white sanderlings could trick an eye

too willing to believe. That emptiness

within the heart, transferred to earth or sky

demands a seraph, send an S.O.S.

An island is an Eden but the snake

wriggles inside a green, aspiring mind:

a little hiss of worlds elsewhere can make

or break you: "Leave that paradise behind!"

You too have feet to stay and wings to go,

apples to eat. As you stand on the cliff,

look seawards, angel, only men are slow

at taking off, weighted by 'but' and 'if'.

HOW TO MAKE A BABY

HOW TO MAKE A BABY

You need two clasping strands of DNA

to come together - recently unzipped

and separated from their selfish bonds,

with empty arms, finding opposing fronds

by chemicals' attraction, paired and clipped,

so smoothly joined, it takes the breath away.

You do not need a code-book for the act:

love winds its double spiral into life

as bodies double-helix into love,

she, you, two turning, grip below, above,

latch and re-form, but only when the knife

has cut apart the seals of self, unpacked

your messages, and hers. What have you done?

You've freed your bases, half of you, begun

an unknown sequence that will run and run,

a race that's off before the starter's gun

in which you're lapped and never know who won.

Now go and back that ball of cells, your son.

CARPENTER

CARPENTER 

He cannot see the trees for wood: his brain

strips off their bark, saws planks from elm and beech,

observes, across a field, the tiger-grain

of oak, signalling tables, chairs, as each

waves to his axe, his mitre board and plane.

That night he eats off forests, timberlands

spread through his house, leaf from his shelves and bed;

he combs his daughter's hair, he understands

the awkward knots, the dove-tailed plaits: her head,

ash-fair, grows smooth beneath his working hands.

TROPHY

 TROPHY

In the race towards the altar,

oh! say who is the winner.

Is it the husband or the wife?

The rabbit's running for her life;

the fox runs for his dinner.

FOOTWORK

FOOTWORK 

Neat puffs of cotton wool between her toes,

(the varnish must not smudge on to her skin)

she opens up the little pot, dips in -

a brush-stroke thick with Ripened Cherry goes

from nail to perfect nail in heavy drops;

she's bending forwards, thighs apart, breath held;

her hand is steady till each blob has gelled

and dried to hard enamel. Now she stops

and buckles on strap sandals, zips her dress,

buttons her coverings. It's turning cold;

she waits for Zeus, the swan, the shower of gold;

who else could see she's ready to say yes?

ALLEGRO

 ALLEGRO - ma non troppo

Someone conducts this garden from a score

marked with restraint: 'Be bright but not too much.'

The fuchsia nods consent, the fennel waves

agreement - and they try - but on the staves

of branches hang too many notes. I touch

fruit, petals, leaves and hear the brightness pour.

It's overgrown with colour, quick and light

and far too much to keep: within the plot:

the maestro can't control these laden plums;

blackcurrants riot as the quince tree drums

a roll ... they're on a roll ... they're off ... but not

allegro any more - and much too bright.