The eye clinic June 15 2009

Come this way, said the nurse.
Which way? I can’t see.
Well – imagine
The patients, with their tumbling grey hair
Arranged in pastel rows
Their relatives close by.
There are questions in their staring eyes
Eyes that search but do not see.
Eyes that squint ambiguously.

Through the window observe
The improbably layered clouds
In logic-defying shapes
The symphonic sweep of the park
In emerald, sapphire and aquamarine.
The world is such a delight,
Look at it. Oh you can’t.
Well, picture it.

It is your language, not mine.
It’s better than nothing, don’t you think.
Now, come into the cataract suite.
It is lovely, the walls are pink.
Language is a miracle, like sight.
It is our Oracle
Through it, we learn, perceive, describe.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth
And the earth was without form and void
And darkness was upon the face of the deep
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light
And he could see.

Then there is sound.
The mystery of a minor chord
The thwack of a tennis ball
The crunch of tyres on gravel
A child calling you name.
I want to see them.
Hush, do not use your words
You may need them
And besides, I am your eyes.

Repitition

The spring manifests and

Recklessly we pass

Each year, down the

Same green parade

It is a miracle

The blue eyes of borage

The candles of leaves

The shooting grass

The sun's feathery touch

And the scented air

Bring us eternity

Each year. The same.

Monday 2 February 2009

A message is falling from the sky

You don't have to go to work

Outside, the world has fallen asleep

Snow fogs sound, time and place

People are muffled like eskimos

Cars float, in an alien environment

Other barriers have dissolved

Children, we have lost our everyday face

The snow is a licence to escape

Amazed by the harsh, kindly light

We humanise the soft, sharp flakes

And decorate them – our likenesses

Welcome Break Services, M40

Red and white lights
Dark sky. Heaving clouds
A sense of terror
Us and the great unknown

In the services
Under a great arc of tubes
Bustle and noise – ceaseless movement
Here, a sense of vertigo

Your face is hard. There is no softness
Impatient, like your mum
Out of sympathy, yet wise

So, there is this noise and scurrying
And the innefable –
That which cannot be described
Which terrifies me more?
The sky, or the inside?

Streatham Ice Rink

Learning how to skate requires
An act of faith that you
Are not going to collide

The chipped concrete and scuffed paint
Are a makeshift world
Neither inside nor outside

Being afraid is what makes
My arms flap and windmill
And this causes me to fall

The fear is self-fulfilling
I am waiting to crash
Just as I have done before

Children do not know this dread
Of an unknown future
Graceful and elemental

They circle the shining lake
There is nothing in front
As they pirouette and slide

What I don't like

Poems about violent creatures with snapping jaws
That show how ‘nature is cruel’. Wow.
Poems designed to make the writer –
A slab-jawed man in a flat cap –
Who lives, incidentally, in Primrose Hill
Look craggy and interesting

Driveling lines about wild landscapes
And other ‘beautiful’ places
To me, suburbs are beautiful
The city is humanising
The countryside is inhabited
By the malicious and ignorant

Innocence is beautiful, certainly
And the pike and the fox are innocent
They are not, in any sense, ‘cruel’
So why does the slab-jawed man in the flat cap
Witter on about them
With his jabbing finger and his shining eyes
Like a man prodding a snake with a stick?
Go on, prod it again!

Old man

Man in a cap. Cold day
Man who moves slowly
Man who fixes things
Man who does not speak
Man who is dun-coloured
Man who is good with his hands

He has no vanity
He is rarely angry
Except for the odd explosion
He does his duty
He has low expectations
He does not complain

He is an old-fashioned chap
Well-educated but not showing it
If he feels superior
He does not express it
He does not impose himself
He is barely there

In his day, feelings were buttoned up
Don’t show off, don’t make a fuss
He was not used to being praised
As a father, he was uncomfortable with emotions
His responsibilities ended at the door
He was much happier with things

An old man sitting in his chair
His mind is gone – a blank screen
He probes for memories
Where am I? Who are you?
I wasn’t all bad was I, as a father?
I can’t have been all bad, can I?

Silence. I do not answer
It is not a punishment. I am thinking
What kind of dad was he?
A little gloomy, certainly
But there were many worse
He was a man of his time

Feelings had not been invented then